The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 51

In English Lit class, Ms. Molina had tried unsuccessfully to conduct a discussion of Dylan Thomas' poem, 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' and had been stopped at every turn. Her shoulders slumped when she noticed Lizzie's hand raised again.

Lizzie read from the book. "Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay. Does that mean it's in Wisconsin?"

"No," Ms. Molina sighed, resigned to the futility of her response. "In this poem, remember Dylan Thomas is talking about death, the end of life."

"So why are dead people dancing in a green bay?"

There were few people on the planet less equipped to discuss metaphor, imagery, and symbolism than Lizzie. Poetry was indecipherable. Discussion and explanation only made things worse.

It was an act of mercy that Lizzie was called out of her English Lit class, not only for Lizzie but also for her classmates and her teacher.

"Bye, Lizard," said Emma when Lizzie passed her desk.

The teacher's mouth turned up in an involuntary smile as she watched Lizzie exit the classroom. Had Lizzie remained, Ms. Molina could not have summoned the energy necessary to swim against the storm surge of Lizzie's questions and observations. But now she was free, almost giddy.

When Lizzie arrived at the office, she found the Principal, Ms. Crocker, and the counselor, Mr. Beeman awaiting her with welcoming smiles. She was reacquainted with his familiar banana pudding cologne.

"Please be seated," said the Principal.

"Is this about those tests?" Lizzie asked as she plopped down on the chair beside the counselor.

On three occasions, Lizzie had been called out of class to take aptitude tests. The first time she took the assessment, she was one of six students. The second time, there were only two other kids taking the test along with Lizzie. The third test she took alone.

Ms. Crocker said, "Ms. Nickerson, you had one of the highest scores ever recorded in the district. Isn't that right, Mr. Beeman?"

He nodded. "The second highest score in the state."

Ms. Crocker scratched the back of her neck with a pencil.

In his enthusiasm, Mr. Beeman slid forward to the edge of his seat but when Lizzie recoiled, he retreated, realizing he'd invaded her personal space.

"Lizzie, we know that it's been difficult for you to keep up your grades in your English Lit and Creative Writing classes," he said.

She didn't respond.

"And physical education," Ms. Crocker added. She gently scratched the side of her nose with her pencil. 

Mr. Beeman said, "So, how would you feel about dropping those classes and enrolling in some other more specialized classes instead, where you'd be doing work much like those tests?"

"Doesn't that mean I'll fail if I drop those classes? Oh, geez. I don't want to fail. Because then I'd have to take the whole year over again and I don't want that."

Ms. Crocker shook her head.

"Cuddy Irwin failed third grade and I don't want to be like Cuddy Irwin."

"You won't, Lizzie," said Mr. Beeman.

"The kids already make fun of me. I don't care if they call me lizard but I don't want them to call me dummy or retard or any other mean thing like that."

"Lizzie," said Mr. Beeman. "They can't call you a dummy. You're one of the smartest students in the entire school district."

"Does anyone use that 'R-word'?" Ms. Crocker asked. "Do they call you that?"

"I didn't make it up. That doesn't even make sense."

Ms. Crocker tapped her pencil on the desk. "That's no way to address the Principal, young lady."

"I didn't mean to, Your Honor. I'm working on it."

........

For Sonya, it was almost impossible to concentrate on work with Indigo and Montego scurrying about like a couple of squirrels in a wallpapered pen. She issued an endless stream of entreatments to please be quiet that Indigo and Montego ignored. She heard Indigo's excited voice distinctly, charged up for Black Drongo's debut at the Fringe Fest. Montego's voice was audible only through indecipherable mutterings, yet nearly as intrusive as Indigo's. Their presence was suffocating.

Sonya's coffee mug mocked her: Keep Calm and Carry On. She clenched her eyes while drawing a deep calming breath.

When Indigo laid on the buzzer, having accidentally locked themselves out of the apartment building for the second time, Sonya had reached her wit's end.

"Inconsiderate, self-centered, brats," she grumbled as she remotely unlocked the front door. She'd barely scratched the surface of her daily workload and had a lot of catching up to do. Three o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

"You could just give me the key, man," Indigo fumed as she stomped into the kitchen.

"That's not gonna happen," Sonya replied.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Indigo had finished dressing Montego, unable to decide between the tie-dyed T-shirt and the denim, tying and retying his head bandana.

"It's three fifteen," Sonya shouted from the living room, which finally got them moving. They rumbled down the stairs with the bang-bang-bang of Montego's guitar case repeatedly hitting the walls.

As Indigo and Montego exited the apartment building, a grubby man on the sidewalk hollered, "Hold that door!" Montego obliged, allowing the beady-eyed, rodent face man access to the building.