uno scorcio di vita

It was 2:45 and Sister Margaret was chatting away at the junior class, which should have been dismissed 15 minutes earlier. Sugar tensely sat on the edge of her seat. Her teeth hurt because her mouth was glued shut. She felt the pain up into her palate and practically into her ears. Her right calf held the weight of her tiny frame while her left buttock was slightly raised from her seat in anticipation of sprinting from the chair. She firmly held the handle of her cherished music case in her right hand. Sugar’s brain was telling the nun to just finish-shut up. Panting! On your mark, get ready, set, now go!

There was a train to catch!

As Sister Margaret rambled on about the ticket competition Sugar mentally reviewed the path she would take to the train station. First, she had to get out of the school. It was late; it was a problem. She’d have to take a chance and sneak out the senior exit in order to catch the 3 o’clock. Otherwise, she’d have to run through the interior of all three buildings.

Sugar usually had enough time to leave through the ‘workers’ door and leisurely walk to the train. However, pin-chin Margaret had stopped in “just for a sec.”

Miss Auditore, the homeroom teacher, was patiently sitting, listening to pin-chin with her hands demurely folded on her lap. She mechanically nodded like a puppet from one side of the classroom to the other with a wide unconscious smile on her lips.

It was 2: 53 she would have to chance the senior ‘queen bee’ exit. If she were caught, got a demerit, she’d deal with it later. Her voice lesson was at four at the Ansonia Hotel in Manhattan. If she missed the express, she would have to take locals all the way down town.

She’d never make it on time. Maestro Polumbo was a professional coach and like many of the other musicians who lived at the historic hotel, his coaching was his livelihood. If you scheduled a lesson-you paid, no matter what.

The rain was smacking at the large classroom windows. The day had lost its April brightness: No hat, no raincoat, only a school blazer.

“Class dismissed,” said pin-chin. Did she have the check? Panic! Sugar unclasped her case, felt in the pocket for the $15 check, snapped it shut, then like a cat, slid from her seat and ran.

Not breathing, she hoped her deflated lungs would allow her to pass more easily through the horde of chattering girls.

The rough seam of the leather handle carved its way into her palm.

Fumbling for a token from her blazer pocket, she escaped, nose-up out of the senior exit.

“Hey, Sugar,” yelled a familiar voice. Defiantly, she continued.

As she splashed through the puddles, the huge clock over the train station came into view. Always slow, it read 3:08. No chance.

Hoping that it looked like rain, she wiped away her tears as she settled on the 3:20 local.

The singing lessons with Maestro were a sacrifice for her parents. Perhaps there would be a miracle today: no one scheduled after her. It had never happened.

She snuggled against the cold metal wall, shivering.

The uniform was a problem. When she was young, no one bothered her because she was with her mom. Now she was a teenager. Guys liked to tease girls in uniform.

“Hey, little girl” whispered what was known as a ‘greaser’ who had just taken the spot standing directly in front of her. He winked and smiled as his knee began to rhythmically hit hers with the tilt of the train.

“You want some candy?” he said as he nudged his friend in the ribs while they laughed.


Though she left the train before them, she had not gone unscathed. He had managed to get his knees between hers at least twice. However, she had remained calm and dignified, just like mom had taught her. As the train hobbled along, she sat with closed eyes, mentally singing the Puccini aria she had so diligently rehearsed.

Sugar wanted to surprise her coach. She had repeatedly concentrated on the most difficult passages while singing in the mirror daring her chin to stiffen or her diaphragm to fall or her tongue to lift from the back of her bottom teeth. The soprano had angrily pointed a finger at the mirror and chided the face for lacking concentration and sometimes-even talent.

Today Maestro would hear the fruits of her labor. She would support her high pianissimo notes with a calculated slow stream of air that started with a strong abdominal hold, which carried her breath to the ‘tippy tippy top of the head’ as Maestro would say. Interpreting from the heart, Sugar would create a jewel!

It was pouring. However, the treasured case was protected under her half-open blazer. She lifted her face to the rain. Her long auburn hair was sopping. She could see the reflection of black mascara rolling down her cheek-she was a martyr.

“Mi dispiace-I am sorry-only ten minutes left,” said Maestro with sincerity.

The soprano stood at the Steinway vocalizing while drying her face with the ever-present tissues that were kept for fits of hysteria known so well to singers. Half- way through her piece, the red signal-light flashed throughout the studio.

Maestro arose from his piano bench. "Mi dispiace."

In silent resignation, Sugar took her music from the stand, slid it into the case, handed Maestro the check and smiled at the dear man as he shrugged his shoulders. As they walked to the door, he suddenly turned, caressed her chin and chuckled. "Uno scoricio di vita!" "Just a slice of life!"

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