Good Christian Girls

“Fayola.”

I gather my books quickly as to avoid any further conversation. She gently places the palm of her hand on my back. I tremble a bit. I hadn’t felt that type of comfort in what seemed like an eternity.

“Fayola, I’d like to finish our conversation in more depth, if you don’t mind.”

I knew what she wanted to hear. She wanted an explanation, a feasible one. It wouldn’t be long before others would catch on to my fabricated “fell down the stairs” stories. Either I was a major klutz or there was the possibility that someone else may have been pushing me down the stairs.

I sighed and shook my head. “Honestly Mrs. Bryan, I need to head home. I can’t be late.”

“Late for what?”

Why must she press so hard? I mean, I guess it was her right as my teacher to inquire about my bruises, Mama will have my head if she found out I took my coat off. I got hot, and I’ve grown so accustomed to the sight of my abraded self, I tend to forget that others have a general sense of concern for battered women.

I finally met her gaze, “I’m fine. Trust me, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I stared into her eyes as if to beg her to stand down. No good will come from her meddling. She stared back as if to challenge me. What kind of person would she be to ignore something as grave as this. I buttoned my jacket and tied it tighter. With my books loaded into my backpack and my assignment turned in, I was done here.

She fell back. “OK Fay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I wanted to say, “…if you call mama to query my appearance today, you may not see me tomorrow.” Instead I said, “Our phone’s been cut off, so mama likes me home right after school; just in case.”

Mrs. Bryan nodded and pulled in her lips. She stopped believing my stories after I attended school with a black eye caused by a swinging door. She never knew of too many doors that swung like fists. I knew she didn’t believe this story, but she got the hint.