The Yardstick

Sister Miriam Anne stoically stood at the front of the classroom.  As I reached down to scratch my shin beneath my burgundy wool knee sock, I was terrified she would notice, then crack her yardstick on her desk, the sound causing my body to release the contents of my bladder to the floor.  I was never good at using my time wisely during recess.  And now I sat wishing I would have used the restroom.

I noticed Sister scratch at the edge of her habit, just above her silver gray eyebrows.  She was hot and uncomfortable, too.

We were not allowed to move in Sister Miriam Anne’s second grade classroom.  I am not talking about getting up out of your seat without permission.  I am talking about sitting like a statue, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded on top of the desk, eyes forward.

I never understood why she did not open the windows to let air flow through the ancient classroom.  I never understood why she refused to excuse us to use the restroom, even if we appropriately raised our hand and respectfully asked.  Wouldn't those things make it easier to sit still?

I could feel my nylon slip beginning to soak with sweat.  The exposed parts of my legs began sticking to the seat of the desk.

Two rows over, closer to the windows, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a swoop in burgundy plaid. 

Someone was moving.

Crack.

Crack.

But the one wearing the uniform, my classmate Amy, was not deterred by the sound.

Amy was fixed to the window, tugging at the handle with every ounce of muscle she had in her tiny arms, disguised so neatly beneath her white blouse.

Sister Miriam Anne strode from her desk toward the window with the yardstick held high in the air.  I allowed my head to turn at the sight.  My eyes followed until she reached an empty desk, nearest to Amy and the window.

Crack.

Down went the yardstick on Amy’s bottom.

With a crackle, clunk, and whoosh, the window opened.

Amy, without a flinch, and seeming unaffected by the whack to her behind, went back to her desk.

Sister Miriam Ann returned to the front of the room.

As I listened to her explain the reason Christ died for my sins, I silently prayed to Mary:

Please, dearest holy Mother, make my tears invisible.  Make my tears invisible.  Make my tears invisible.

When I got home from school that day, I did not fight my mother on changing out of my uniform.  I hurried up to my room, buried my urine-soaked slip and jumper at the bottom of the hamper and prayed.  Prayed my mom would do the laundry that night.  Prayed no one noticed.  Prayed that the window Amy miraculously lifted would still be open when I got to school in the morning—another hot, late-August morning, at the beginning of my second grade year.

photo credit: lissalou66 via photo pin cc