It was April/May like it is now. I remember I was thirteen,
the shy, awkward years I want to forget. Of course it was art class. Our
teacher was a woman, Welinda Irwin. A graduate of Hood College, a prestigious school
for women in Maryland, she viewed herself as sort of smarter than many of the
art teachers who had gone to IUP and Cal, both teacher’s college’s in
Pennsylvania. Welinda was sort of a scary character in the eyes of children.
She wasn’t Miss Nelson but more or less Miss Viola Swamp.
Mrs. Irwin had dishwater blonde hair with a sort of green
tint. It was not the typical beauty shop dye job or number seven in some hair
product, but more or less that she had crawled out of the creek behind the high
school where students went for cray fish. Her skin was leathery and wrinkled,
and her glasses, crooked, were always pushed to the edge of her nose. The
clothes she wore were frumpy, looking like they had been stolen from a corpse she
had probably killed for dinner, shaken out, and stuck on her person. Her eye
makeup, a nightmare, was drawn on as if Stevie Wonder had done the honors. As
for the lipstick, I have seen drag queens on crystal meth make a straighter
line.
One thing about Mrs. Irwin was that she was passionate about
her pottery and her kiln. My brother used to tell me she cooked students in
there, or he swore she did. The two were seemingly mortal enemies. When drawing
his cartoons, a form of therapy, my brother drew her twice and cast her in the
role of witch. Upon getting my brother’s report card and seeing a C my brother
explained his case. My mother sighed. It was seventh grade. There was no class
rank…..yet.
My first encounter with the witch of Independence Middle School
was when I was walking to Home Ec late. I had heard stories about her, and some
of the kids even swore she turned students into toads. “Get to class!” She
yelled.
I sauntered there, the latest note my best friend Erica had
written in my hand. It was scoop about Justine, our friend who was quite the
slut. Yes, Justine who messed around with upperclassman boys. Why would we say
any of this to Justine’s face? The gossip behind her back was so much more
fulfilling.
So I went to the bathroom, figuring I was late. Why not?
When I got out of the bathroom I remember being two steps
away from the Home Ec room when Welinda Irwin popped out. “I told you to get to
class.” She snapped.
“I am two steps away.” I informed her pointing to the door.
Welinda was not accepting that. On the war path she
countered, “When a teacher gives you an order you take it.”
I nodded. “What’s your name?” She asked.
“April Brucker.” I said honestly.
Welinda nodded. “I had your brother for class. We didn’t get
along. Hopefully you will be better when I get you next semester.” She hissed.
When I got home I told my brother about the encounter and he
told me to laugh it off. My brother assured me to laugh Middle School in
general off. I hated the whole place, the social ladder. I dreamed of leaving
the whole mess and doing big things with myself. Gone would be the scorn of the
all too popular girls. Gone would be the scorn of the all too popular guys.
Little did I know I was about to make a friend though.
The next semester I got Welinda Irwin for class. The first
week she proved to be a hot mess. She made one of the popular girls cry, which
I sort of liked because this girl was mean to me. Then she failed some guys
that asked me out as a joke because they were goofing off. In between there she
went on tangents in between the lesson, muttering, about her husband who was
out of work and her children whom were “ungrateful wastes.”
Our second week of class we began a pottery project. Mrs.
Irwin was telling us how to make a coil. “As a visual, just picture the worms
you see this time of year. They come out in the rain. Unfortunately when the
rain dries and the sun comes up, it bakes the worms and they die.” She
explained coldly. “So think of those dead worms when you need a visual.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. “That’s disgusting.”
I whispered to my friend Erica. “And disturbing.”
“Yeah.” Erica said. We were both standing in the back of the
room. As two misfits, we were experts in not participating and making sure our
voices never carried.
“But they do April!” Welinda Irwin shouted. The class turned
and looked at me. I turned white with terror. How had she heard me?
I asked Erica this question as we left class. Dressed in
black with too much makeup, much like me, she said, “April, she’s a witch. How
else?”
“Yeah, a total witch.” Diana Hermann said. She was a popular
girl but I liked her. The three of us nodded.
“I think she levitates.” I said.
“I think her head spins around.” Trevor Green informed us
running up to us. While Trevor was usually mean to me, most everyone had taken sympathy
on me during worm gate.
I was pretty much quiet for the rest of the semester seeing
that Welinda Irwin had supersonic hearing. The class itself was interesting,
especially since she knew so much about Frick and Carnegie and the architecture
surrounding their homes. However, the instructor scared the living crap out of
me. I remember doing my pottery project with little to no drama. Some of my
classmates had meltdowns when she yelled. Others had their parents complain to
the principal. I knew it was useless, she had voodoo dolls of all of us. The
best thing to do was to stay on her good side.
One girl, Jennika Gray, the pretty kid in all the
commercials, complained about how the dust was staining her clothes. I really didn’t
like Jennika. To me, she was just a stick in the mud who thought she was
Marilyn Monroe when really she was closer to trashy ten cent hooker by the bus
station. “I don’t understand why I have to do this. I am going to be a famous
film star.” She exerted.
“It’s class. Everyone has to do it.” I informed Miss
Attitude.
“Well rejects like you do. Face it April, you are ugly, guys
ask you out as a joke. You can afford to get dirty.” She sneered.
As I was about to cap the skank Welinda appeared. “You have
the depth of a baby pool. I wouldn’t want to see what you do on any stage or
screen.” She said flatly. “Art is art, and those who can’t appreciate it have
no place in any of it’s facets.”
My jaw hung open. Welinda gave me a knowing smile. Jennika,
crushed, ran into the bathroom with her blonde curls bouncing behind her. She
cried her eyes out, and I didn’t feel bad. Actually, I felt good.
“Your house looks good. Get back to work.” Welinda said and
then left.
Towards the end of the semester, there was a chance to do an
extra credit project. It was on our favorite piece of Pittsburgh art. Being a
teacher’s kid, I have always jumped on an extra credit project. So I did it. I
remember dropping it off, gingerly going into Welinda’s room. She wasn’t there.
Thank God. “You need help April?” She said.
I turned around spooked. How had she appeared out of no
where? It was like Lo Pan in Big Trouble
In Little China.
I nodded. “My report.” I said.
Welinda looked at it. She said nothing for a minute. It was
an odd minute. Then she informed me, “Well good for you. You were the only one
to do it.”
I stared blankly. “You have a great mind on you. You need to
focus it more and need to hang out less with those idiots Erica and Justine,
but you have a good mind and you can do a lot with it. Just continue to be
yourself and don’t let those morons tell you otherwise.”
A smile came over my face. This lady had been the witch of
the Middle School. Children ran in fear of her. We all believed she perhaps
flew on a broomstick. Now here she was this villainous, the one the children
feared, being a friend to me. I thanked her and left her room, happy that I had
an ally. Perhaps she had been a misfit and still was. That is why we spoke the
same language.
Years later, when I was the Wicked Witch in the production
of the Wizard of Oz, she made my
costume. Welinda had told one of the high school sponsors what a good kid I was
when she had me for class, and how she was glad I was finally finding my way,
my niche if you will.
These days when spring comes, I think of my seventh grade self,gawky
in her stride. I laugh when I think of all the boys that asked me out as a joke
either working at the mall kiosk or pumping my gas, and now writing to me
trying to make overtures for real now that my face has been on television. I
think of the popular girls determined to make my life hell, but now determined
to tell everyone they know me. Jennika Gray, I believe, even went so far as to
go on to an online message board to bad mouth me. Of course, she was shot down
making herself look like the obvious hometown harpie.
I also think of dead worms, my coil visual if I ever want to
do a pottery project.
More so, I think of Welinda Irwin. Yes, she probably flew on
a broomstick and was a witch. But she was my witch, and if you make fun of her
broomstick I will turn you into a toad myself.
Love,
April
