Miss Simmons, my third grade teacher, beamed with pride.
I finished reading and then sheepishly looked up from my paper. I fingered the blue ribbon I held in my hand for comfort. The audience applauded enthusiastically and looked at one another and smiled. I caught the eye of one of the few fathers in the audience. He nodded and smiled broadly at me. I smiled back and walked off the stage, a little skip to my step.
As I approached my mother, who was still sitting in the audience, I noticed she wasn’t looking at me with pride. Instead, she was scowling at me. As I sat down in my seat next to her, she scolded me in a loud whisper, “How could you humiliate me like this? If I’d have known that this stupid essay you made such a fuss about was a complete lie, I wouldn’t have bothered to come to this stupid assembly.”
As soon as the assembly ended, I felt my mother’s hand tighten on my arm. She dragged me out of the auditorium, and suddenly, I heard her voice again. It sounded polite and cordial, but there was an undercurrent of anger that I recognized. I looked up to see Miss Simmons standing at the end of the aisle.
“Mrs. Engel, you must be so proud of your daughter,” Miss Simmons said cheerfully, giving me a big smile. “Wasn’t that a fine essay she—”
“Miss Simmons, may I speak to you a moment?” It was more of a demand than a question. “Miss Simmons, Beverly lied to everyone in that auditorium just now. Her father isn’t a war hero. In fact, she’s never even met her father. She made the whole thing up.”
Miss Simmons’s mouth opened in surprise. She looked at me with a quizzical look on her face, her eyebrows arching upward like a question mark. I dropped my head in shame.
“Oh, Mrs. Engel,” she said. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? The point of the contest was to honor the students’ fathers for Father’s Day. Beverly wrote a fine essay about a wonderful father. It was the spirit of the essay that was important, and the writing.”
For just an instant, I felt hopeful. Miss Simmons was making some good points.
“Well, it certainly matters to me. Beverly, I want you to apologize to Miss Simmons for lying and for deceiving her and the entire school.”
I shuffled my feet back and forth and kept my gaze cast to the floor.
“And look at her when you do it,” she insisted as she pulled at my short hair, forcing my neck back.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Miss Simmons.” My lower lip trembled and my eyes filled with tears.
“I accept your apology, Beverly,” Miss Simmons said softly.
My mother lifted up her chin and straightened her shoulders. “And I think you need to give back your prize.”
I looked up at my mother’s face for the first time. “But Momma—”
“Just do as I say.”
I looked at the blue ribbon with the words first prize written on it and let my fingers feel the satin finish for the last time. Then I handed it to my teacher.
Miss Simmons reached out her hand and reluctantly took the blue ribbon from me. She looked sad and smiled at me weakly, as if to reassure me in some way.
I knew it was wrong to lie. But when the teacher told me to write an essay about my father for Father’s Day, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know anything about my father. So I made one up. I was used to playing alone and making up fantasy worlds in my head to entertain myself. Sometimes, I created a jungle scene from the little patch of scrawny trees and tall grasses in the front of the court. Other times, I’d sit on the tree stump at the side of the court and transport myself onto the high seas, a sea captain bravely directing my sailors to forge ahead. And so I guess I’d used my imagination to make up a father in my head. My father, the war hero.
chapter 9
I saw The Wizard of Oz for the first time when I was eight years old at a neighbor’s house. I adored Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, and detested and feared the Wicked Witch of the West. In some ways, the movie reminded me of the drama that was going on in my own home.
To the outside world, my mother was Glenda. She was beautiful, gracious, and charming. She had an air of dignity about her that made her seem like royalty—especially compared to most people in our little agricultural town. People respected my mother. They listened to her, gave her special treatment and considerations. Men, no matter what age, always fawned over her and women instantly took to her and wanted to be her friend. She might as well have been wearing a beautiful glittering gown and carrying a wand. She sparkled.
I was the only one who saw the bad-witch side of my mother. She saved this special privilege all for me. I’d watch as she smiled sweetly at a neighbor who happened to drop by unannounced. I’d watch as she invited the neighbor in and offered her a cup of coffee. I’d watch as she listened attentively as the woman told her stories or gossiped about other people. I’d watch as she ushered the neighbor out the door, saying to her, “Come by any time. It’s always good to see you.”
And then I’d watch as she turned to me, rolled her eyes, and said, “I wish that woman had some manners. What’s wrong with her that she thinks she can just drop by that way, unannounced?”
I was the only one who knew that the charming woman who everyone loved was not so charming after all. I was the only one who knew that she always had something cutting to say
