“Yoga.” He draws the word out and rubs his chin, the wiry hairs on his chin bristling like a hemp doormat.
Extreme agitation.
“Yoga,” he says again, like there is some deep hidden meaning to it.
“All right, it wasn’t yoga! But I wasn’t crying.”
He is not an observant man. I can see that already.
“But you were distressed. What is there to be distressed about on such a beautiful October day?”
I stand. I have no time for dense thinkers. “We’re done.”
“Have I said something?”
Rude! Forward! Intruding on my space! I don’t even know him!
I sit. He’s not going to drive me away. Even if he is a teacher. Even if I am late for class. I was here first, and today that matters. Today. I will make it matter. I glare, hard and deep, drilling into his eyes, so he can see I am not distressed.
“It’s not a beautiful day for everyone, Mr. Nestor. It’s not for me.”
“Is there something I can do? Something you want?”
Why doesn’t he leave me alone?
He raises his eyebrows in the most annoying fashion and then, as if that is not bad enough, he tilts his head! Like I am obligated to tell him!
That’s it. That is absolutely it. I stand. I sit. I look away. I look back. The trembling that circled my spine has shot to my mouth like a burst of fire, ignited by this doltish teacher. Counting to three or a hundred won’t keep my mouth shut.
“Something I want?” I stand again. “Something I want?”
“Yes.”
My vision explodes. My hands fly over my head. “Want?” I circle around the bench and stop when I am standing inches from his cheap-trousered knees. “You really want to know?”
“I don’t ask idle questions.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. One, two, three . . .
“Four tires! I want four matching tires! Is that too much to ask?” He begins to open his mouth, but I stop him. “I’m not done! Not by a mile! I want oatmeal without lumps! For one miraculous day, I want Cook to stand there and stir the mush the way it’s supposed to be stirred!” I walk three steps away and three back, this time even closer to his face. “I want a bed that will be mine, not just for a month or a year, but for the rest of my life! I want letters from home! I want my parents to know what it’s like to be abandoned!”
“Is that—”
“And I want Seth to get extra credit!” My knees ache and my throat knots. I sit on the bench and look at him, an unblinking, impossibly long stare. “I’ll tell you what I want,” I whisper between gritted teeth. “All I want is one day where the good guys win. One day where the world makes sense. Just one day, where the world is fair. Where it all adds up to what it should be. Just one single fair day. Is that too much to ask? That’s what I want.”
“A fair day,” he says, like he has never heard the words before. He stands, his index finger tapping his lips. “A completely fair day. Interesting.” He turns and looks at me. His pale eyes narrow, looking so far into mine, I shiver. “What would that do?” he asks. “How would one fair day make a difference to you?”
How? I don’t know.
There is no answer for a question like that. It’s an endless circling question that feeds on itself over and over again like a snake eating its tail. It can only go so far. I know. I’ve asked myself that exact question countless times. I look at my lap. My knees bounce, and I press with my hands to steady them. One day. Maybe I would feel less like a pawn in a game. Or maybe it would make me feel that the inequity of the world comes full circle eventually and it all evens out. Maybe it would make me believe again, in what, I’m not sure. Some sense of order. Meaning. Purpose. Maybe it would give me courage to make it through the other days that aren’t so fair. Or maybe it would just make me feel like someone is listening. Or . . . maybe it would just plain feel good. All the way through every inch of me, it might feel wonderfully and deliciously good. For one day. Is there anything wrong with that?
“Maybe—” I look up to answer. Mr. Nestor is gone. I stand and twirl around. Gone! My first assessment of him was accurate. A rumpled rude clod! He didn’t even wait for me to answer! Calculus! I bend down and grab a handful of gravel. “Go calculate this!” I yell, flinging it as far as I can. The gravel and my words are swallowed up by the empty garden, and the silence returns. I dust off my hand on the front of my uniform.
Wasted emotion. But no one has seen it. I sigh and shake my head. Any remnant of trembling is shaken off. I head back down the garden path. I’ve missed half of civics by now, all because of a cloudless sky that mattered to no one but me and because of an ill-bred teacher who couldn’t be bothered to wait and hear my answer to his stupid question. And it is all my own fault, really, for not sticking with the prescribed routine.
I turn at the end of Carroll Hall, and I see a peculiar sight. Not ten yards from me, parked on the lawn beneath a giant spruce, is a car. I am not familiar with the makes of cars, but it is a very long, barely pink thing with a white leather top that has been folded back, unusual but attractive, something I might choose for myself if I were to have a car. I have never seen it at Hedgebrook before. All the teachers here drive modest, sensible cars, and they certainly never park them on the lawn. The driver’s-side door is wide open, and I can hear the engine humming. Who would be so careless? When the headmaster sees this . . .
I walk closer and reach out, running my fingers along the buttery smooth fender. The tires catch my attention. An old-fashioned sort w