Biddy had taken Sister Theresa’s remarks to heart, studying diligently for the final math test, and had suffered through it nonetheless, having fallen too far behind. It was possible he got a good grade, he reminded himself, watching her. Nothing, in fact, would have surprised him more.
“Eustace Siebert,” Sister said. He went up and took the card from her hand, murmuring his thanks. She looked directly at him and he was unable to read her face. He sat back down and unfolded the white card deliberately, his eyes slipping down the column of letter grades to Pre-Algebra at the bottom, across from which was printed, in blue pen, an F. It was gracefully done, the spine reinforced with a double line and the upper arm disappearing in a smooth wisp of a curve. His eyes roamed back up the column: B and B and B and B. For the first time, no A’s. For the first time, an F. He closed the card.
Laura had received her grades. She was an exception to the class rule: he couldn’t tell with any assurance how good or bad they were, although he guessed good. He wouldn’t find out, because she wasn’t talking to him anymore, either.
All the students were settled, flipping their cards open or closed in various stages of despair or relief. Sister sat forward, clasping her hands.
“Let me say that I was not satisfied with the grades this year,” she said. “Some of you, I know, did very well — you know who you are — but even those who did could have done better. There’s always room for improvement. God knows you’ve heard me say that enough times. And some of you could have done much better.”
While she spoke, the consequences of the card on his desk began to seep in like an oil stain slowly becoming visible through layers of fabric.
“In many ways it’s been a good year, but in many ways some of you are letting yourselves down, not realizing your fullest potential. Next year you’ll have Mrs. Duffy and you’ll be in eighth grade. You won’t be able to get by with any more nonsense at that point. You all have great potential — remember this — and should never accept second best. Now keep in touch and have a good vacation.” The class jolted from their seats in a body, ready to bolt free of Our Lady of Peace for another year, but Sister held up her hands, freezing them more or less in their positions. “Wait, wait, wait. Don’t neglect the reading lists you’ve been given, and the Sisters and I hope we see you this summer.” She spoke louder, her voice ringing over the noise and scramble. “If there are any questions about the grades, I’ll be around this afternoon and tomorrow. But I think most of them are pretty straightforward.”
The noise became overpowering, with students whooping and rushing to the doors, and while he felt in no rush he found himself in the middle of the pack, and as he was swept out the door he remembered Sister’s last words being “If your parents have any questions, they can call the convent.”
His mother shrieked at the math grade. The noise startled him. He’d left the report card on the counter as he always did, as if in a daze, as if there were nothing unusual about it. She’d opened it expecting the same thing.
“An F!” she exclaimed. “An F! Oh, my God, he got an F!” There was scuffling in the kitchen, Kristi apparently wanting to see and trying to grab the card from her mother. A pot fell over, cascading dirty dishes into the sink. Stupid ran back and forth, barking ecstatically.
He shut the bathroom door and slumped on the toilet seat. This was even worse than he had expected.
His mother pounded on the door, demanding he come out of there. It swung open violently when he didn’t respond.
“Do you hear me?” she said. “What in God’s name have you done now?”
He remained where he was, arms at his side. His sister peered cautiously into the bathroom, and the dog calmed somewhat, trotting from kitchen to hallway.
His mother stood before him, the card wagging in her hand. She did not, they both realized, know how to deal with this.
“Well?” she said. His response to all of this plainly disconcerted her and was beginning to frighten her as well. Her anger dissipated but the F remained in her hand, and she looked back and forth in the tiny space, frustrated, as though something in the room might help. Finally she turned, Kristi and Stupid moving quickly out of her way, and stalked into the kitchen.
“It’s as though he did it on purpose,” she said, half to herself, as she opened the dishwasher. Spoons clattered and dishes clanked against each other. “You heard your father’s threat about taking you out of Our Lady of Peace. What am I supposed to tell him now? And you didn’t just go down a notch. No, sir. Not our Biddy. You dropped through the floor. An F. Your father’s going to go into shock.”
He pushed by Kristi and went upstairs and sat on the bed, staring stupidly at the floor. Then he revived, crossing to the desk and pulling a folded Hefty trash-can liner out of the top drawer, his movements beginning to resemble those of well-drilled emergency personneclass="underline" mechanical, assured, swift. Things flew into the trash bag. Mr. Carver’s manual was swept up, and pages marked and ready were torn from The Lore of Flight and stapled together.
He heard his mother at the foot of the stairs, still frustrated: “If I were you, I’d pack my things. I’d hate to be in your shoes when your father gets home.”
He had planned on writing notes, and in fact began the first one, to Cindy, maintaining as best he could the fine line between speed and legibility, but he stopped, unable to communicate what he wanted to say in any adequate way, and, feeling time rush away from him like a spent wave on a beach, he thrust the paper aside. He had a list of people assembled: Cindy, Laura, Teddy, Simon, Louis, Kristi, Ronnie, and his parents, and he finally simply circled each name on the list, a single circle joining his parents’ names, as if that would communicate enough, or would have to do. With the list now a column of stacked ovals, he cleared his desk top of all other clutter so that it might be left centered and alone under the window.
He left while his mother was in the den. His bicycle was piled along the wall in the garage behind some fencing and the lawn mower, and he pulled it out, new cobwebs drifting across his arms. He’d checked the bike three days before and had found that, beyond some grinding and rattling noises, everything worked as well as ever. He’d stopped using it more than a year ago because it was too small, a child’s bike with its long handlebars and banana seat, embarrassing in a neighborhood of statuesque racing frames, but now it was invaluable because of that very lack of size. He swung onto the seat and pushed off, pedaling out of the gloom into the sunlight, and stopped to pick up the Hefty bag he’d left near the door.
Kristi appeared at the screen. “What are you doing?” she asked.
He flinched, determined to look nonchalant. “Taking some stuff over Teddy’s.” She watched him tie the bag securely to the handle on the back of the banana seat, positioning it on top so that it would rest behind him.
“Biddy’s running away, Mom,” she announced.
He remained motionless.
“I would too if I were him,” his mother said from the other room.
He kept his eyes on Kristi, meeting her even gaze.
“Where you gonna go?” she said.
He gave his head a perceptible shake. “Don’t say anything.” His sister was a shadow on the sunlit screen, impossible to interpret. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
“Take care.” He pressed his hand to the screen.
“You too,” she said.
He surged forward on the pedals, building speed quickly down the driveway and out into the street. Sikorsky was four miles away. He had measured it. He had ridden it the previous week. He turned left onto Prospect Drive, and again, onto Stratford Road, grateful for the shade trees lining its edge. It was still very sunny, with patches of thick white clouds, and already sweat tickled his breastbone under his shirt. In the bag behind him on the banana seat, he carried extra pairs of underwear, shorts, and sneakers, a pair of jeans, an extra shirt, a lightweight poncho, his mess kit, tent, flashlight, compass, the pages from The Lore of Flight, the Cessna manual, and thirty-seven dollars in savings. He was going to steal Mr. Carver’s Cessna 152 and fly it to East Hampton, Long Island.