Page 45 of Mad Mabel

I went back to school a week before the doctor had suggested. While I didn’t love school—show me a social outcast who does—I found I needed its structure. I needed the day to be broken into segments, rather than the long, indistinguishable stretch between sunup and sundown that I’d experienced at home and at the hospital. Besides, my arm was healing well and there was only so much wallowing around the house I could do. That’s what I said to Cess and Ness, at least. The truth, of course, was that I went back to school a week early because I knew Daphne was going to be there.

St. Mary’s was a beautiful school. The main building was bluestone, with arched stained-glass windows, religious statues, and crucifixes at every turn. Inside, children roamed the cavernous corridors while nuns floated after them, delivering prayers and reprimands as required to children they passed. Each classroom was more or less identical: rows of worn, wooden, chewing-gum-pocked desks facing a blackboard, and of course, a framed picture of Our Lady. Each lesson began with a sign of the cross and, in my case, a hope for the best.

On my first day back, Daphne was waiting for me behind the curling iron gates. “Maybelline! Hullo!”

I stared at her. “What did you call me?”

“Maybelline. It’s a nickname. You know? The makeup brand?”

We fell into step as we walked into the building, toward our lockers. I couldn’t decide if Daphne was utterly mad or entirely delightful. It was line-ball. “The story goes that Mabel Williams singed off her eyelashes in 1915 and then used the ashes and some Vaseline to make mascara. Her older brother Tom started the brand and he named it in her honor. Mabel and Vaseline, get it? Maybelline. Cool story, hey?”

I must have been staring at her because she looked at me, and said: “What? It’s a nickname, I thought you’d like it. Oh, forget it.”

The only nickname I’d ever known was Mad Mabel, and I was not fond of it at all. This felt different. Where Mad Mabel felt accusatory—unfairly so—this felt affectionate.

“I do like it.”

“Oh. Well, good. No guarantees I’ll ever call you that again though, I’m afraid. My nicknames tend to change.”

Daphne’s constant stream of chatter made me realize how quiet my life had been. How different it was, having her by my side.

We stowed our bags in our lockers, and collected our books. Before heading to the first class, I took a breath and steadied myself.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you, okay? Every minute. If you feel sad about your mum, just squeeze my hand, okay?”

She slipped her hand into mine. I squeezed.

A few showed kindness that first day back.

Sister Margaret Mary, my home economics teacher, began class with a prayer for my family. Brother Ignatius, my math teacher, offered a solemn nod and a firm hand to my shoulder as I entered the room. Countless kids opened their mouths to lob insults, then seemed to think better of it.

But only Mr. Loukas said the words.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your mother,” he said after class.

I liked Mr. Loukas. He was one of the few lay teachers—non-religious staff who taught alongside the Brothers and Sisters. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, beanpole thin, with a jelly roll haircut like Elvis. He wore patterned shirts—birds, boats, and once, tiny Christmas puddings—with a bow tie, a waistcoat, and a jaunty Panama hat.

“Are you sure you’re ready to be back, Mabel?” he asked.

I shrugged. “What would I do at home?”

He nodded. “Not to hijack your grief,” he said gently, “but I lost my mother around your age. Long illness. I got to say goodbye. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The classroom was empty. That wasn’t unusual—when history bumped up against recess or lunch, I sometimes lingered by his desk, hoping to talk more about the day’s lesson. He always indulged me, even if it cost him his break.

He reached out, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hug me. Instead, he took my hand.

“I’m here for you, Mabel,” he said. “Night or day.”

It didn’t quite make sense—I only saw him during school hours—but the words landed like a life vest tossed into deep water.

That night, I lay in bed and fantasized about marrying Mr. Loukas.

26

Everyone who knows my story is familiar with Bonfire Day. It was after school, and Daphne insisted on walking me home, even though, as a boarder, she would just have to turn around and walk back again.