The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (9 page)

The staff room was a hive of activity on Tuesday morning. There was laughter coming from within and no one heard me knocking. I had to hammer three times before someone opened the door. I wondered what was going on. Nearly all the teachers I know are somber people in the
classroom, discouraging jokes and generally appearing to have ruled laughter entirely out of their lives.

Mr. Gemmola, my math teacher, opened the door. His broad smile vanished when he saw me. Maybe there was something about the proximity of students that altered a teacher's behavior, like iron filings close to a magnet.

“Good morning, Miss Phee,” he said in sepulchral tones (I have reached
S
in the dictionary). “What can I do for you?”

“You could smile, Mr. Gemmola,” I replied. “It suits you.”

My honesty puzzles many people, teachers included. He didn't reply, but cocked his head to one side.

“Alternatively,” I continued, “you could ask Miss Bamford if she would be willing to see me.”

She was and she did. We went to her classroom and she sat behind her desk. She laced her fingers together and peered at me over half-moon specs. Well, one eye peered at me; the other had its own agenda. She would have been better off with a monocle.

I organized my thoughts. This was going to be a delicate conversation in which tact and diplomacy were required. Luckily, I had considered this as I lay in bed the previous night. I had rehearsed not just my tactics, but also the exact words I would use. I took a deep breath.

“You know your weird eye, Miss Bamford?” I started. “How it spins out of control like a punctured balloon?”

She didn't say anything, which I took as confirmation I'd made a positive start.

“Douglas Benson from Another Dimension says it's so hyperactive it should be on Ritalin,” I added. “But that is not the issue. I suspect, Miss Bamford, that you are aware of the cruel remarks made about your peripatetic eyeball.”

Miss Bamford raised a hand in the stop position. I stopped because that was only polite.

“Candice?” she said. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all, Miss Bamford,” I replied. “Ask two, if the urge is irresistible.”

“I'm curious. You rarely say anything in class—or out of it, if the rumors are to be believed—yet, when you do talk, your vocabulary is remarkable for a twelve-year-old.
Peripatetic
, for example. Can you explain?”

“Yes,” I said. “Certainly.”

There was a long pause. I felt the urge to hum, but kept control. Miss Bamford fixed me with a quizzical eye. The other examined a pinboard at the back of the classroom.

“Well?” she said finally.

“Oh. I see. Well,
peripatetic
means something that wanders or travels a lot. It . . .”

“No, no, Candice.” Miss Bamford sighed. She sounded like Rich Uncle Brian. “I know what the word means. I want to know how
you
know what it means.”

Things were becoming clearer. “I read the dictionary, Miss Bamford,” I replied. “Every night. It is my favorite book. At the moment I am up to the letter
S
, which is
stupendous. It sets a very high standard which, frankly, I suspect
T
will not be able to match. But one should not prejudge.”

Miss Bamford rubbed at her forehead.

“I imagine, Candice,” she said, “that reading the dictionary would increase your raw vocabulary, but it doesn't explain how you
use
the words you pick up. Surely you must read other things?”

“You are sagacious, Miss Bamford,” I replied, partly to confirm the rich treasure trove that is the letter
S
. “I also read Dickens.”

“Charles Dickens?”

“The same.”

“Any other writers?”

“No. Dickens is sufficient. I have his complete works and read them in alphabetical order. I am currently up to
Dombey and Son
. It is my second cycle through his lifework.”

Miss Bamford made a little resting place for her chin with interlaced fingers. Then she cleared her throat.

“Dickens is a wonderful writer, Candice,” she said. “But don't you think you should read other writers occasionally?”

It was clear that Miss Bamford was not limiting herself to the one question she had requested. Or, indeed, the two I had counteroffered. But I felt it would be churlish to point this out.

“No,” I said.

“Isn't he a little out of date?” she continued. “Perhaps, for modern tastes, rather too . . . old?”

“He would be two hundred years of age,” I replied. “Which would certainly be too old for modern tastes. But he is dead. And that makes a huge difference. Particularly, I imagine, to him.”

Miss Bamford's mouth twitched and I felt confident she was about to ask yet another question about my reading habits. But then she gave a little wave of her hand as if giving up the whole conversation as a bad job.

“You were saying about my eye,” she whispered.

“Ah, yes,” I replied. “It seems to me, Miss Bamford, that there is a simple solution to your ocular problem. What is more, I have this solution in my school bag and would ask that you consider it seriously.” I rummaged around in my backpack, found the large paper bag, and pushed it across the desk. She opened the top and peered inside. I waited for her reaction and didn't have to wait long.

“A hook, a plastic sword, and a rubber parrot,” she said. “This is very kind of you, Candice, but it raises more questions, I think, than it answers.”

“I catch your drift,” I replied. “The point is, Miss Bamford, that I bought these items as a pirate costume. I am not suggesting you attach the hook to your hand or pin the parrot to your shoulder, though that would be a personal choice and I wouldn't stand in your way. It is the eye patch that I want to bring to your attention. You see, if you put it on, then no one could see your wandering
eye. This would, at a stroke, reduce the teasing you currently endure. Plus, it would lend you a certain air. Sinister, perhaps, or even romantic. It would establish an aura of mystery. And who would dare tease a sinister, romantic, mysterious one-eyed teacher sporting a black eye patch? Count me out, for one.”

I said earlier that teachers leave their senses of humor in the staff room. Well, it only goes to show you should never make generalizations (which is, in itself, a generalization I should not have made), because Miss Bamford did a curious thing. She removed her specs and placed them on the desk. Then she lowered her head so it rested next to them. Her shoulders shook, almost imperceptibly at first, but then with increasing vigor. It was as if she were impersonating an earthquake.

For a moment I thought she was crying, possibly out of gratitude that I had solved her problem. I believe that happens. But then I heard the distinct peals of what was obviously laughter. She lifted her head and her eyes were red and streaming with tears. Miss Bamford howled. Then she howled some more. I waited patiently. There is little point, in my experience, attempting to converse with someone who is howling like a hyena. So I folded my arms and weathered the storm.

It took time for Miss Bamford to calm down. When she did, she fixed me with her one good eye.

“Thank you, Candice,” she said, though her voice was weak. “You have made my day.”

“You could dye it a different color if black does not suit,” I said, “though I believe black would lend gravitas.”

Her mouth twitched and I thought she was going to start laughing again. But she maintained control. My job here was done and I rose to go.

“Enjoy,” I said at the door and she gave a small gurgle followed by a muffled snicker. I was almost through when she stopped me.

“Candice?” she said. I turned. “Where is your assignment? The alphabet essay? It is not like you to be late.”

“Sorry, Miss,” I replied. “I'm up to
J
, but it's taking longer than I thought.”

“I'm looking forward to reading it.”

“I'm looking forward to finishing it.”

Jambalaya is a Louisiana Creole dish of Spanish and French influence, popular in the French Quarter of New Orleans. So said the Internet page printouts that Douglas Benson from Another Dimension gave me at recess and I have no reason to doubt it.

Some explanation is called for.

I have already mentioned that Mum was not always depressed. Before Sky died, she was active, optimistic, and full of plans.

I remember one conversation, though I cannot remember when or where it happened. The only image I can
bring to mind is sitting in a restaurant. Dad wasn't there and nor was Sky, though I'm sure this was after her birth and certainly before her death.

Mum was leaning over the table and her face was bright, alive with emotion. “One day, Pumpkin,” she said. “One day we will all go to the United States and visit New Orleans. It is a place I
must
see before I die.”

“What's there, Mummy?”

She leaned back and a dreamy expression spread across her face.

“All kinds of things, Pumpkin. You walk through the French Quarter and see amazing railings; beautiful, scrolled ironwork everywhere. And the streets . . . they are full of people, most talking French, and the music, Pumpkin, the music . . . from every storefront, from every balcony, jazz musicians play. On each street corner, someone plays a saxophone or a guitar or a trumpet. We'll eat jambalaya and gumbo and listen to jazz and watch people dance in the streets, surrounded by French accents, surrounded by music . . .”

Nothing else remains of that memory except her expression. Transported into another place, she was happy. New Orleans was never mentioned after that. Like everything else, it shriveled and died. But at least I remember.

During lunchtime I sat in my special chair in the library and made a shopping list. Douglas was scouring the bookshelves for information on gravity, so I had time and space. I would need chicken, smoked sausage, onions, peppers, tomatoes, prawns, chicken stock, and rice (though I thought we already had rice).

What with shopping, tricycling to the ravine, and cooking, it promised to be a busy and, hopefully, productive evening. I was worried, though. Apart from an egg (which turned out disastrously) I had never cooked anything in my life. I scanned the recipe. Unfortunately, microwave ovens did not feature anywhere.

There are people, I am told, who enjoy cooking, who do it every night. They slice and dice, they top and tail, they braise and stew, they poach and steam, all the time laughing like idiots in a delirium of happiness.

I didn't laugh, I couldn't say I was entirely happy, but I was certainly an idiot.

The recipe called for me to slice the peppers, but I took no chances and sliced my fingers as well. This slowed me down as every ten seconds I had to get a new Band-Aid and try to stem the flow of blood. Even so, by the time I had the ingredients ready (“prepped,” according to the recipe Douglas had given me) the kitchen was like the scene of a nasty traffic accident involving multiple amputations. I mopped the floor and wiped down surfaces, which was difficult with fingers like Band-Aid-covered sausages.

Finally, though, the big pot was simmering on the stove. I threw in the rice and covered it, turning the flame low. The jambalaya had to cook for more than an hour, which gave me time to get to Douglas's ravine and back again.

Once again, it was a wasted journey, though I don't want to imply that Douglas jumping off a cliff would have been a constructive use of time. Anyway, I arrived home with sore hands and a sore butt and got back to work.

There were one or two things that needed to be done to create the right atmosphere. I was concerned that the cooking smells would have woken Mum and prompted her to investigate, but I needn't have worried. No one, as far as I could tell, had been in the kitchen. I bustled around, making a few final touches, and then trotted off to Dad's shed.