2005-12-14
last day before Xmas break
On the last day of class before Christmas break, we used to sit on our desks, sucking on candy canes while Mrs. Schooner read the Bible. Just a few more minutes and "no more school until next year." At the stroke of noon, I shoved my wadded-up math tests into my book bag and peeked at the glittery invitations to my birthday party. I wanted to pass them out, but I had to wait until we hit the snowy field behind the school where the little kids sledded in garbage bags.
Mrs. Schooner would break out the pyramid of plastic cups under her desks...the same Dixie cups she used and re-used...and asked me to wash them in the girls' bathroom. Gross. I squirted globs of pink soap into the cups, trying not to touch the germy rims, and rinsed them under the faucet. Later, while sipping his third glass of Diet Pepsi, Sam Morrison turned around and told me, "It has a soapy aftertaste."
I widened my eyes when Mama burst through the door, arms loaded...not with cupcakes...but a full-blown gingerbread house, complete with a tiny plastic Santa and galloping reindeer on the jelly bean-studded roof. The class oohed and ahhed. So did I (although I'd been waiting for this all day). Nobody would forget that my birthday was around the corner.
We made presents to take home--cotton ball snowmen ornaments or stars folded from dried-up dough (If you didn't pack them in Tupperware, you'd find mice-sized nibbles in them next December). Mama always hung them high on the tree. One time, the class played Secret Santa. I found a scented candle in my desk every day for a week. When I found out it was my best friend, Justin, I said, "That's all you could think of?" and his face burned red.
Now we don't pass out presents to anybody. We don't get out of school earlier. The only candy I eat is the peppermint Altoids in my purse. The palm trees in the parking lot (leafless, courtesy of hurricane Wilma) are decked out with Christmas lights that you can't see during the day. The sun scorches my neck when I walk to the car. Mama's at the wheel, looking tired. During the ride home, she complains nonstop about the lack of holiday sales.
I don't care if it's 80 degrees. Tomorrow I'm going to wear a scarf, if only to keep off the sun.
f-i-n at 3:16 p.m.