The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (20 page)

Dear Miss Cowie
,

I am Candice Phee. Maybe Miss Bamford has mentioned me. If she hasn't, there are a couple of things you should know. I have an ex-dysfunctional fish and a persnickety pencil case, with a divider so my pencils don't get mixed up. I always have to sit in the same seat. I don't talk to people until I feel comfortable with them. This sometimes takes weeks
.

In the meantime, I communicate through notes like this one. Some people think I am on some sort of spectrum, but
I don't think I am. It's just that I am different from most students. I know all students are different, but I am more different than most
.

Now, you strike me as a person who also has routines and I imagine making eye contact during an oral presentation is something you require. Please don't make me do this, Miss Cowie, as I will suffer from severe anxiety. I will also have to read from a prepared speech, which I know is not ideal. I will quite understand if you fail me because of this, but I would fail anyway if you made me speak without a script because I wouldn't be able to
.

Very best wishes
,

Candice Phee

P.S. I very much admire your refusal to read newspapers, knit, surf the Internet, or build plastic models while we are working
.

P.P.S. I am not, as some students in this class would say, trying to be a “brown nose” (mine just peels in the sun anyway). I am sincere and like you very much
.

P.P.P.S. Is there any news about Miss Bamford? I miss her. Thank you
.

Miss Cowie sat at her desk with a back so straight bricklayers could have used it for a plumb line (I read about this in an encyclopedia—the plumb line, I mean, not Miss Cowie's back). As I shuffled past I placed the note in front
of her and quickly sat at my desk. I kept my head down so I had no idea if she'd read it or simply crumpled it up and thrown it in the trashcan. She certainly gave the impression of being someone who would crumple up notes without a second thought. The class sat in silence for a minute.

“It is oral presentation time, class,” said Miss Cowie finally. “Now I know some of you are nervous about speaking in front of your peers, so I should stress that this is practice only. When Miss Bamford returns—and I believe that will be tomorrow—she will doubtless have her own ideas about the oral assessment. So today, if you wish, you can read prepared speeches or use notes or simply talk without any aids. Relax and do your best. That's all I ask.”

I was so surprised that I glanced up as she paced between our desks. She bent down to pick up some trash next to my seat and, as she straightened, gave me a long, slow wink.

Miss Cowie is the second-best teacher in the world (
as far as I am concerned
).

The second best teacher in the world (
as far as I am concerned
) returned to her desk, sat down, and examined her list of students.

“The first pair to present will be Candice Phee and Jennifer Marshall. Candice, would you like to start, please?”

I got to my feet, opened my notebook, and cleared my throat. I could hear giggles from the back of the class. Jen's friends, presumably, but they quickly shut up when
Miss Cowie, I imagined, did a steely routine with her eyes. I kept my head over my notebook.

“Jennifer Marshall is beautiful,” I read. “That much is obvious when you look at her. She has wonderful hair, a delightful complexion, and legs to die for. But that is not all that Jen Marshall is. Physical beauty is an accident, often not earned. But Jen is also a beautiful person on the inside. We simply need to look closely and carefully to see it. Her life has not been easy. I could give details, but this is not the time or place. So I suppose you will have to take my word for it. Jen has suffered. Under these circumstances, some people would become angry. They might despise the world. They might give up on themselves.”

The class was deadly quiet. The silence was a dark pressure, and I could feel sweat stand on my forehead. I ploughed on.

“But Jen has not. She tries to improve herself. She understands her weaknesses and works to improve them. If I have any criticism of Jennifer Marshall, it is that she lacks self-confidence. She thinks she is not worthy. She cannot see what the rest of us see so easily—that underneath that beautiful exterior is a beautiful person. One thing is clear. Jennifer Marshall is an exceptional person. She will become an exceptional adult. It is my dearest wish that, one day, I may call her my best friend. Thank you.”

I sat down, which was wise since my legs were on the point of folding. I busied myself with putting my notebook
back in its proper place on the desk and tidying my persnickety pencil case. Nonetheless, I heard the applause from the rest of the class. It sounded genuine, though I could, of course, be mistaken. It is difficult, in my experience, to distinguish between false applause and genuine applause. They sound very much the same. Anyway, when the clapping died, I heard Miss Cowie.

“Well, Candice. Thank you. Rather short on facts and details, but a heartfelt response. Well done. Jennifer, your turn.”

I didn't look up. There was shuffling and then a long silence.

“Er . . . okay.” Jen sounded terrified. “Yeah. Well. Candice Phee. Right. Okay. So. Candice Phee. She's special needs, and no mistake.” There were a couple of giggles, stifled immediately. Silence returned. “But she's okay, is Candice. Yeah. Thanks.”

I didn't hear what Miss Cowie had to say about Jen's oral presentation. I could probably guess.

But I thought it was brilliant.

Douglas Benson from Another Dimension walked me home after school. He insisted on holding my hand all the way, even though it was warm and after a while it was like gripping a dishcloth. He didn't seem to notice. They say love is blind.

“Would you like to come round for lunch on Sunday, Candice? It might be our last opportunity to spend quality time together, especially if I'm leaving for good at six-thirty.”

Here is one thing that's really great about Douglas Benson from Another Dimension: He is so weird he makes me seem normal.

Maybe not.

But if he's not proposing to me over dinner, he's planning to vanish from the world forever. I am confused by this. True love and vanishing don't go together in any conventional sense. I do love the knobbly bits on his head (and his eyebrows are spectacular), but are these a solid foundation for marriage? If your husband is living in another dimension (albeit with knobbly bits on his head and spectacular eyebrows), won't this put undue pressure on the relationship?

What would our children be like? It doesn't bear thinking about.

“That sounds good, Douglas,” I said.

We arranged for me to be there at two in the afternoon. We'd have a late lunch with the facsimile parents, visit the ravine, and then gather round the tree-portal. Well, I'd gather (can one person gather? Is that physically possible?) while Douglas found an appropriate branch.

If his attempt succeeded . . . well, that would be that. If it failed, we'd probably discuss wedding arrangements with the facsimile parents. I couldn't decide which would be the weirder outcome.

When we reached my house Rich Uncle Brian was waiting outside in his car. This was something I had arranged. Douglas said a reluctant goodbye and I got into the front seat of RUB's SUV. We drove off. We did not visit a fast food eatery for a burger of dubious origin. Not this time. We drove to a supermarket parking lot and parked. Rich Uncle Brian did some reading (I provided the material) and I did some humming (I provided this, too). Then we talked briefly and he drove me home.

We know how to have a good time, me and Rich Uncle Brian.

I still had the finer details to arrange, but everything was coming together nicely. It is true that family harmony had not been restored by my first plan. Indeed, throwing myself into the ocean had only made our problems worse. But Candice Phee does
not
give up.

This time
, I thought.
This time
.

(or lack thereof . . . look it up in the dictionary)

“Happy Birthday, Mum,” I said. “You don't look a day over forty-two.”

“Thanks, Pumpkin. Thanks a lot.” But she smiled when she said it.

Dad cooked breakfast on Friday morning. I peered into the frying pan. It was sausages and eggs. Dad glanced at me.

“What?” he said. “It's a versatile dish, Candice. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Just add or subtract fries. Us five-star chefs have learned to experiment. You wouldn't understand. It's called haute cuisine.”

“You can't do bacon?”

“I'm working my way up to bacon. It might take a year or two.”

This all felt strange. We had gone from misery to sitcom dialogue in a matter of days. I knew Dad was right when he'd told me there would be good days and bad days. I decided that before it had only been bad days, so I'd settle for this.

“Do you want your presents now, Mum?” I asked.

Mum toyed with a sausage and then nibbled at the corner of her toast.

“No, thanks,” she replied. “Your dad and I thought it would be good to do presents at dinner tonight.”

“Can you wait that long?”

“I'm forty-two, Pumpkin. Trust me, the waiting is easy.” She took a white tablet and swallowed it with a sip of water. Then she noticed me noticing. “Happy pills, Candice. And you know something? They might be working.”

“I'm happy,” I said.

“You know something else, Pumpkin? I might be getting to that place myself.”

Total silence greeted the entrance of Miss Bamford into our English classroom during first period.

It wasn't the shock of her return. It was the black eye patch she was wearing. Oh, and the rubber parrot fixed to her left shoulder. She stood for a moment in front of her desk and gazed at our sea of faces.

“Would anyone care to take this black spot to Blind Pew?” she growled.

This must have been a joke, but I don't think anyone got it. We just stared. Then someone at the back of the class laughed. Someone else joined in. Before we knew it, everyone was laughing, especially Miss Bamford. I had
never known such a day of laughter and it was only nine in the morning.

Miss B eventually removed the parrot, which was a pity because it suited her. She kept the eye patch on. After the class calmed down we got to work reading our shared novel, a story about a girl, a red-haired boy, and their nasty English teacher. It was okay, but it certainly wasn't Dickens. When the bell rang I stayed behind.

“Ah, Candice,” said Miss Bamford. “How did you get on while I was away? Not too stressful?”

“A bit, Miss. I'm glad you're back.”

“Me too, Candice.”

“Why
were
you off school, Miss?”

She sat on the edge of a desk and touched the corner of her eye patch with one finger.

“I had an operation on my lazy eye, Candice. It was a nerve-racking yet straightforward procedure tightening up a few muscles. Now you wouldn't know I'd ever had a problem.”