Clarice Anne Johnson Character Analysis

“Smile, kiddo,” the bad brain said. “Get as close as we can.”

Clarice had covered her mouth with both hands. It was easy to see that she was grief-struck that something this terrible could happen on the next-to-last day of school.

“Okay, kiddo, when she hands the paper to you, snatch her arm! We’ll get two or three bites in before she can slap us off or call for help!”

[…]

I held my breath, giving her one last chance to say, “Dear me, Miss Malone, I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake, I should have called Clarice.”

Mrs. Needham looked right in my eyes, held my essay out and said, “Very good job, Deza.”

Very good job?

Was she playing a joke on me? I looked at what was written in red on the top of my paper. There was a big “A-” sitting there!

“Deza, I have been teaching longer than you could imagine, and I’ve always had the dream any teacher worth her salt has. I had thought, prior to this year, that I would have to be satisfied in coming close to the dream once, before, alas, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley….’

“The dream is the gift of having one student, just one, who is capable of making a real contribution. One child who’d have no choice but to make a difference for our people.

“Out of the thousands of students I’ve had in the thousands of years I’ve been teaching, I’ve suspected for quite a while who the child I’ve been waiting for is.”

All I could think was, I love her like a sister, but, please, just don’t say Clarice!

“Miss Malone, you are that child.”

I loved how I had raised my arm like I was carrying a magical sword and all the little thugs got quiet. They parted for me and Clarice like the Red Sea did for Moses! But most of all I loved knowing that when something was happening to someone, I could do more than wring my hands, I could strike back!

I loved those feelings at the same time I hated them.

Fighting is wrong and very unladylike, but worse than that, by gut-punching the biggest bully at Lincoln Woods School I had humiliated Jimmie. And even though I’d stopped him from being hurt and maybe even murdered, I now saw a very scary side of myself.

Brain number two was starting to take over.

All I could hope was that Jimmie would understand that I was trying to rescue him.

I’m not sure what’s more surprising about the first notes of any song Jimmie sings—what it does to me, or the changes it brings in Jimmie.

I have to close my eyes, just like he does. I can’t tolerate anything that would interfere with hearing his voice.

[…]

And it seems like Jimmie makes himself larger and larger as he sings. If I opened my eyes I’d see he’d grown so much that he was filling every square inch of the park. No room would be able to hold him, chairs and rugs would get crowded up against the walls.

His voice always stayed light and high-pitched and soft, but it was strong in a way that let on that there were stories behind each word.

Father’s lisp was back. “I can’t believe it, Peg. It’th like that fog on the lake, I never thought I’d thee or eel anything like it again, but here it ith. Thith ith jutht ath heavy on my heart. Thith ith the thame feeling. Oh, God, Peg, won’t I ever get rid of thith? Ith thomething wrong with me?”

Mother wrapped an arm around Father’s shoulder.

Clarice was squeezing my left hand and Jimmie was squeezing my right as we walked.

Father said, “What ith going—”

I looked back and Mother shushed Father. “Wait till we get home, it will be OK.”

I knew how Father felt.

I hadn’t had teeth knocked out of my head and hadn’t floated around scared to death on a terrible lake, but every morning, after I made breakfast for Mother and Jimmie, I would sneak into my parents’ bed and didn’t want to move or think or anything. I wouldn’t even read a book.

At first I tried to remember that poem Father used to say about how “Hope has wings…” but I couldn’t.

I just wanted to have my face covered with the pillow that Father used to sleep on.

“Smile, kiddo,” the bad brain said. “Get as close as we can.”

Clarice had covered her mouth with both hands. It was easy to see that she was grief-struck that something this terrible could happen on the next-to-last day of school.

“Okay, kiddo, when she hands the paper to you, snatch her arm! We’ll get two or three bites in before she can slap us off or call for help!”

[…]

I held my breath, giving her one last chance to say, “Dear me, Miss Malone, I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake, I should have called Clarice.”

Mrs. Needham looked right in my eyes, held my essay out and said, “Very good job, Deza.”

Very good job?

Was she playing a joke on me? I looked at what was written in red on the top of my paper. There was a big “A-” sitting there!

“Deza, I have been teaching longer than you could imagine, and I’ve always had the dream any teacher worth her salt has. I had thought, prior to this year, that I would have to be satisfied in coming close to the dream once, before, alas, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley….’

“The dream is the gift of having one student, just one, who is capable of making a real contribution. One child who’d have no choice but to make a difference for our people.

“Out of the thousands of students I’ve had in the thousands of years I’ve been teaching, I’ve suspected for quite a while who the child I’ve been waiting for is.”

All I could think was, I love her like a sister, but, please, just don’t say Clarice!

“Miss Malone, you are that child.”

I loved how I had raised my arm like I was carrying a magical sword and all the little thugs got quiet. They parted for me and Clarice like the Red Sea did for Moses! But most of all I loved knowing that when something was happening to someone, I could do more than wring my hands, I could strike back!

I loved those feelings at the same time I hated them.

Fighting is wrong and very unladylike, but worse than that, by gut-punching the biggest bully at Lincoln Woods School I had humiliated Jimmie. And even though I’d stopped him from being hurt and maybe even murdered, I now saw a very scary side of myself.

Brain number two was starting to take over.

All I could hope was that Jimmie would understand that I was trying to rescue him.

I’m not sure what’s more surprising about the first notes of any song Jimmie sings—what it does to me, or the changes it brings in Jimmie.

I have to close my eyes, just like he does. I can’t tolerate anything that would interfere with hearing his voice.

[…]

And it seems like Jimmie makes himself larger and larger as he sings. If I opened my eyes I’d see he’d grown so much that he was filling every square inch of the park. No room would be able to hold him, chairs and rugs would get crowded up against the walls.

His voice always stayed light and high-pitched and soft, but it was strong in a way that let on that there were stories behind each word.

Father’s lisp was back. “I can’t believe it, Peg. It’th like that fog on the lake, I never thought I’d thee or eel anything like it again, but here it ith. Thith ith jutht ath heavy on my heart. Thith ith the thame feeling. Oh, God, Peg, won’t I ever get rid of thith? Ith thomething wrong with me?”

Mother wrapped an arm around Father’s shoulder.

Clarice was squeezing my left hand and Jimmie was squeezing my right as we walked.

Father said, “What ith going—”

I looked back and Mother shushed Father. “Wait till we get home, it will be OK.”

I knew how Father felt.

I hadn’t had teeth knocked out of my head and hadn’t floated around scared to death on a terrible lake, but every morning, after I made breakfast for Mother and Jimmie, I would sneak into my parents’ bed and didn’t want to move or think or anything. I wouldn’t even read a book.

At first I tried to remember that poem Father used to say about how “Hope has wings…” but I couldn’t.

I just wanted to have my face covered with the pillow that Father used to sleep on.