(FAN FICTION)

MIRIAM TWO
(Based on the novel "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie"  by Muriel Spark)

​SHARON FEDOR

The girls, as they walked up the steps to the Lady Grace School, held freshly plucked flowers which formed the impression of a closed society that required special status to be admitted. The party put down their flowers when they reached the sapphire blue vase on Miss Apple’s desk every Monday. Departure from a common color scheme was inevitable since individuality was relentlessly encouraged and distinctive differences in gait could be detected. Since the girls did not engage their steps in matching time unsynchronized clippity-clops could be heard by any odd listener.

These girls formed the Apple Core, a name given to them by the Headmaster, Mr. Larkey, in derision for their presumptuous knowledge of subjects beyond their scope and season. It was reported that they had more than a passing knowledge of astrology and meditation, and knew the two best methods to detoxify their bodies.   They used a Venn diagram to compare and contrast Renaissance art with modern art, and could not name the capital of Norway, although they could find it on a map, mostly. 
                                                                                                                                                                                                          
The flower-bearing girls who walked down the hallway were each remarkable in a certain way. Molly Langley had a beautiful singing voice and she sometimes hummed as she held the purplish buds that she sniffed as she walked.  She moved like a dancer and, years later, when she fell from the stage in a Christmas review and lost the use of her right leg, she would remember these walks to the blue vase, and feel the buds in her hands, and heave great sighs.  Abigail Blaine was known for her excellent memory and she recited long stories to the class and even to other classes on occasion to exemplify the value of remembering without prompts. Her flowers were yellow. She had no way of knowing that one day in the distant future,  as she stood by wearing a yellow dress, her husband would suffer heart failure and she would no longer choose that color for any reason ever again.

To her girls, Miss Apple was the consummate authority, to the faculty and staff, a teacher of some renown.  She had settled into the new school year with the same balance of ebullience and firmly voiced philosophy that befit a woman of her esteem, but now found herself in the office of the headmaster, Mr. Larkey.

“This is a matter of some delicacy,” announced Mr. Larkey.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Miss Apple.

“It seems you are a teacher of some renown.” 

An official vehicle with an official plate was parked in a spot of preference at the front of the building, and the uniformed driver did not slump.

“Do you mean to say she did not even pass the qualifying examinations? Not one?” Miss Apple was aghast.

“She did not have to try,” replied Mr. Larkey. “There would be no point.”

The exchange of two voices continued, increasing in pitch until a great height was reached, whereupon the pitch suddenly dropped to the initial level. This pattern was repeated three times before Miss Apple closed the door behind her.

The next morning, Miss Apple, in a cultivated expression of composure, announced to her girls, “Little girls, today we are joined by a new member of our class, even though the year has already been set in motion and it will not be possible to endure undue lingering on aspects incidental to our task. Nevertheless, please welcome Miriam.”  “Good morning, Miriam,” said the girls. Celia, known for a nervous cough, forming her letters at turtle speed, and sobbing at silly stories, smiled. 
“I had a prior Miriam, girls, and that erstwhile Miriam, Miriam One, was the pinnacle of perfection. We shall strive hard to turn this Miriam into our pride. Miriam, take the seat in the rear of the room to enable you a clear view of your models. Girls, henceforth, you are all Miriam’s models.  Miriam, do take a seat.”

And so, in the span of a few uttered words, the girl who walked slowly to the desk at the back of the room became Miriam Two.

Ms. Apple was altogether determined, despite the unusual arrival, to maintain her most excellent educational regimen. Miriam Two was to be given no special consideration save that of the seat with the best view of her role models and it just so happened to be furthest from the teacher’s desk.  Throughout that morning and for most of the afternoon Miriam Two remained silent. Then, during a geography lesson with its customary social commentary, Miss Apple’s contortions grew particularly dramatic. From the corner of her eye Miss Apple beheld sporadic twitching movements from the back of the room.

“Miriam, are you mocking me?”

For the first time, the unusual lilt of Miriam Two’s voice was heard. “I am not sure, ma’am, but if I am, ma’am, I hope I am doing it well, ma’am. Thank you.”

The role models looked at each other with wide eyes. Celia faced the floor.

“Upon my word, Child, disrespect to authority is not to be tolerated, not here, not anywhere in the kingdom.”

Miriam Two lowered her head in shame.  It was obvious that she had not mucked very well.

Miss Apple, as she strived to enlighten her novice, often pointed out the important bits of information and often invoked the name of Miriam One as she did so. “Child,” she would say, “this is the way Miriam One would do it,” or, “The first Miriam would have made the connection between this one and that one,” and so on, until the top of Miriam Two’s tongue had many deep impressions in it, and very little fluff.  But this was Miss Apple’s way of increasing the pool of role models, thereby enhancing the positive effect.

Soon, however, the time came when Miriam Two’s perplexing interpretations outnumbered her attempts to conceal them, and she slumped lower in her seat, studied her palm lines more intently, and left the room on even quieter tip toes. Miss Apple, recognizing that the role model strategy required reinforcement, gave the matter much consideration. 

For any other girl, she would have opened her vitamin cabinet, written dense recipes, and observed the results. But she had been informed of Miriam Two’s entrenched regimen of nutrients, solid and liquid, and manipulation of that was not advised.  For any other girl she would have marched outside and reviewed the games that show individual prowess, such as running, jumping, bowling, and golf, and she would have determined an appropriate activity.  But Miriam Two was already a runner, and exercise was not the issue.  For Miriam Two, her first thought, naturally, was meditation. Meditation must certainly be the answer.

The next morning, the girls, cross-legged on the ground, breathed deeply through their noses and exhaled through their mouths. 

“Clear your mind of thoughts and emotions, nothing is forced, it is effortless. Thoughts may come and thoughts may go, that’s all right,” directed Miss Apple, and then, “Imagine a string pulling your head straight up from your shoulders, now focus, focus, focus.”

Katherine Carmichael, known for her facility with mathematics, sometimes saw numbers flashing before her eyes as she tried to imagine herself bathed in a white light, and, years later, when she and her lover were rescued from choppy seas, a white light shining on their boat in the black cold night, she would first notice the numbers of the rescue cruiser, as she stood shivering and crying with joy.

Celia said, “It’s not working,” and Katherine said, “Focus on being, not on doing.”

Miriam Two said, “Nothing is happening,” and Abigail said, “Just relax, it’s effortless.”     

Eventually, the girls breathed slowly with focused thoughts, still individuals in the effort, with Celia contemplating the meaning of life, and Miriam Two stepping through a spinning disc.    
      
Miss Apple, detecting a slight improvement in Miriam Two’s attention span, asked her questions of increased complexity, but then, upon hearing the absurd interpretations, she admitted to herself the gross miscalculation. So she pursued the next most suitable intervention, yoga.

The mats, laid out on the floor, buffered the left shoulder of Celia, as well as Miriam Two’s ankles, as the girls lay folded and splayed in unusual fashion, groping for bliss.

Finally, came the application of astrology, which Miss Apple knew, when appropriately applied, could allay even the most outrageous behavioral issues. When targeted toward a mere mental irregularity it was sure to hold promising results.

She grouped the girls in triads of harmony, based upon their signs’ elements and polarities. But then, Miriam Two was discovered to have been born under the sign of Aquarius so an organizational binder was all that could be offered.

“It seems,” Miss Apple began, “The Lady Grace School is sponsoring a challenge. The challenge, as it is composed of three parts: academics, artistic expression, and physical prowess, bears the honor of the Shield of Grace, which will be emblazoned on an emblem with the names of the winners and surrendered to our Exhibition Hall. It is not to be supposed that the challenge is for everyone. Each class will submit two names through the process of individual voting.” 

But before the vote took place Miss Apple was sure to speak of the proper etiquette of voting. “Little girls, it must be said that as you are novices to the voting population, be aware that representation of all individual names from every intellectual spectrum must appear on the voting form to assure the lack of prejudice and the epitome of sophistication.” Eyebrows furrowed and lower lips protruded as the girls looked at each other.

“What does she mean?” asked Molly.

“You know,” answered Katherine. “Someone has to write Miriam Two. Maybe even Celia.”  
       
“But who?”

“Us, I guess.”

“SShhh! No talking while the votes are cast. Do your duty and make yourselves proud.” Witnessing the confusion she had caused, and anticipating the desired result, Miss Apple stood by, smiling with satisfaction. She did not uphold value in pitting girls, one against another, and an opportunity to teach generosity, if only to the somewhat deficient, was still a positive individual trait, and should not be wasted.

The girls, as they folded their ballots, reveled in their sophistication, being virtuous opportunity givers, generous to the core.  All votes except one had gone for Miriam Two. Miriam Two voted for Celia.

“Congratulations, little girls”, said their teacher. “You have chosen Celia and Miriam Two to engage in the competition. You are magnanimous and most astute.”
Miriam Two raised her head and looked Celia straight in the eye.

 “You will draw this portrait from your own perspective,” said Mr. McArtney, the art instructor, pointing to a copy of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. It is perfectly acceptable for your versions to include aspects that I cannot see here because it is your perspective that I want. It is subjective. And I expect to see many variations. This event will be timed. Begin.”

Miriam Two picked up her pencil and pressed it into the paper at her chosen beginning spot. Then, without looking at it again, she focused on the portrait, her concentration being much supported by deep breathing and practiced mental tracing.

Mr. McArtney, after the event, reported to Miss Apple, “An uncanny perspective, your Miriam holds.”

“Yes, Miriam Two is what we call her,” Miss Apple replied.

“Miriam works from the inside out!” he exclaimed.

“That is to say, she goes by Miriam Two,” she persisted.

The academics were to be divided between the team members, Celia, with the reading and language portion, and Miriam Two with the mathematics. Miriam Two was not without numeric skill.  In fact the accolades given to Katherine on this account could as easily have been given to Miriam Two, were it not for the attack of nerves that always accompanied hostile examinations. The patterns of numbers popped right out at her in regular sequence, and she remembered making a game of pattern finding when she was left alone on long winter afternoons.

With eyes closed and bathing herself in white, Miriam Two developed a slight hopefulness. Halfway into the test, hope grew fat. Then suddenly, a wave of confusion swept over her and from the midpoint on nothing made sense.  Answers matched no questions and rightness had no home. Exhausted and despairing she slumped in her seat. It was over. She had let them all down and she was heartsick. She was, in her mind, the bad apple of the Apple Core.  She thought of her new name and she wrote the initials. Lingering in the form of her initials she realized those initials described how she felt just at that moment . . . M.T., empty, empty.  The two fine salt tears that crept down her cheeks disappeared in an all-out flood.

That race day, the sky was gray and somber. There was no birdsong worth remembering as the leafy trees and the wind let go of their autumn chatter. Miriam Two could hardly consider the race though her feet pounded the ground and the baton was in her hand.  Before she was in it, it was over, and, travelling over the finish line, she could not make out if, up ahead, she saw girls or their ghosts.

The assembly brimmed with teachers and Miss Apple made a place beside her for Miss Spring, a science teacher who had just arrived.

Before Mr. Larkey opened the envelopes to announce the winners, he began, “Due to a miscalculation in assembling the examination, the second half of the math portion was eliminated.” Miriam Two swallowed breathlessly. Mr. Larkey continued, “I am delighted to inform you that the winning team members,” he swallowed hard and then went on, “are Celia McGee and Miriam Stone, “a student, fondly known to her friends as Miriam Two.”

Miss Apple was about to whisper something to the new Miss Spring, but instead sprang from her seat. She stood silent and some seconds passed before she firmly announced, “Her name is Miriam.”

The girls of Team Apple walked to the podium to sincere and rousing applause, tightening the strings that lifted their heads and synchronizing their steps. Celia beamed and Miriam blushed, in a different way than she would many years later when, having fallen in love with the chauffeur’s son, Peter, an artist, and disowned by her father, she pleaded with her father on her knees, and he relented.

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SHARON FEDOR has spent her professional career as teacher and advocate for special students. She writes poetry and fiction. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals. This is her first fiction submission.

Chila: Tell us what prompted this piece of fan fiction.

Sharon: Some years ago I enrolled in a correspondence program at Warnborough College, Ireland.  I chose courses in both fiction and poetry. Scottish and Irish writers were among them. I tried on styles of writing like people try on suits. Muriel Spark was one of the authors. I found her work lively and surprising. That exposure led me to write this piece of fan fiction. 

Chila: As I understand it, this is your first published fiction, though you're quite an accomplished poet. Your writing in this piece was very good. Talk about the influence of poetry in writing well.

Sharon: It is tempting to think that the most important influence of poetry on writing would be sound. That would include not only the choice of words with specific sounds but also rhythmic patterns or cadence. But as the poet Robert Haas reminds us, “The first fact of the world is that it repeats itself.” And so, repetition, in line, scene, or other story element, is something we recognize. We recognize it having already noticed it through our senses (which include hearing) since before we were born.

Chila: Will you try more fiction now that you've had an initial acceptance? Do you have something in mind already? And what about poetry? Are you still engaged in much poetry writing?

Sharon: I will definitely try more fiction. The bones of some stories already lie in wait. As for poetry, I attend a poetry festival yearly. It serves as a handy threat. I cannot show up empty-handed.

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