“Extra credit is what would have been fair.”
“That’s right,” Curtis adds so that now he has offici
ally been part of the breakfast conversation.
Mrs. Wicket smiles. “Finish up, now. Ten minutes until classes.” She gulps down the last of her tea and stands, like she has every morning since I’ve been here, then claps her hands to send us on our way.
As we gather our dishes, Miss Plunkett enters with a piece of paper. Miss Plunkett is new and doesn’t know all the students yet. “This call came a few minutes ago. They said you would inform Miss . . .” she looks at the note again and says, “Miss Faraday?”
I look up from my oatmeal.
Mrs. Wicket briefly scans the note and then looks at me. “Oh, Destiny, dear. There was a phone call. It appears someone has stolen the tires—all four of them—from your aunt Edie’s car. She won’t be able to come today, but—”
I stand, my chair screeching behind me.
Everyone stops and stares at me like I am a fragile twit. Which I am not.
“Seth’s a fool,” I say. I snatch up my empty bowl and juice glass. “It would have been much more cruel to remain silent and let Mr. Bingham teach his entire lesson looking like a ridiculous lopsided rooster.” I throw my dishes into the dirty dish bin near the door. “And that is what would have been entirely fair.”
3
I GENERALLY TRY TO STAY OUT of trouble at Hedgebrook, and I am generally successful. But today, I’m afraid, trouble is already mine. I notice on my first step outside that it is a cloudless, windless day, as Mrs. Wicket had predicted. Yes, I can imagine things when I choose to. I can even be happily delusional if it suits me, which it often does. But I am always deadly observant, and I do know the difference between fantasy and fact. Back in the dining room, the sun dimmed on a cloudless day. And that is fact.
Instead of hurrying to my civics course as I should, I walk to the other side of Carroll Hall dormitory in search of a lone cloud, perhaps hiding in the garden because it is a pleasant place to be and because it is October 19, and I don’t take coincidences lightly. But once there, I only find myself standing in the middle of an empty garden under a clear blue sky. Not even the tiniest bit of spun sugar clings to a spruce.
I hear the distant sound of the late bell. It echoes through the air in a strange curvy way, like it’s trying to find its way to me, to let me know, Don’t hurry, Des—it’s too late anyway. You’re too late again. I walk farther down the gravel path to a long stone bench that sits among the well-trimmed hedges and slowly ease myself down, like if I am quiet enough and gentle enough, maybe the world will leave me alone. I feel the emptiness of the garden. No wind. No clouds. No Aunt Edie. The stillness is odd, like the garden is holding its breath, or maybe it is just me who is doing the holding. Four tires, all gone. A sufficient excuse. Aunt Edie will not be coming.
A cold tremble crawls the length of my spine and spins around in my chest, and only because I am completely alone, I allow myself to lean forward and bury my face in my hands. The trembling grows, until it is shaking my throat like a furious switch. I rock, keeping my mouth shut tight. If I keep it tight, I will win. I silently count. One, two, three . . .
“Shouldn’t you be in class?”
A gasp of air explodes from my throat and I sit up straight. A stranger sits on the other end of the bench.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“None of your business! It’s rude to interrupt someone that way!” I clasp my hands between my knees, trying to keep them still. “You startled me,” I add.
“Were you crying?”
I narrow my eyes at the stranger. “Are you a serial killer?”
“Mr. Nestor.”
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
“A visiting teacher. Calculus.”
“Why aren’t you in class?” I ask.
“And now we’re back to where we started, aren’t we?”
I study the stranger. He is an odd man. Not odd in his features. Those are mostly plain. Professorish. A thick tuft of hair that needs a comb. A short, trimmed beard with a frosting of white on the edges. A cheap dated suit in need of a good pressing. But the way he speaks, slow and calm, like he has all the time in the world, like he has planned to meet me out here in this garden. And that is impossible since I didn’t know I was coming here myself.
“You came out of nowhere. I didn’t hear you walk up,” I say.
He points to his shoes. Rubber soled. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
“No. I was only stretching. Yoga. Haven’t you heard of it?” He is trying my patience and rapidly turning my trembling to agitation.