"Catch this one," Mallory said, spinning the tape rapidly ahead.

"No," Susan insisted. "I don't want to hear any—"

Mallory interrupted. "Hold on there. These aren't just any old, ordinary, run-of-the-mill farts," she explained in a low, confidential tone. "You won't find these farts on the street. These are special."

Susan scoffed. "And what makes them so special?" she asked scornfully.

As I walked home, my thoughts revolved around Maisie. She sounded so good out there in California, so healthy and so happy, too!

At the same time, I couldn't forget Ida's tears. I know that Maisie hated her mother for some of the things she'd done, but Ida regretted everything and had an enormous sense of guilt.

All the long walk home, I turned it over and over in my mind, but the more I thought about it, the more confused and upset I felt. I'd tried to talk to Susan about it, but for her the situation was cut and dried: "If Maisie is better off in California, she should stay in California!"

The problem was... I missed that mean little bony girl!

I knew her mother did, too. Much more than me.

By the time I got home, I was desperate enough to talk to my mother about it.

Unfortunately, Mom kept zeroing in on all the wrong things.

When I explained what a good influence Chrissie was having on Maisie, Mom countered, "Oh, it's just a ploy. Once she marries Maisie's father, she'll drop that girl like a dirty sock."

"Mom! Maisie really likes her!"

"That will make it all the worse."

"Mom," I sighed. "Mom! I didn't want to talk about Chrissie. I just mentioned her to show how well Maisie is doing in California. She quit smoking, she put on some weight..."

Mom looked thoughtful. "Maisie is spending all of her time with this bimbo, Chrissie? And she never sees her father?"

I gaped in offended astonishment. "Mom! Chrissie's not a bimbo!"

"Have you seen her? Have you talked to her?"

"No... but you haven't either!"

"I think it's safe to assume it," Mom asserted. "What other kind of woman could she be?"

"What does it matter?" I asked.

"It could be relevant in a custody hearing," Mom replied.

"Oh, no!" I cried. "You can't tell Ida any of this!"

Now it was Mom's turn to look astonished. "Marcie Donner, I am shocked at you! Do you *understand* how Ida is suffering? That poor woman can hardly get through the day! But why I am asking if you understand? I know that you don't. You can't! You have no idea! You can't imagine how a mother feels when her daughter is..." she stopped, waving her hands, inarticulate for a few moments. "When you were in California with your aunt, I was in agony. I had trouble sleeping at night! And I knew you were coming home. Ida has no idea when she'll ever see her daughter again."

I softly suggested, "She could move to California."

Mom's face went red with indignation. "No, Marcie, no. I'm sorry, but you're seeing all of this from the wrong end of the stick."

"I'm not! I'm just talking about where Maisie is better off!"

"She is better off with her mother." Mom was really hot. I don't know when I've seen her so angry and upset. "Do you think her father cares about what's good for Maisie? Do you?"

I hesitated, but there was only one answer: "No."

"Do you think Ida does?"

"Yes."

Mom waved her hands as if to say See? Then she said, "Why do you think Maisie's father is keeping her in California? Why?"

I swallowed hard. "To hurt Ida," I said in a low voice.

"What did you say?" Mom asked. "I didn't hear you."

"TO HURT IDA," I said, more loudly.

"Exactly," Mom concluded. "The girl belongs with her mother. That's all there is to say. End of discussion."

This whole discussion had gone terribly wrong. It wasn't what I wanted to talk about at all. I actually started trembling, I was so upset.

"Mom," I said, as quiet and as steady as I could manage, "could you please just listen to me for just a moment? This is a real problem for me."

She looked at me in silence for a moment, so I added, "Please? Please, Mom?"

She gave a quick nod, but I could see the fire smoldering inside her.

"The thing is... that — for me... I'm just talking about me, now — I wonder if it's right for me to try to get her back here because I miss her, even if I think she's better off out there."

Mom was silent for a while, until at last she said, "I'm sorry, Marcie, but I don't see how this is about you at all. You can't bring her back. This is something between her mother and her father." I opened my mouth to speak, but she gently put up her hand. "I understand that you're upset. You miss your friend. But even if this Chrissie is as wonderful as Maisie paints her, she still needs to spend time with Ida, because Ida is her mother. You don't get to choose your mother, and you don't get to change.

"And there is one more thing: Maisie's father is breaking the law by keeping her out there. He thinks he has an excellent excuse, but we both know he's only doing it to hurt Ida. You said so yourself, and it's the truth."

I twisted my lips into what I hoped passed for a brave look, or at least a look of resignation, but it didn't fool my mother. "Come here, Marcie," she said, and gave me a long, gentle hug.

Then she had to go and spoil it by saying, "We have to make the most of these days together, while you're still my only child."

Susan and I walked to school together the next morning. Mallory was outside the school, leaning against the wall.

"My god," Susan said. "Look at him." And she shook her head.

"Susan, you called him a him," I pointed out.

"So did you!" she countered.

I sighed.

"She's like a boy," Susan said, and I had to admit that Mallory did look very masculine, with her big shoulders and head. Her body didn't have any curves, and the way she hunched her shoulders, it was hard to tell whether she had any breasts.

"Maybe she's just a geeky girl," I offered.

Obviously, it wasn't a subject I wanted to talk about. For one thing, I wasn't so far from being a boy myself in some respects... and putting Mallory in a bad light would put me in a bad light as well — at least in my mind. Besides that, I was still upset from my conversation with my mother.

"Hey!" Mallory called to us, "Just the people I wanted to see!"

"Why?" Susan asked suspiciously.

"Just listen," Mallory said, pulling a tiny tape recorder from her bag. She began chortling even before she hit the PLAY button. A high, squealing fart came from the machine. She threw her head back, baring her teeth, and brayed out her loud haw-haw-haw!

"Stop that!" Susan commanded. "That isn't funny! It's gross! Nobody wants to hear fart noises."

"Catch this one," Mallory said, spinning the tape rapidly ahead.

"No," Susan insisted. "I don't want to hear any—"

Mallory interrupted. "Hold on there. These aren't just any old, ordinary, run-of-the-mill farts," she explained in a low, confidential tone. "You won't find these farts on the street. These are special."

Susan scoffed. "And what makes them so special?" she asked scornfully.

"These are the Principal's farts," Mallory said. "Miss Overmore's. I sneaked into her private bathroom yesterday before school and hid this behind the john. It's sound-activated, so it picked up every little toot," and so saying, she clicked it on. More disgusting noises emerged until I grabbed her hands and pushed the OFF button.

"Let's go, Susan," I said. "Mallory, don't do this stuff. It's gross and it's wrong."

Susan and I entered the building and headed for the auditorium. The assembly was for the whole school, so there was a traffic jam in the halls. Over my shoulder I saw Mallory trying to push her way through the crowd to us.

"Why did she play that for us?" Susan asked. "Why is she latching on to us?"

"I think it's because you react so much," I offered, and Susan sighed.

"I can't help it," she replied. "It's disgusting. And I don't like her. She's the first person in this whole school that I really don't like. Maisie had her... her issues, but she was still our friend. She was still likeable. Most of the time, anyway."

"Yeah," I agreed, and my spirit fell. Seeing that, Susan said, "I miss her, too, you know. I wish she was here. We had a lot of fun last year, the three of us, and I never had friends like you two before. I do want her to come back."

I smiled and at that moment the logjam of girls in front of us let loose and we were swept inside, where we took seats not too close to the front. Mallory bustled in, but ended up at the opposite end of our row. She waved to me and Susan and showed another small gadget in her hand.

"What is that supposed to be?" Susan wondered aloud. As if in answer, Mallory mouthed the words remote control.

"wee-woh-woh-woh?" Susan scoffed. "What is she trying to say?"

"Remote control?" I said, just as Miss Overmore took to the stage and tapped on the microphone. A light went on in my head.

"Oh, no, Susan... I hope she didn't hook up her fart tape to the PA system."

Susan fell silent, weighing the possibility. Mallory was looking our way, chortling silently.

"I don't want to know," Susan declared with finality. "I refuse to be her audience." With that, she sat back in her chair, eyes forward.

Miss Overmore called us all to order, and began, "Good morning, girls. I'm going to very briefly introduce our speaker and let him take the floor. We have as our guest this morning a local artist of high repute, Mr. Theo Grenadilla. One of his paintings actually hangs in the Vatican's Collection of Modern Religious Art, and he has been commissioned to paint a madonna for the cathedral in this diocese. He will be here in the days ahead to look for a model for this painting..."

The room erupted in a buzz of talk. Miss Overmore rapped her knuckles on the podium to restore quiet.

"A letter has been sent home to inform your parents about this project. A student will be appointed to accompany Mr. Grenadilla on his visits."

Miss Overmore had to quiet the buzz of conversation a second time, and then she said, "The only thing that remains to be said is that if your parents... or you, for that matter... do not wish to be considered for this... honor, you can register your preference at the office.

"Now, please give a warm welcome to Mr. Grenadilla."

As we applauded, a small man climbed the stairs to the stage. He wore an old-fashioned suit and wire-rimmed glasses. His full, dark, wavy hair was visibly graying. He was fairly thin, and had a thin smile. He looked at the sea of female faces and blinked two or three times.

Then he clapped his hands and began to speak. "Good morning, girls! I would like to show you some images while I speak, to help you see and understand." He said the words see and understand with heavy emphasis, as if he was grinding them up and forcing them out. The lights went down, and in the darkness a brief, tiny squeal was heard. "Oh, no," I whispered, "I hope that wasn't—" but Susan cut me off with a sharp shhh! I wasn't quite sure about that sound until I heard Mallory's stifled snigger from the end of the row. Susan glanced at me, sat up a little straighter, and whispered back, "Sorry, but I really do not want to know."

Mr. Grenadilla asked, "When we hear the word madonna, what do we think?" He waited a brief moment and up came a slide showing the singer Madonna. It was the cover photo from Like A Virgin, where she sulks in a chair, dressed like a bridesmaid.

"It is a word that has not entirely lost its power," Mr. Grenadilla went on, "but what does it mean? At one time the Madonna, the Virgin, was painted in this way," and he put up a old icon, very flat, with no perspective, and decorated with gold. Mary looked like an old woman, and the baby Jesus looked like a tiny old man.

"These people are anonymous," he said. "Symbols. Objects. Objects of veneration, yes, but cold and distant. Literally iconic."

His statement was punctuated by the same high, squealing fart that Mallory had played for us outside. Mr. Grenadilla looked up at the speakers and gave an irritated cough.

I'm not going to bore you with the entire speech... he showed us several Renaissance madonnas. He wanted to show that the woman or girl in the painting grew more warm and human over time, and yet remained a mystery.

"Some sort of mystery, eh? What is she thinking? What does she feel? What was she doing a moment before? What will she do after? We do not know.

"With each painting, there is a growing sensation... even perhaps a certainty... that you could see this person in the flesh, but you are certain that you don't understand them. There is something otherworldly, beyond the senses..."

Then it got quite boring... I'm sure I would have dozed off, except that Mallory kept firing fart noises through the sound system at irregular intervals and with astounding variety. One in particular, a sequence of eight pats followed by a short hiss, nearly brought the house down. Everyone was laughing, muttering, and looking around. Mr. Grenadilla looked increasingly irritated and at last he fell silent. I saw our History teacher, the one who had cut Mallory's whoopie cushion in half, get up and talk to Miss Overmore, who rose and said a quick word to Mr. Grenadilla. Then she walked to the back of the auditorium.

Mr. Grenadilla waited for a moment with his hand on his chin. He paced back and forth for a few steps, then clapped his hands again.

"So, my dear girls," he said — so loudly that it made us jump, "You must wonder, Where does that leave us? What relevancy can the Madonna have for us today? Do we really need yet another picture of a somewhat pretty, enigmatic girl? Or could we find a more compelling vision? Is there anything in the image that could seize us, anything that could force us to look beyond the face and form of the girl? Could we find ourselves once again in a state of wordless wonder, in which we have no choice but to question and even to seek something higher and more perfect? Something that lies outside this material world?"

As if a train had come into its station, a long hissing fart sounded with powerful finality. I squeezed my eyes tight shut in an effort to keep from laughing. But then it took no effort at all: Miss Overmore's commanding voice rang out from very near: "Bring the lights up, please." With a rapid series of loud clicks, the lights came up, one group after another. Blinking in the sudden brightness, I was taken aback to see Miss Overmore, at the end of my row. Her face was rigid and downright scary. She stood, her eyes fixed on Mallory, who was holding her remote control with both hands. I couldn't see her face, but afterward someone described her as shocked, guilty, and afraid.

Miss Overmore crooked her finger, and Mallory, head drooping, followed her out of the auditorium.

The room held in silence for a moment, and Mr. Grenadilla seized that moment. "What would a Madonna of today, be? How would we portray the Madonna of tomorrow? The Madonna of the Future? Could it be a girl who stages elaborate pranks, who laughs at rude noises?"

He looked at us, as we all silently thought, No, of course not. But smiling he said, "Who can say? The Madonna of the Future must be unexpected. She may take our preconceptions, and gently but irresistably confound them."

No one spoke, and seeing he'd made an impression, the painter smiled.

"I will be among you, looking for a model, yes. And you may ask yourselves, as I have asked myself: Who or what am I seeking, exactly? For now, I do not know. But I will look, and I will find. As a man of the modern world, among women of the modern type, I will resist easy conclusions and ready-made results. With my artist's eye, and — I like to think — my somewhat mystic sensitivity, I will know the girl when I happen upon her.

"Will she be beautiful? Yes... in some sense she will be beautiful.

"Will she be unusual? Oh, yes... in some sense, she may be quite unusual.

"She will cause us to look and to wonder... She will make us realize that we see and yet we do not understand.

"And when I capture THAT with paint on canvas," he concluded, "THAT will be the Madonna of the Future."

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

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