On the same day that Emma, in her classroom, ponders the desires of Frost’s narrator, May, in her own classroom, struggles to ignore the slight headache, the building pressure she feels as she works on the algebra problems that Mrs. Press, her first period math teacher, has assigned. May admires Mrs. Press, whose hair is cut short in a kind of sophisticated pixie, and who dresses elegantly in pearls and muted greys and soft blues, so unlike the teachers back in P.S. 41, or “Babyville,” as she now thinks of her former school, which Emma still attends, with their falling-down skirt hems and flyaway hair raining bobby pins.
May genuinely likes her new school, with its imposing brick facade and labyrinth-like hallways, even though it’s known throughout the Bronx mostly for its gang fights. She simply ignores the pompadoured-and-leather-jacketed “hooligans,” as her mother calls them, and their trampy girlfriends. They exist in a world apart from hers. Her class, 7-1, is filled with kids like herself, kids who listen to their teachers, do their homework, raise their hands, study hard for tests, and achieve high grades.
Marvin, across the room from May, stands out from the other students in a shirt the color of a brilliant emerald. At the sight of his pink cheeks, broad shoulders, and golden hair, particularly wispy and fine today, floating like a whimsical cloud above his head, she feels her cheeks growing warm. The blood in her face pulses along with her throbbing headache, as if they’re partners in a fierce dance.
As usual, Marvin is busily engaged, writing down answers in his workbook, not glancing up at her. What went wrong that day in the laundry room, she asks herself for the zillionth time? Was her breath foul? Did she slobber all over him? No, she never forgets to brush her teeth, and she’s been told by the few other boys she’s kissed at make-out parties, that she’s a good kisser. Once, Mike Schecter, whose family has since moved to the more affluent neighborhood of Forest Hills, Queens, held her in his arms, and huskily mumbled, “May, you’ve got the touch,” as his curled-up tongue swirled inside her mouth.
The reason for Marvin’s betrayal must be the simple, most obvious one. She’s just not pretty enough for him, and she never will be, because of her damned left eye—God’s cruel and sadistic joke on her. If someone in the Rosen family had to be punished with a weak eye muscle, why couldn’t it have been Emma?
Self-consciously straightening her eyeglasses, May resumes her work. Her head throbs insistently. Maybe when she gets home from school, she should tell her mother about this sudden, intermittent, but persistent, pain. As soon as she thinks that, the pain abruptly dissolves, and as she twirls her pencil in her fingers, she decides not to say a word about this to anyone, especially her mother, who’ll just panic and take her to the doctor. And May, who has hated and feared doctors since she was three years old, will not allow that to happen.