sister zithead

The floor shook beneath us. Pencils rolled off of desks. The American flag trembled above the blackboard. Sister Mary squeezed the chalk in her palm until it cracked. A collective gasp rippled through the classroom as we all held our breath. The door creaked open, and Sister Roberta filled the doorway.

Sister Roberta was the principal. She was feared by students, teachers and parents alike. Bigger than all of the fathers in the entire school, her bulk sucked the air out of every room. She had no cheeks or chin, just jiggly jowls. Her breath was hot and ragged, and the sides of her face puffed out like the gills of a fish out of water. Deep lines were etched into the fat around her mouth, giving her face the look of a ventriloquist's dummy. Square glasses slipped down her nose from the constant sweat that clung to her like skin. The white collar of her habit was no match for the fat exploding out of her neck. She rolled her sleeves up to the elbows, and the fabric sliced into her skin. A tiny gold watch was smothered by chubby rolls on her wrist.

Sister Roberta spent her days trolling the halls and checking in on classrooms. Sometimes, she would call on a student to stand and recite, alphabetically, all of the prepositional phrases. On other occasions, she would stand at the back of the classroom and breathe heavily, making her oppressive presence known to tense students and stuttering teachers. The only point that both students and teachers agreed upon was the unnerving effect of Sister Roberta's glare.

"Good morning, Sister Roberta. God bless you." My entire eighth-grade class stood and saluted the principal as she darkened the doorway. I remained stuck to my seat, hot tears coursing down my cheeks. Her eyes pierced through me in an instant.

"Ms. Heslin. Come with me, please." Sister Roberta demanded, poking her sausage finger in my direction. I rose reluctantly, my body wracked with sobs, snot flowing freely towards my upper lip. It was the kind of hysterics that produces hiccups, and mine ensued in short order. The entire class watched as I sniffled and shuffled towards Sister Roberta.

Once outside the classroom, Sister Roberta wrapped her hand around the back of my neck and led me to the nurse's office. I felt like a helpless kitten about to be tossed in a sack and drowned in a river. Sister Roberta breathed heavily on the back of my neck like a bull. I wondered how many times I would have to write "I will not cry in school" on the blackboard as punishment for my outburst.

Once inside the empty nurse's office, Sister Roberta shut the door behind us. I sat down on the cot reserved for kids with stomach aches and fevers, as she squeezed into the nurse's chair opposite me. She handed me a box of tissues, waiting patiently as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, hoping for the sobs to subside.

"Now. What is this all about?"

I didn't know where to begin. This was the first time I had cried in front of anyone since starting Accutane, and I was ashamed and angry about my outburst. No matter what anyone had said to me, I hadn't given them the satisfaction of seeing their words pierce my skin. But lately, I had crying jags for just about any reason: a Hallmark commercial, a kitten on the corner, a boy skinning his knee in the park. This time, it had been Thomas.

"It was nothing, Sister. I'm just having a bad day."

"Well, it seems like something to me. "Nothing" does not produce the hysterics I just witnessed."

"It was stupid...."

"I'll be the judge of that."

I hesitated. Did I want to be a rat? Being called a rat could be more devastating than being a zithead. But, lying to Sister Roberta could be lethal. She had this nun's sixth sense that she claimed had been divined straight from God Himself. To Sister Roberta, there was no greater sin than dishonesty. I balked between my choices - social death or slaughter by Sister. Picturing myself perishing in a sister's strangle, I chose the former.

"Thomas called me a name."

"And what name was that?"

"He called me a dirty pizza face." As I buried my face in a tissue, the sobs started fresh again.

It wasn't just the name that had hurt me. It was Thomas. Throughout the years, he had always been my protector. Whenever we played football, he would beat away the other boys trying to tackle me so he could gently knock me down himself. He always walked me home, and offered me his jacket when I was cold. I didn't want him to be my boyfriend, but I also didn't mind the attention he showed me, or the occasional jolt of electricity that shot up my arm when he tried to hold my hand. Thomas was a safe way to practice flirting, because I knew he would never want to hurt me. Until today.

"Why do you think he did that?" Sister Roberta wondered.

"Because I told him to stop poking me in the back with his pencil."

"You know, Noreen. I have often thought that Thomas might have somewhat of a crush on you."

"I know."

I didn't know Thomas had a crush on me, I had felt it. On my thigh. The year before, in seventh grade, Thomas and I were slow-dancing in Ashley's house at her thirteenth birthday party. Her parents stayed upstairs all night, while we danced and flirted and (some of us) got felt up. Thomas held me uncomfortably close, and I felt something jabbing me in the thigh.

"Thomas, can you move your keys? They're digging into me." I explained. Thomas pulled me closer and breathed onto my neck.

"Those aren't my keys." Confused, I pulled back from him and glanced down at his crotch. It was the first bulge I had ever seen, let alone felt up against my body.

"Ewww! Gross!" I squealed and pushed away from him, running into the safety of a circle of girls. They consoled me throughout the night, dutifully calling Thomas a pig. But, their eyes lit up as they asked questions about "it".

"Was it hard?"

"Was it big?"

"Did you touch it?"

"Is it shaped like a rocket?"

"Would you let him do it again?"

I would slow dance with Thomas again in other darkened living rooms while listening to homemade mix tapes of slow songs. His hands would cascade down my back past my boy-straight hips to the no-man's land of my flat butt. I would dutifully reposition his hands to the safety of my waist time and again, doing a chastity dance. I could have refused to dance with him, but I didn't. I did, however, remember Sister Mary's advice for dancing with a boy, and I left room between us for the Holy Spirit.

"Sometimes," Sister Roberta offered, "Boys don't know how to show girls that they like them. They're not mature enough to say the words, so instead, they tease and taunt."

"I know that too, Sister." I breathed out in exasperation. Did she think acne had made me a complete social moron? It was as if she subtracted ten IQ points per pimple, speaking slowly so I didn't miss her meaning.

"You know what I bet would shut him up?" Sister Roberta's lips quivered with menace. I waited for her advice. "Call him fat!"

"What?" My eyes shot open as this Bride of Christ recommended that I intentionally hurt someone's feelings.

"Sure. Why not? Call him a porker, a chubber, a whale. Whatever word works for you. Give him a dose of his own medicine." The mud-colored mole sitting on Sister Roberta's left eyelid shook with excitement. She looked entirely pleased with herself.

"I couldn't do that." I responded, still shocked by her suggestion.

"Why not? Don't you think Thomas is fat?"

Oh, this must be a trick! These nuns could be slick. This must be some sort of morality test. To see if I would do unto others as had been done to me, or if I would turn the other cheek. I quickly did an equation in my head. If I admitted that Thomas was fat, but Thomas was much thinner than Sister Roberta, then wouldn't I be calling Sister Roberta fat by extension? The only safe way out of this one was to use a diversion tactic.

"I can't be mean to Thomas because of his brother."

Sister Roberta sucked in her breath and looked surprised. I could tell that she didn't know what to say, and that sent a shock of excitement through me. I had left a nun, the nun, speechless!
Thomas' little brother Christopher had died of leukemia the year before, when Thomas and I were in seventh grade. He had been sick since he was two, and he died right before his eighth birthday. We had all grown up together, with Thomas and I watching after his brother Christopher, my brother Chris and my sister Erin. Christopher had lost all of his hair from the chemo, but it never seemed to bother him. He'd walk right up to you and say, "Rub my head for good luck." It was easy to forget he was sick.

Our class had fundraisers for Christopher's medical expenses. We held raffles and car washes, until everyone in town knew Christopher's face and asked how they could help. One afternoon while we were making flyers for an upcoming fundraiser, Thomas walked into class after visiting his brother in the hospital.

"Hi, Thomas. How's Christopher today?" Miss Andrews asked.

"He's dead," Thomas answered bluntly. The class was quiet and waited to see what would happen next. Thomas walked out of the classroom and didn't come back until a week after the funeral.

For weeks after Christopher died, Thomas walked around town alone, a large boom box planted on his shoulder blasting music. He didn't speak to anyone; he just nodded his head and kept on walking.

Just thinking about Thomas and Christopher got me crying all over again.

"Noreen, Thomas is very lucky to have a friend like you." Sister Roberta said as she handed me more tissues. I blew my nose and nodded.

"Your mother explained the medication to me. You won't always look like this."

"It's not just that," I admitted. "Everyone thinks I'm dirty, like I don't wash my face or something."

"Let me ask you a question. Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

Another trick question! What kind of moral Olympics was this woman putting me through?
Sister Mary had once asked me to get her sweater from the convent. I was both honored and terrified. Very few students were ever allowed into the convent, which was attached to the school by a back staircase. I opened the heavy door and stared into the darkened convent. It smelled like bleach and something sweet. Flicking on the hallway light, I looked around at the cold, gray walls and floor, all made of cement. There was nothing to suggest the convent was a home. Rather, it looked more like a storage closet or a crypt. I shuddered as I made my way inside.
My eyes widened to the size of flapjacks at what I encountered in the first room - the laundry room. There, weighing down a clothesline strung across the room, were three pairs of underwear, each large enough to cover the back end of a Volkswagen bug. Either these belonged to Sister Roberta, or the nuns were harboring a large circus animal somewhere in the confines of the convent.

Even more startling, however, were the three bras (nuns wore bras!) hanging next to the underwear. Each bra cup could easily cradle a small child. I wondered who did all of the laundry, and I assumed it to be Sister Mary. Sister Mary was as thin and meek as Sister Roberta was large and domineering. I could just picture Sister Roberta making Sister Mary write a thousand-word essay on the virtues of using bleach when washing underclothing.

I found Sister Mary's sweater on a hanger, but couldn't stop myself from peeking into the next room. Obviously, the sweet smell had originated here, in the kitchen. It looked like a Hostess cupcake factory. There were boxes of Ding Dongs and Ho Hos, Twinkies and Sno Balls. A small index card was taped to each box. Tiny block letters were printed on each card. I crept closer to read the writing: "Property of Sister Roberta. Do not touch. The Lord is watching."

Unable to stop myself, I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Gallons of Pepsi and Dr. Pepper lined the shelves. Take-out containers from Number 1 Kitchen, Benny's Pizza and Chicken Galore peeked out from behind the soda. I couldn't believe my eyes. These nuns lived like college students. I wondered if our tuition paid for their junk food habits.

"Well?" Sister Roberta waited for my response.

"Sister?" I couldn't remember the answer I was supposed to give.

"Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

I shrugged and widened my eyes, noncommittal in my response.

"No. I have a glandular problem. I actually eat very light and healthfully."

"Ohhh!" I said. I couldn't believe all of the things I was learning. Nuns wore bras that could carry bowling balls. They encouraged children to make fun of their peers. And they lied!

"There. Now I've just dispelled a misconception about people who struggle with weight. Maybe you can dispel the idea that people with acne are...."

"Dirty?" I offered.

"Unhygienic, yes."

"How do I do that?" I pictured myself wearing a sandwich board as I walked the halls. On it, in bright red letters, I would have written: "I'm not dirty! I'm a zithead and I don't know why. But one thing's for sure - I am not dirty!"

"Well, you're a smart girl. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Sure."

"I think you're ready to return to class. Go splash some water on your face while I explain your outburst to Sister Mary."

"Yes, Sister Roberta."

When I returned to class, it was clear that Sister Roberta had given Thomas a talking to. He looked up as I walked in and then glued his eyes to his desk. I sat down in front of him and tried to pretend the entire class wasn't staring at me.

"Psst." Thomas gently tapped me on the shoulder and passed me a note. I slipped the note into my lap and unfolded the paper. He had drawn a picture of the two of us smiling and playing catch. Above it, Thomas had written "Sorry!!!" I half-turned towards him and sort of smiled, to let him know it was okay. I didn't know if it was okay, but I just wanted to forget about it. I was too busy thinking of a way to let everyone know that what was happening to me wasn't my fault.

"Hello?" Mom answered the phone while I was doing homework later that night.

"Oh, hello Sister Roberta." Mom's voice went rigid and fear showed on her face. She stubbed out her cigarette guiltily. I slammed my book shut and stared, trying to divine what Sister Roberta was saying on the other end.

Mom gave me no hints as to what was being said. She issued several "umm hmms" and "I sees", but nothing concrete. After a minute, Mom clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. I tugged at her shirt, mouthing: "What's going on?" Mom shrugged me away and held the phone protectively to her ear.

"Really? You think so? We'll have to discuss that." Mom's chin quivered from the effort of containing a laugh. My bones ached with anticipation. It was never a light matter for the principal, let alone Sister Roberta, to call a parent. The veins on Mom's forehead were not popping with rage, so I figured I wasn't in that much trouble. But what could Sister Roberta say that would make anyone laugh? Maybe she was explaining her glandular problem, and Mom found it as unlikely as I knew it to be.

"Thank you, Sister. Have a good night." Mom hung up the phone and stared at me. I sat back in my seat, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Sister Roberta told me what happened with Thomas today," she said sympathetically.

"Oh," I breathed out heavily, relieved.

"She was very proud of the way you handled yourself."

"Okay." I didn't know where this was going, but I could see Mom was saving the best for last.

"She said you taught her a lesson about compassion, and forgiveness. And she thinks...." Mom snorted and laughed, covering her face. I was getting annoyed that it was taking her so long to finish the story.

"What? Mom, just say it!"

"Well, Sister Noreen, she thinks you would be an excellent addition to the convent. She wants to know if you'd ever consider becoming a nun!"

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted, picturing a life living in that concrete hell, washing Sister's Roberta's elephant-sized drawers and sneaking bites of her Ho Hos.

"Noreen! Watch your language." Mom admonished. She then continued to convulse with laughter as I picked up my books and stalked off to my bedroom.

I was too distracted to finish my homework, thoughts rattling around my brain like a pocketful of loose change. What if I did pledge my undying devotion to the church? Could I somehow strike a deal with the Big Guy to clear my complexion? I could vow to stay a virgin until marriage. In my current condition, it didn't seem like such a stretch to say say I would remain untouched for the next fifty years anyway. I could give up something really important for lent, like Burger King or television, and not just some random candy that I only ate once a month anyway. I could go to confession weekly and say the rosary daily. I could shake hands with every person within reach during mass when we said "Peace be with you". (This was my least favorite part of mass. I didn't like shaking strangers' hands after watching them pick their noses or scratch the insides of their ears. I usually faked a sneezing fit seconds before, so as to excuse myself from hand-shaking. It was, after all, ungodly to spread germs.) I would even clasp the hand of the old man with shingles, who was always peeling off bits of skin in long scaly strips.
Then, another line of thinking barged into my brain like a freight train. Was I being recruited to the convent because of my poor complexion? All of the nuns I knew did seem to have some sort of defect. Sister Mary had a man's face, with a robust nose and chin whiskers that she was fond of stroking. Sister Agnes, the librarian, had fingers that were twisted like the knotted roots of a gnarled tree. Sister Theresa, whose place in the school no one was certain of, looked very much like a garden gnome. She was as tall as the third graders and had elfin ears and a pointy chin that jutted sharply away from her face. Was I, too, unfit for society? Did Sister Roberta become a nun because she was obese, or did she become obese because she was a nun? What came first - the habit or the Ho Hos?

I then thought of ways to make everyone understand what was happening to me, and why. I could kidnap one of my doctors and bring him to school to explain the situation. I could hire a plane to sky write it over town. Or, I could ask Sister Roberta to make the entire class write on the board a thousand times: Noreen is not dirty. She has acne, which may be caused by a hormonal imbalance, clogged pores, or an infection within her skin.

I had already been on the medication for several weeks, and still no improvement. If things didn't start to change soon, I would have no choice but to become Sister Zithead.

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