She cleared her throat and relaxed her stiff posture. "Now then, you are starting here under the cover of a deception I have agreed to because of how concerned your foster mother is about your well-being and assimilation into the family at the Dickinson School. I assured her there was no reason to have such fears, but she was very concerned and beseeched me to go along with the story."
"Story?"
"Frankly, everyone's personal business is everyone's personal business. This is not one of those public school general offices where things are leaked out through the gossip pipeline. We eschew gossip, and any one of my staff who perpetuates it will be let go instantly.
"In short, what you tell your fellow students about yourself is your business, as long as it does no one else any harm. I have no problem with your being Mrs. Emerson's cousin, if that makes her feel better. I have made this promise to your foster mother, and now I am making it to you, but I am adding that point, Celeste. Don't do anything that will bring harm, disrespect, or bad publicity to the Dickinson School. Am I understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, holding my eyes on her the way I used to hold them on adults when I was much younger, even though my mind was reeling. How could Ami have done this before last night? She had obviously already planned out our spontaneous fiction about me.
Mrs. Brentwood looked immediately
uncomfortable under my glare and stood up. She came around her desk and headed for the door.
"Follow me, then," she commanded, opening the office door and stepping out.
The two women in the office glanced up at us but quickly dropped their eyes back to their work as we stepped into the hallway.
"Our school is small enough that I can fulfill the responsibilities of what guidance counselors, principals, and deans of discipline do at public schools," she began as we walked down the hallway. "If you have any problems or questions, you can make an appointment to see me, regardless of the issue.
"This," she said, pausing at a doorway, "is our science lab." She opened the door, and a bald-headed man with just some gray fuzz around his ears, dressed in a lab coat, looked up from his desk, which was built higher than the student desks. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and lowered the flame on a Bunsen burner.
"Good morning, Mr. Samuels. This is Celeste Atwell, the new student whose paperwork you were given at the end of last week. You'll recall that she will attend your period-three chemistry class."
"Yes, of course. I saw you were already in chemistry at your old school. I hope we'll match up," he said.
I could feel Mrs. Brentwood bristle.
"I have no doubts a
bout that, Mr. Samuels," I said. "My class was so large, we had to take turns using the manuals."
"Yes, well, welcome to Dickinson, Celeste," he said, smiling. His round cheeks bubbled out.
"Thank you," I said,
"I'm giving her a very quick tour," Mrs. Brentwood said, and backed up, closing the door. "Mr. Samuels has been with us twelve years. He has written a significant paper on genetics that was published in a prestigious science journal. He also sponsors the science club after school, should you be interested," she added, her words like nails pounding her pride into my head.
"This is the ninth-grade homeroom," she said, nodding at room 9.
"And the tenth, eleventh, and your homeroom," she continued, but didn't pause.
We followed the corridor to the cafeteria, which was less than half the size of the one at my old school, but with far nicer furniture and much cleaner looking. Two elderly ladies and a young woman were working vigorously on the day's menu.
"You don't pay for anything, so there is no cashier," Mrs. Brentwood explained. "It's all part of the cost of the school. We ask only that you clean up after yourself properly and don't waste food."
We continued on to the gym, which, although smaller than my school's, was again cleaner and newer looking; even the bleacher seats looked more comfortable. The girl's physical education teacher was setting up a volleyball net.
"Morning, Mrs. Grossbard," Mrs. Brentwood called, her voice echoing.
Mrs. Grossbard, short and stout for a physical education teacher, turned. She had very thin, closely trimmed light brown hair and wore a uniform with a skirt and blouse in the school colors.
"This is Celeste Atwell."
"Oh, yes. How's your golf game?" she immediately asked me. "I have a spot on the team."
"I never played," I replied.
She looked dumbfounded.