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Authors: Dyan Sheldon
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placement. And I intend to continue moaning about it until I’ve put in my twenty hours of penal servitude and don’t have to go any more and can forget about it for the rest of my life.”
“You’re going over the top, as usual,” says Claudelia. “It’s not that big a deal.”
Georgiana, of course, has already had this pointed out to her. More than once; and by more than one person. “That’s what everybody says.”
“Well, everybody’s right. Quit acting like you’re going to your own hanging. You’re just going to sit and talk to some old lady for an hour. There’s nothing hard about that. Pretend she’s your grandmother.”
“You mean already dead?”
Give me strength
, thinks Claudelia. Aloud she says, “You don’t have a grandmother? Not even one?”
Georgiana comes to a complete stop at her locker. “No grandparent of either sex.”
“Not ever?”
Georgiana rolls her eyes. “Um-duh, Claudelia. Obviously my parents didn’t just drop out of the sky. But their parents all passed away before I was born. Except one grandmother.” With the attention of someone defusing a bomb, Georgiana turns the dial on her combination lock. “But I don’t remember her. She died when I was little.”
“OK, but it’s not like you’ve never seen a grandmother. You’ve met other people’s. You’ve met mine. You talked to her all right. You said she was awesome.”
“Claudelia…” Georgiana yanks off the lock. “Your grandmother isn’t a wrinkled old bag who doesn’t know what day it is. She runs her own company and she goes hunting. She is awesome.”
“She’s still my grandmother. And she does have wrinkles. Plus, it’s not a big company and she’s not that good a shot.”
Georgiana takes her jacket from her locker. “You know what I mean.”
“And you know what I mean,” counters Claudelia.
The locker door bangs shut. “Yeah. Be more like Marigold.”
Despite the fact that Georgiana has a better chance of becoming a prima ballerina than a twin-soul to Marigold Liotta, she does try to improve her attitude before she arrives at St Joan’s. It can’t hurt. Georgiana knows that she can both overreact and exaggerate. Even her father, who is very fond of her, has been quoted as saying she could make the Andes out of a pebble. She also knows that if she continues to wind herself up like this her skin will break out.
As she drives, she thinks about what she’s been told. Maybe Will and Claudelia and everybody else she’s complained to about the placement (which is just about everyone she’s seen in the last week, including Mr Malachay at the gas station and some woman who had the misfortune of stopping Georgiana to ask for directions) are right after all and St Joan’s isn’t going to be as bad as she imagined. Maybe there will be young people and middle-aged people and people who are totally healthy except they broke something or had a stroke and have to learn how to walk again. Besides that, it’s not solitary confinement, is it? They don’t lock them in tiny, dark cells and shove a tray of food through the door three times a day. So there probably will be lots of different things to do. Georgiana can’t play the violin, but she can play tennis, dominoes and bridge. She’s also a pretty terrific square-dance caller. And maybe Will is even right about some old people being interesting and cool. It’s not impossible. It’s not just ordinary, boring people who get old – celebrities get old, too. As for the inmates at St Joan’s who are doddering around in that space between life and death, someone with special skills will be taking care of them. They’re not going to be left to the care of a high-school student who doesn’t even iron her own clothes. They won’t be roaming through the corridors on their walking frames either. They’ll be tucked up in their rooms, safe and sound. Which means that, statistically, the chances of Georgiana being present when someone does
“You’re going over the top, as usual,” says Claudelia. “It’s not that big a deal.”
Georgiana, of course, has already had this pointed out to her. More than once; and by more than one person. “That’s what everybody says.”
“Well, everybody’s right. Quit acting like you’re going to your own hanging. You’re just going to sit and talk to some old lady for an hour. There’s nothing hard about that. Pretend she’s your grandmother.”
“You mean already dead?”
Give me strength
, thinks Claudelia. Aloud she says, “You don’t have a grandmother? Not even one?”
Georgiana comes to a complete stop at her locker. “No grandparent of either sex.”
“Not ever?”
Georgiana rolls her eyes. “Um-duh, Claudelia. Obviously my parents didn’t just drop out of the sky. But their parents all passed away before I was born. Except one grandmother.” With the attention of someone defusing a bomb, Georgiana turns the dial on her combination lock. “But I don’t remember her. She died when I was little.”
“OK, but it’s not like you’ve never seen a grandmother. You’ve met other people’s. You’ve met mine. You talked to her all right. You said she was awesome.”
“Claudelia…” Georgiana yanks off the lock. “Your grandmother isn’t a wrinkled old bag who doesn’t know what day it is. She runs her own company and she goes hunting. She is awesome.”
“She’s still my grandmother. And she does have wrinkles. Plus, it’s not a big company and she’s not that good a shot.”
Georgiana takes her jacket from her locker. “You know what I mean.”
“And you know what I mean,” counters Claudelia.
The locker door bangs shut. “Yeah. Be more like Marigold.”
Despite the fact that Georgiana has a better chance of becoming a prima ballerina than a twin-soul to Marigold Liotta, she does try to improve her attitude before she arrives at St Joan’s. It can’t hurt. Georgiana knows that she can both overreact and exaggerate. Even her father, who is very fond of her, has been quoted as saying she could make the Andes out of a pebble. She also knows that if she continues to wind herself up like this her skin will break out.
As she drives, she thinks about what she’s been told. Maybe Will and Claudelia and everybody else she’s complained to about the placement (which is just about everyone she’s seen in the last week, including Mr Malachay at the gas station and some woman who had the misfortune of stopping Georgiana to ask for directions) are right after all and St Joan’s isn’t going to be as bad as she imagined. Maybe there will be young people and middle-aged people and people who are totally healthy except they broke something or had a stroke and have to learn how to walk again. Besides that, it’s not solitary confinement, is it? They don’t lock them in tiny, dark cells and shove a tray of food through the door three times a day. So there probably will be lots of different things to do. Georgiana can’t play the violin, but she can play tennis, dominoes and bridge. She’s also a pretty terrific square-dance caller. And maybe Will is even right about some old people being interesting and cool. It’s not impossible. It’s not just ordinary, boring people who get old – celebrities get old, too. As for the inmates at St Joan’s who are doddering around in that space between life and death, someone with special skills will be taking care of them. They’re not going to be left to the care of a high-school student who doesn’t even iron her own clothes. They won’t be roaming through the corridors on their walking frames either. They’ll be tucked up in their rooms, safe and sound. Which means that, statistically, the chances of Georgiana being present when someone does
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