Of Pigs and Flowers

Her mother woke Lilya and said, “The pigs are gone.”
It was fall and Lilya had been going to school for several weeks now. Her neatly pressed blue-and-white uniform lay on the bed, ready to be put on.
“They got out of the fence and we have to find them,” her mother said.
The child knew that meant rummaging around in the thick Missouri undergrowth, squeezing into places her mother could not (and certainly would not) go.
“I’ll be late for school,” she protested, but she knew it was no use. She got up and pulled on her homemade play clothes and dutifully went outside, where her brothers were already thrashing the buckbrush and calling for the lost pigs. She knew this was going to be a very bad day.
As she squeezed under the bushes her thoughts strayed from pig-searching and school and being late. Low branches struck her face as she crawled, but she didn’t notice them. There was a powerful silence in this understory of green, and she wove her way among the bushes and tree sprouts with plodding determination. When she was far enough away from the clamor of pig-calling, she sat down with a sigh. There was seldom time to be alone, and Lilya loved to be alone, especially in the woods.
Green was all around. Stems and twigs were brown. Why was that? Why were there so many branches, making it hard to walk without being scratched? Why were there bugs, and why did some of them bite you and some of them did not? She watched a hill of ants, watched their purposeful movements. They never got tired, like she did. Lilya was often tired, but her mother told her she was just making it up to get out of work.
“Lilya,” her mother shouted.
They’ve found the pigs, she thought. She scooted back down the brushy path, back along the mashed leaves that retraced her route. She wasn’t sure exactly how to get back, but she was in no hurry, because getting back meant getting ready for school and walking in late for religion class. Everyone would stare at her. She blushed at the thought.
When she came out from under the hole in the fence she found out they hadn’t found the pigs after all. But her father was ready to take her and the brothers to school. She ate a bowl of cereal.
“Hurry up.” the mother said.
Lilya finished her breakfast and washed up. When she turned from the washbasin she was horrified to see her mother holding out her Sunday dress. “Shouldn’t I wear my uniform?” she stammered. “I have to wear my uniform.”
But her mother put the dress over Lilya’s head and began to button the back. Then she combed Lilya’s hair and attached a big bow.
“Go pick some flowers,” the mother said. So Lilya gathered up a handful of yellow daisies and blue cornflowers.
The mother knelt down and looked Lilya in the eye. “Tell Sister you are sorry for being late,” the mother instructed, “and then give her the flowers.”
Lilya wished her mother would give Sister the flowers and make the apology, but she knew two things. Her mother couldn’t speak English, and she couldn’t drive a car. She also knew that here in America you didn’t do things like show up late in your best dress and say you were sorry for being late in front of the whole class. You just stayed home and your parents wrote a note and you went to school the next day.
The ride to school was short and silent. Her father pulled up in front of the first grade classroom and stopped the car. Lilya sat in the car, too miserable to move.
“I have to go to work now,” her father said gently.
She didn’t remember getting out of the car, and she didn’t remember walking into the classroom. Everyone’s eyes were on her spiky curls and ribbons. She felt them sizing up her starched dress and the oversized bow in her hair that was beginning to droop, like the flowers she clutched in her sweaty hands.
“Sorry,” she said, and threw the bouquet onto Sister’s desk. Then she walked to her seat without saying a word. She felt every eye on her and wished the floor would swallow her, dress and curls and all.
“You have some explaining to do, young lady,” Sister said, but Lilya sat, silent and rigid among the frills that were not her uniform. Young lady? Lady? That was the name of their cow. Did Sister mean she was a cow?
“I’ll have to speak to your father about this,” Sister continued, but then, mercifully, she turned her attention to the blackboard.
Lilya tried to look small, tried to be invisible. “Some day I will be so far away from this that I’ll never, ever remember it,” she said to herself.