Grace McCleen - The Land of Decoration

Alf said I was right—of course, God did want us to fill in our report cards, but He also wanted us to have faith.

I pushed my nail into the side of my Bible. I had faith. More than anyone knew. I’d made things happen they couldn’t even imagine. If they knew, they wouldn’t laugh at me. If they knew, they would be amazed.

I couldn’t help thinking it was strange no one had noticed I was God’s Instrument. I’d expected it to be showing by now. I decided that I would ask Uncle Stan for Brother Michaels’s address. I was sure he would take me seriously.

AFTER THE MEETING, I went up to Uncle Stan and tapped him on the arm. I said: “I wondered if you could give me Brother Michaels’s address. Or his phone number.”

“Brother Michaels?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s that, pet?”

“I need to tell him about the mustard seed and how a miracle happened.”

He smiled. “Right you are.”

“What?”

“Well, I’ll get it for you.”

“Oh…”

“Remind me if I don’t bring it next meeting,” Stan said. He began putting papers in his bag.

Perhaps he hadn’t heard what I had said. “Uncle Stan,” I said, “I made a miracle happen! I made it snow!”

“Did you?” he said.

I said: “What do you mean, ‘Did you?’” The heat was coming back.

“Judith…” he said, and put a hand on my head.

“I’m not making it up!” I said. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but then it just slipped out—that’s why I need Brother Michaels’s address. This is serious. I need to know what to do next. With my power.”

“Well, I’m sure Brother Michaels will be able to advise you, sweetheart,” said Uncle Stan. “Now I’ve got to see Alf about something…”

But he needn’t have worried; I saw a bright pink hat with peach feathers coming toward us. Josie was scanning the room.

“I have to go too,” I said, and slipped to the end of the row. It looked like if Josie didn’t get hold of me soon, she would send out a posse.

WHEN I WALKED into the classroom on Monday, a woman was standing by Mr. Davies’s desk. It was difficult to know how old she was, because she was quite small, but I thought she must have been about Father’s age. She had red hair pushed back with a hair band and round glasses and small hands that looked raw. Her hands were as red as her hair. I liked her hair. I thought how good it would be to make it for one of my little people. I would use bright orange wool and tease the strands apart.

The woman was trying to open the drawer and the whole thing was moving forward. “You have to bang the top,” I said.

“Oh.” She frowned, banged hard, and the drawer slid open. She beamed at me. “Thanks. Who are you?”

“Judith.”

“I’m Mrs. Pierce,” she said. “I’ve come to replace Mr. Davies for the time being.”

“Oh,” I said. “What’s happened to him?”

“He’s not very well. But he’s going to be fine.” She smiled again. She had very small teeth, and at either side one of the top teeth lay sideways so that the edges stuck out. I liked Mrs. Pierce’s teeth. I liked her voice too. It reminded me of green apples.

She said: “Don’t you go to assembly, Judith?”

“No. I have to stay separate from the World.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Pierce. She blinked. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a Den of Iniquity,” I said.

Mrs. Pierce looked at me more closely, then she sniffed and said: “Well, you’re not missing much.” She banged the desk again and the drawer shot out and caught her elbow. She closed her eyes and said something under her breath. Out loud she said: “This will take some getting used to.” At that moment the door opened and everyone came in.

They stared at Mrs. Pierce. She sat on top of Mr. Davies’s desk and crossed her legs. “Good morning, class eight,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Pierce. I’ll be looking after you for a while.”

“Where’s Mr. Davies?” said Anna.

“He’s not well,” said Mrs. Pierce. “But I’m sure he’ll be better soon. In the meantime we’re going to have to get used to one another. I have my own way of doing things, so there’ll be a few changes around here.”

There was scuffling at the back of the room. A second paper airplane hit my head. On it was written LOSER. Mrs. Pierce sniffed and reached for the attendance book. “For a start,” she said, “we’ll have you three boys—yes, you—sitting at the front. Would you mind telling me your names please?”

“Matthew, James, and Stephen, Miss,” said Neil.

Mrs. Pierce smiled. “Fortunately, Mr. Williams has drawn me a seating plan; it wouldn’t be Gareth, Lee, and Neil, would it?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Matthew. “I’m Matthew, and that’s James, and that’s Stephen.”

Mrs. Pierce jumped off the desk. “Come on, boys.” She began to move two tables together. “On your feet!”

“I can’t, Miss,” said Neil.

“Why is that?”

“I can’t find my bag, Miss.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Pierce. “When did you lose it?”

“Don’t know, Miss,” said Neil. A smile slunk across his face. There was laughter.

“Well, you can still come and sit here,” said Mrs. Pierce.

Neil pretended to be caught on the chair and tugged this way and that at his coat. “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Pierce. “It is difficult standing up, isn’t it? Can someone give Neil a hand?” Everyone laughed again but this time with Mrs. Pierce.

Neil freed himself from the table and swaggered to the front. Mrs. Pierce held out a chair and he sat down backward, looking at the class. Everyone laughed again.

Mrs. Pierce smiled. “You’re quite a comedian, aren’t you, Mr. Lewis? There’s just one problem. You’re in my class now and I don’t have time for jokes. Now, would you get your books out? You see, we are waiting for you to begin.”

Neil rubbed his head. “I can’t, Miss.”

“Why is that?”

“Lost them, Miss.”

“Your books?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“What, all of them?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Do you often lose things, Neil?”

“Don’t know, Miss.”

There was more laughter.

Mrs. Pierce walked to the back of the room and pulled a bag out of the corner. “They wouldn’t be in your bag, would they?”

“No, Miss. That’s not my bag.” Neil turned to Lee and grinned.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Well, in that case, I shall keep this bag and its contents until the owner claims it. In the meantime, I will expect you to replace the books and equipment you need by the end of the week.” She threw Neil’s bag into the art cupboard, slammed the door, turned the key, and pocketed it.

Neil said: “Hey!”

“Yes?”

Neil scowled and turned to the front again. He shoved the desk. “I don’t want to sit in this crappy seat!”

“Cheer up, Neil,” Mrs. Pierce said. “This way you can see the blackboard more easily.”

I laughed out loud. I put my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Neil turned round and his eyes flashed. But for some reason, instead of looking away I looked right back.

“Well, now that’s sorted out,” Mrs. Pierce said, “let’s get on with our lessons. We’re going to be reading poetry today.”

“Poetry?” Gemma said.

“That’s right, Gemma,” Mrs. Pierce said. “Nothing wakes you up like a good poem. That’s because poets never say exactly what they mean—or not the best ones. Instead they find other ways of saying it. They paint a picture or they talk about it as if it were something else. We use pictures in everyday speech too—for instance, we say ‘the leg of a table,’ ‘a sunny disposition,’ ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ ‘an icy stare,’ ‘boiling hot.’”