you.”
At ten, I was skinny and flat-chested. I thought I was unattractive, especially compared to Aurélie, who was two years older than me and already had graceful hips and round breasts. But if Aurélie thought I was beautiful, it must be true.
Aurélie and I were never caught prowling the roof, nor engaging in any of our other pranks—scattering melon rinds on the stairs, for example, or filling the pianos with chicken bones. Amazingly, considering how she taunted Farnsworth, Aurélie never had to wear the nightcap. I was punished with it only one more time. One day in my third year, during a particularly boring history lesson, I yawned vigorously, and Madame Farnsworth took the large cork from the ink bottle on her desk and thrust it into my mouth. I coughed and gagged, spurting blue ink over my books and desk, which further enraged the horrid teacher. “Nightcap!” Farnsworth thundered. She snatched the foul hat from the windowsill and slapped it on my head.
Fortunately I had Sister Emily-Jean to comfort me. We were forbidden to disturb the nuns in their cells; most of them wanted nothing to do with us. But Sister Emily-Jean loved the girls, especially me, and often invited me to boil taffy on a small stove she hid under her bed, or to accept a piece of chocolate from the tin on her dresser. Many years later, giving in to her yearning for motherhood, she left the convent, married a tradesman from Bristol, where she had been raised, and at forty-two gave birth to a baby boy.
Whenever I knocked on her door, Sister Emily-Jean greeted me warmly. Her tiny cell was furnished with a narrow cot, an old oak chair, and a little chest of drawers where she kept her few possessions, including a thick braid of silky, dark hair that she had cut from her own head shortly before taking her final vows. She showed it to me one day after I told her that I might like to become a nun.
“It’s not a decision to be taken lightly. It’s not something you can dabble in,” she said. “In the first place, could you stand snipping off all your beautiful copper hair?”
I told her I wouldn’t mind a bit. Then Sister Emily-Jean removed her veil and whimple. She was bald, except for a few coarse tufts on the top of her head. “Well, Mimi,” she said with a sigh, “if you want to be a nun, even for a few hours, you can’t have any hair at all.” With that, I gave up all thoughts of devoting myself to God.
For several years I begged Mama to let me bring Aurélie home, but she always refused—she was embarrassed by our shabby apartment. Nor did Aurélie ever invite me to her house. Aurélie explained that her mother was an invalid and never entertained. Then one day, at the beginning of my third year at the convent, Mama said I could bring Aurélie to a Confederate reunion.
On the appointed day, Aurélie and I woke early, ransacked our trunks for our prettiest frocks, and were dressed and waiting in the visitors’ hall long before Mama arrived at eleven that morning.
When we entered Rebel headquarters, a lively party was in progress. We made our way into the sunny parlor, where a thatch of straw-colored hair rose above the chattering crowd. It was Harry Beauvais, at thirteen as tall as a man, standing in a corner, drinking red wine.
“Bonjour, Virginie,” he called out, lifting his glass in the air. I saw Harry at every reunion I attended, and he seemed to grow an inch each month. His feet and hands were huge. But the rest of him had not caught up. He still had a child’s skinny arms and legs, and his chest was concave.
“Harry, this is my friend Aurélie from the convent,” I said. “She was born in Louisiana, like us.”
“Hello, Harry,” said Aurélie.
Harry studied her for a moment, then turned to me. “It’s boring here,” he grumbled. “Do you want to go to the park?”
“Sure,” Aurélie and I answered at the same time.
In the hallway, we donned our hats and coats and wrapped fringed shawls around our
At ten, I was skinny and flat-chested. I thought I was unattractive, especially compared to Aurélie, who was two years older than me and already had graceful hips and round breasts. But if Aurélie thought I was beautiful, it must be true.
Aurélie and I were never caught prowling the roof, nor engaging in any of our other pranks—scattering melon rinds on the stairs, for example, or filling the pianos with chicken bones. Amazingly, considering how she taunted Farnsworth, Aurélie never had to wear the nightcap. I was punished with it only one more time. One day in my third year, during a particularly boring history lesson, I yawned vigorously, and Madame Farnsworth took the large cork from the ink bottle on her desk and thrust it into my mouth. I coughed and gagged, spurting blue ink over my books and desk, which further enraged the horrid teacher. “Nightcap!” Farnsworth thundered. She snatched the foul hat from the windowsill and slapped it on my head.
Fortunately I had Sister Emily-Jean to comfort me. We were forbidden to disturb the nuns in their cells; most of them wanted nothing to do with us. But Sister Emily-Jean loved the girls, especially me, and often invited me to boil taffy on a small stove she hid under her bed, or to accept a piece of chocolate from the tin on her dresser. Many years later, giving in to her yearning for motherhood, she left the convent, married a tradesman from Bristol, where she had been raised, and at forty-two gave birth to a baby boy.
Whenever I knocked on her door, Sister Emily-Jean greeted me warmly. Her tiny cell was furnished with a narrow cot, an old oak chair, and a little chest of drawers where she kept her few possessions, including a thick braid of silky, dark hair that she had cut from her own head shortly before taking her final vows. She showed it to me one day after I told her that I might like to become a nun.
“It’s not a decision to be taken lightly. It’s not something you can dabble in,” she said. “In the first place, could you stand snipping off all your beautiful copper hair?”
I told her I wouldn’t mind a bit. Then Sister Emily-Jean removed her veil and whimple. She was bald, except for a few coarse tufts on the top of her head. “Well, Mimi,” she said with a sigh, “if you want to be a nun, even for a few hours, you can’t have any hair at all.” With that, I gave up all thoughts of devoting myself to God.
For several years I begged Mama to let me bring Aurélie home, but she always refused—she was embarrassed by our shabby apartment. Nor did Aurélie ever invite me to her house. Aurélie explained that her mother was an invalid and never entertained. Then one day, at the beginning of my third year at the convent, Mama said I could bring Aurélie to a Confederate reunion.
On the appointed day, Aurélie and I woke early, ransacked our trunks for our prettiest frocks, and were dressed and waiting in the visitors’ hall long before Mama arrived at eleven that morning.
When we entered Rebel headquarters, a lively party was in progress. We made our way into the sunny parlor, where a thatch of straw-colored hair rose above the chattering crowd. It was Harry Beauvais, at thirteen as tall as a man, standing in a corner, drinking red wine.
“Bonjour, Virginie,” he called out, lifting his glass in the air. I saw Harry at every reunion I attended, and he seemed to grow an inch each month. His feet and hands were huge. But the rest of him had not caught up. He still had a child’s skinny arms and legs, and his chest was concave.
“Harry, this is my friend Aurélie from the convent,” I said. “She was born in Louisiana, like us.”
“Hello, Harry,” said Aurélie.
Harry studied her for a moment, then turned to me. “It’s boring here,” he grumbled. “Do you want to go to the park?”
“Sure,” Aurélie and I answered at the same time.
In the hallway, we donned our hats and coats and wrapped fringed shawls around our
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