Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress by Susan Jane Gilman Read Free Book Online Page A

called me Sapphire and inquired thoughtfully about my new baby sister. Carmen and Sarah even decided they should make a card for her drawn entirely in silver and gold crayon. “Welcome Sylvia Goldia!!!!” it read. I promised both of them that they could come visit me in Passaic when we moved, and that we’d all play in the swimming pool together, then wash our hands with pink soap. Everything was going perfectly for me—I was even contemplating what to say next for Show ‘n’ Tell—that I’d be spending Christmas in Hawaii? That I was going to appear as a guest star on
Captain Kangaroo?
That my little brother had to be put up for adoption now that there were two girls in the house?—when, suddenly, my mother walked through the door. It was two o’clock. I’d completely forgotten: time to go home.
    “Mommy!” I shouted, running over to give her a voluminous hug.
    To my horror, Mrs. Mutnick rushed over to her at the exact same moment.
    “Oh, Ellen, congratulations!” she said, clasping both my mother’s hands in her own and shaking them vigorously. “I’m so surprised to see you. They let you out of the hospital so early!”
    My mother looked confused.
    “Your new baby,” prompted Mrs. Mutnick, smiling. Then she looked down at the stroller. My brother was sitting in it in his red pom-pom hat, chewing on the end of a drool-covered pretzel.
    “He’s right here,” said my mother, pointing to John. “Though, Greta, he’s not that new anymore.”
    “But Sapphire said you’d given birth to a baby girl over the weekend.”
    “Sapphire?” said my mother. “Who’s Sapphire?”
    They both looked at me and I suddenly realized it would be a very good idea to develop an interest in the chalk tray right about then.
    “Oh dear,” sighed Mrs. Mutnick. She leaned against the door frame and massaged the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses. “I’m guessing there’s no house in Passaic?”
    My mother shook her head.
    “And she didn’t dance in the
Nutcracker Suite
ballet this weekend, either.”
    With this, my mother threw her head back and laughed and shook her head. Tears came to her eyes, and she wiped them on the back of her glove.
    “Just out of curiosity, Greta, what did she say her new baby sister’s name was?”
    Then they both said in unison, “
Sylvia Goldia.
”
    “Mm hm,” said my mother, eyeing me dryly.
    “Actually,” said Mrs. Mutnick, “at this age, making up stories and names for themselves is fairly common. Until recently, I’d be suspect about a name like ‘Sapphire.’ But this year alone, I’ve got a ‘Sunshine’ in one of my classes, and a ‘Stokely,’ and a ‘Rainbow,’ and a ‘Che.’ Ruth Lowey has two ‘Arethas’ and a ‘Moonbeam.’”
    “Well, my kid does have a vivid imagination,” said my mother.
    Mrs. Mutnick chuckled and shook her head. “No shrinking violet, your daughter.”
    For a moment I assumed I was off the hook; it was usually a good sign when grown-ups talked about you in the third person bemusedly. But the next thing I knew, the other kids had all gone home, and my mother had taken me out of my winter coat, and she and Mrs. Mutnick were sitting me down at the table—one on either side of me, stuffed into those Lilliputian kiddie chairs—and they were reading me a book. It was illustrated with woodcuts, and it was titled “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.”
    You all know the story.
    When the boy was finally devoured by wolves, my mother shut the book and asked, “So, Susie, do you understand why it’s bad to tell lies?”
    I nodded. “Because you don’t want to get eaten by wolves?”
    My mother looked at Mrs. Mutnick.
    “Good enough,” she sighed.
    The next day, newly chastened, I came to school as Susie again, and raised my hand for Show ‘n’ Tell. Mrs. Mutnick called on me proudly. “Susie has something very important to tell the class, don’t you, Susie?”
    “Uh-huh,” I nodded. I stood up. “Last night my mother was hit by a