Saving Francesca

And boy do we flinch. He uses swear words in class, not at us, but about the texts, and it kind of excites us because here’s a man who’s not scared of talking about sex and passion. It’s weird, because he’s about fifty and has the craggiest face and the most demented stares, but in his classes I feel tapped into something, a kind of attraction.

“Wouldn’t it be hard to be rebellious and cool with a name like Henry?” Thomas asks.

“Hal, to his friends.”

The bell rings and we stream out. I’m unimpressed by the choice of play, but I don’t say anything.

“Francesca?”

“Yes.” I walk to Ortley’s desk.

“You rolled your eyes.”

Oh God, another one. “It’s a condition I have,” I lie, because it’s quicker than explaining.

“I’m interested in what you think.”

“About the production?”

“Of course.”

I’ve taken a truth serum. It got a smile out of Will, so I give it a go, sitting down in front of him.

“Henry IV has only one good female role. Kate. The Welsh girl can’t speak English. So it’s pretty limited. I think we should do a Shakespeare with more chicks in it.”

He’s taken aback, and then he laughs. “You look better than last term. Are you okay?” It’s a gruff query.

I don’t know how to deal with this question. When it’s not asked, I hate everyone, but when Justine asks me and when Mr. Ortley demands to know, it’s hard. I haven’t practiced the right polite answer. It’s only the first day back and he’s put me on the spot.

“Some days are good and other days are shockers,” I say, because the truth serum hasn’t worn off yet.

He looks at me and nods. “Same here.”

I can’t help gri

“Can you act?” he asks.

“I was in Oliver in Year Six.”

“Nancy?”

“Fagin.”

He’s impressed.

“How about Macbeth? Do you know your Shakespeare?”

“Macbeth, yes. I’m not of woman born, you know,” I say, referring to the fact that the witches predict that Macbeth will be killed by someone not of woman born, who ends up being someone born by Cesarean section birth. “When I went to see a production in Year Nine, I thought I was a freak because of it.”

“Why? The freak ends up killing the monster, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

He stands up and picks up his stuff. “Let me think about the change of play,” he says. “But remember, I’ve got a reputation for excellent productions. If you don’t wow me in the Macbeth auditions, we’ll do Henry IV and you’ll play the Welsh girl who can’t speak English.”

“Deal.”

On the bus I tell Tara about the possible change.

“Macbeth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you think that’s a victory?”

“Why, isn’t it?”

“Think of the women. Three witches, one bitch, and one submissive housewife.”

“I wouldn’t call Lady Macduff a submissive housewife,” I argue.

“She’s a nag. She nags Macduff to death,” Thomas tells us, pulling an earphone out of his head.

“I think she’s feisty,” Justine says.

“And she still dies,” Tara informs me. “Lady Macbeth kills herself, the witches disappear. Notice we become redundant in all the victory.”

“It’s just a play,” I say, irritated.

“No it’s not. It’s an exposé of how strong-minded women end up either going insane or being clobbered.”

“Or described as chicks with beards,” Thomas says.

“Huh?” Siobhan asks.

“He’s talking about the witches,” I explain. “And let’s not forget that the ‘strong-minded’ Lady Macbeth was a psycho bitch from hell.”

“This is not good,” Tara says, shaking her head.

“I disagree,” Justine argues. “I think they’re finally listening to us.”

“I would have preferred the one about the guy hanging out with his friends in the pub,” Thomas says.

“I’m going to go for Lady Macbeth,” I tell them, “and worse still, I’ve decided my audition piece will be the one where she says, ‘Unsex me now,’ which is going to be hard in front of a bunch of morons.”

Thomas is finally interested.

“Sex?”

“No sex,” Tara explains. “She’s saying, get the woman out of me and let the guy part take over because only guys can do disgusting, revolting, shitty things.”

“Woman, you’re a worry,” he mutters under his breath.

My dad and I walk home from grocery shopping in Johnston Street. We pass the kids at the top of the street who have built their own grind pole and are flying in the air and landing in the middle of the road.

“Get off the road,” my father says as we pass them.

He’s in his flip-flops and work clothes and the kids snicker, but I give them the evil eye.

Sometimes I look at Dad and think he seems so sad that he might burst. Mia has been the love of his life since they were fifteen, and I think his whole identity has been wrapped up in her.

“What do you talk about at night?” I ask him.

He thinks for a moment.

“I do the talking, which is fu

Mia’s argument had always been that my father doesn’t talk enough about what’s going on inside his head. She comes from the school of getting it out of your system, whereas he comes from the school of stewing over it.

“It’s not like there’s an answer or just one reason,” he tells me.

“Are you saying there’s more than one reason?”

“I’m just saying that I wish I could say it was this or that.”

“I wish you’d tell us at least what one of the thises and thats is!”

I don’t recognize who I am with my father these days. Lately, when I speak to him there’s this bite in my tone and I can’t stop it and I don’t know why. Do I blame him for all this, because Mia seems too fragile to blame?

“She was just tired from a lot of things,” he explains. “Maybe she needed a break and she just didn’t let us know.”

“Once, at the begi

He stops for a moment, and I can see something change on his face.

“Did she ever say that to you?” I ask him, trying to recall the conversation I once had with her.

“I don’t remember.”

“She was ecstatic about it. That I can remember. Do you remember?”

He shakes his head and begins walking again.

“After No

“You and Mia are just like Mia and her mother were.”

In the distance, I see Jimmy Hailler talking to the people across the road. They know more about him than me.

“Doesn’t he have a home to go to?”

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t want him in your bedroom.”

“Papa! Don’t be so old-fashioned. We’re just friends.”

“And look at his pants. Why doesn’t he just wear them around his ankles?”

“Look at yourself. You look like something out of a yobbo retrospective.”

“Who teaches you these words?” he asks in mock anguish. It’s the first time I’ve heard him joke around for a while, and it makes my heart sing.

We approach the house and I wave at Jimmy.

“And if he thinks he’s eating with us, he’s got another thing coming,” my dad says.

Jimmy approaches us and takes the shopping bags from me, looking inside them.

“Lamb roast. Am I invited?”

chapter 22

IN LEGAL STUDIES we’re in the library, researching stuff on the Internet. Thomas is sitting next to me, with his earphones discreetly plugged into the computer, tapping away and nodding his head. Once in a while he breaks into song, off-key, and it’s hard to concentrate. I find myself typing in the word “depression.” There are thousands of entries, and I’m stu