Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [88]
The news of Mandarin’s disappearance had infiltrated the town by Monday. By Friday, the other students seemed to believe my silence was the indicator of some profound information—even though I’d always been that quiet in class. But if I’d discovered anything these past few weeks, it was that a person’s actions could be interpreted in a number of ways, depending on who was watching. Their viewpoints were simply skewed by their beliefs, their prejudices, and their private desires.
Their personal kaleidoscopes.
I couldn’t judge them, of course. I was the same way.
Not bothering to conceal it, I read Davey’s note: I’m sorry about the phone calls. He’d called several times that week, but I hadn’t gone to the phone.
“That’s okay,” I replied out loud. “Thanks, though.”
He nodded at me, then scribbled in his notebook again. He ripped out the page and handed it to me without folding it.
I just wanted to be sure you’re all right, it read. Are you?
The loudspeaker beeped. I toyed with the piece of petrified wood in my pocket as Mr. Beck began the final announcements of my sophomore year—which was also sort of my freshman year, but who was counting?
“May I have your attention, please,” Mr. Beck said. There was a definite catch in his voice. “Good morning, everyone, on this … Friday, June fifteenth. It’s a fine day, with the temperature in the low eighties. This is your principal, Mr. Beck, on the last day of school. As you all know, commencement will take place on the football field at four. Seniors should be dismissed following homeroom for rehearsal.”
He paused, as if searching for something to say. “I hope you all have a splendid summer vacation.”
As soon as the loudspeaker clicked off, the door to the classroom creaked open. Samantha Dent’s timid face appeared in the gap. Volunteering as an office aide had been her service project.
“Um, excuse me,” she said. “Mr. Beck would like to see Grace in his office.”
I glanced at Ms. Ingle. She stood before an old yellow flag, the one with the coiled snake: Don’t Tread on Me. “Go ahead,” she said.
I dropped my reply to Davey’s note on his desk. Then I squeezed by Alexis. Her hair was pulled back with a headband I remembered from elementary school. For a second, I expected her to smile, or smirk, or even grimace—to acknowledge our history, our years of friendship, inhibited as they might have been. Some demonstration that despite our differences, she cared. But she just looked away.
I hesitated beside Ms. Ingle’s desk. I’d considered what I was about to do a hundred times in the past week, but I hadn’t actually decided until I set my piece of petrified wood in front of her.
“You know my service project didn’t turn out the way I’d planned …,” I began.
Ms. Ingle looked at me quizzically. “Grace, it’s not a problem. You put in far more than ten hours’ effort.”
“I guess. But … I’ve been thinking. I’ve got this whole entire rock collection, just gathering dust in my room. Maybe I could sort them and label them in a display case, or something. I could give it to Mrs. Mack. Or you could keep it in here. Rocks are history too, aren’t they?”
“They sure are,” Ms. Ingle replied.
As I followed Samantha out of the classroom, I pictured Davey blinking at my note. No, I’m not, I’d written in reply. And then, in smaller letters: But I will be.
Samantha and I walked in silence until we reached the office door. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped and turned to me. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s not what everybody thinks, though. She had a good reason for—”
“Not about Mandarin. About … you know. The way we’ve acted. Me and Paige and Alexis. To tell you the truth, I’m kind of over them. Ever since Alexis lost Miss Teen Bighorn, she won’t stop bitching about it. I mean, who really gives a shit?”
That was the most I’d ever heard Samantha say at once. “I sure don’t,” I replied.
Samantha smiled at my feet. “Hey, so they’ve promoted me to waitress at the restaurant. If you’re looking for a job, we need a hostess. If that’s not too weird.”
Elk heads flashed