A Change Gonna Come

 

 

For the past couple of years I've been writing fiction. Sort of. Much of it is memories. I have two manuscripts under my belt. Working on a third. Below is the first chapter of a historical fiction/middle grade novel tentatively called A Change Gonna Come. It's about being in sixth grade in a Catholic school during the 1967-68 school year. While it IS fiction, it's based on some of my experiences, friends, family, teachers, and enemies. From time to time I'll post bits that might work as stand alone pieces. Here's the opening chapter. I'd love to know what you think. 

Looking for an agent. Just saying. 

Merrillville, Indiana - Tuesday, September 5, 1967

“God, I hate these chokers!” Geno Svoboda tugged at his tie on their walk to Saints Peter and Paul Catholic School. Almost fall, it was still summertime hot.

“I miss vacation already,” said Tom. Black dress shoes shined, white shirts bleached, hair buzzed. This was the freshest they’d look until May 31, their final day of sixth grade. Their shoes were dusty by the time they got to school.

The classroom smelled of the waxy floor coating applied over the summer, chalk, and dusty books. The windows let in a welcomed breeze that smelled of baseball, fort making, and snake catching, now reserved for weekends and vacations.

Sister Rachael Marie was dressed in her nun’s habit, her “penguin costume.” All you could see of Sister were her hands and face. Even her forehead was covered with stiff, white fabric. The nuns wore long black veils, and their habits reached the floor.

She studied her seating chart and looked up at the young faces forming first impressions.

After nodding to Sister Rachael Marie, Tom zeroed in on his name, written on the desktop in neat cursive on a piece of tape: Thomas O’Brien. He looked at the name on the desk in front of his: Mary Malloy.

Tom hoped she was cool, because he’d have to look at the back of her head for the next one hundred seventy school days.

The girls wore white blouses, shiny black shoes, and pleated skirts. Through sixth grade the girls wore beanies, little round cloth caps held in place with bobby pins. 

Sister examined her chart. “Another O’Brien, hmm?” Tom hoped she wouldn’t judge him from his brother Matt’s shenanigans.

“Maria Bartolomeo. I pray you have a better work ethic than your brother, Anthony.”

“Yes, Sister,” she replied.

“You must call me Sister Rachael Marie. No informalities in this classroom.”

“Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Maria nodded so hard her beanie almost fell off.

Then she walked in. It had to be Mary. Tom noticed how bright her eyes were in contrast to her dark hair.

Rachael Marie motioned to the empty front desk.

Mary’s beanie was tucked into the waist of her skirt.

“Mary, put your beanie on.”

Mary looked perplexed.

“Mary!” Sister said too loudly. “Beanie. Now!”

“My name is Marilyn,” she whispered. “I thought you were talking to someone else.”

“There is no Marilyn in the Bible. I will have no unchristian names in my classroom.”

“My parents named me Marilyn,” she said, eyebrows scrunching together.

“Children in this room will be called Christian names.” Tom could think of plenty of kids in school who didn’t have Biblical names.

“Now, put your beanie on.”

“Sister, we didn’t have any bobby pins. I just enrolled and…”

“I expect you’ve been raised very informally. In this classroom you will give me my rank.”

“Ma’am?”

“You’ll address me as Sister Rachael Marie at all times.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Sister. Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Marilyn-Mary stammered.

“You will wear your beanie every day. Today you’ll buy pins from me. I charge two pennies each.”

“Sister, I don’t…”

“Pay me tomorrow, but you will wear your beanie today.”

Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed. Sister opened her drawer and pulled out a card covered with bobby pins. She pulled two off and walked over to Marilyn-Mary’s desk. They dropped with a tink-tink.

Marilyn-Mary pinned her beanie in place.

Later, Tom watched her reach out to open the lid of her desk. Her arm ended above the elbow. The hand at the end of that short arm had only one tiny finger curving out from the side.

Tom stared. This girl was so pretty, so normal. But her arm gave him the creeps. No matter what was happening in class, he searched for her stump. He didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t look away.

Around midmorning, textbooks were checked out. Marilyn-Mary’s stump snaked out to hold up her desktop as Sister handed her the heavy American history book. Sister saw the malformed hand, and so did many of their classmates.

“Mary,” Sister said.

After an entire morning of talking, Sister fell silent.

Marilyn-Mary looked up, “Yes, Sister Rachael Marie?”

“I’m sorry,” Sister said, eyes focused directly on Marilyn-Mary’s arm.

Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed; her eyes bright with anger. “Don’t waste your sorry on me, Sister Rachael Marie.”