from his stool, leaving his dessert untouched, and followed the others into the family room.
My head jerked back; it was the first time Jack had ever snapped at me. I sat staring at my dessert. Did Jack feel that guilty about the necklace? Despite Brigid’s denial, it had to be valuable. Did he worry that he’d ruined his chances of continuing as Stanley’s helper? Was the cut deeper than it looked? Or was I making something out of nothing? Laughter erupted from the family room, Jack’s throaty chuckle rising above the others; I got up to join them. Whatever the incident had been, it had clearly blown over. So why was I in no mood to laugh?
“Can you believe she was on the second helicopter that flew over one of the uncontacted tribes of the rain forest?” Two days after the dinner party and Jack was
still
talking about Brigid. “She knows all about their customs.”
I leaned back on the bleachers and stretched my legs, briefly admiring my bubblegum-pink knee socks paired with the kelly-green Converse high-tops. Below, Mr. Addomy, the P.E. instructor, demonstrated how to wield a lacrosse stick.
“I thought her area of study was the polar regions,” I said.
Mr. Addomy asked for a volunteer to pitch him a few balls. I sat on my hands.
“That’s her concentration, sure, but she’s interested in any corner of the biosphere that is experiencing a sudden and potentially catastrophic mutation to its ecosystem. Deforestation of the tropics is disturbing everything from plant diversity to animal habitats to weather patterns.”
“Snjosson,” Mr. Addomy called over the rows of bleachers, “Why don’t you show us all that flick of the wrist I was just demonstrating?”
Busted. Normally I’d feel sorry for him. Even a bit guilty for being the other head in an unauthorized tête-à-tête. I was, however, so sick and tired of hearing about Brigid that I welcomed the interruption. Jack hangdogged his way down to Mr. Addomy, who tossed him a few easy balls. Frustrated and clearly embarrassed, Jack gave it several brow-scrunching attempts, but he never quite managed the “flick of the wrist” Mr. Addomy made look so easy. Jack, I could tell, wasn’t used to coming up short. With an iron clamp to his jaw, he handed the stick back.
After that, the gym was divided, boys on one side and girls on the other, for our first crack at lacrosse. And I’d thought it was some nice upper-crust lawn game, like croquet or badminton. More like hockey on steroids — for the criminally insane.
Upon exiting the locker room, I found Jack leaning against the wall and practicing the “flick” with an imaginary stick. Irritation chiseled his cheekbones.
Man,
the guy really didn’t like to fail. About as much as I didn’t like rough sports.
“You’re limping,” Jack said, pushing off the wall.
“Enjoyment of that game should be one of the criteria the FBI uses to profile serial killers.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Terry Andriks is deeply disturbed.”
Jack laughed and took my book bag from me. “Let me lighten your load.”
As ever, his mere presence did. By the time we reached the lunchtime school-newspaper meeting, I was considerably better.
I took a seat at my usual desk between Jack and Penny in the circle.
“Why don’t we take the first half of the lunch to work independently on our stories?” Jack said to the group before sitting down.
Work independently meant we’d yak about anything and everything. It happened at least once a week. Sure, we were putting out a school paper, but that didn’t necessarily mean we were all hard-boiled reporter types. On the contrary, plenty of us — myself included — viewed being liberated from the whole lunch scene as equal to, if not greater than, exercising our freedom of speech.
Penny and I discussed the upcoming production of
The Snow Queen.
On Friday, there would be rehearsals for the following week’s auditions. We were deep into our design-class project for costumes
My head jerked back; it was the first time Jack had ever snapped at me. I sat staring at my dessert. Did Jack feel that guilty about the necklace? Despite Brigid’s denial, it had to be valuable. Did he worry that he’d ruined his chances of continuing as Stanley’s helper? Was the cut deeper than it looked? Or was I making something out of nothing? Laughter erupted from the family room, Jack’s throaty chuckle rising above the others; I got up to join them. Whatever the incident had been, it had clearly blown over. So why was I in no mood to laugh?
“Can you believe she was on the second helicopter that flew over one of the uncontacted tribes of the rain forest?” Two days after the dinner party and Jack was
still
talking about Brigid. “She knows all about their customs.”
I leaned back on the bleachers and stretched my legs, briefly admiring my bubblegum-pink knee socks paired with the kelly-green Converse high-tops. Below, Mr. Addomy, the P.E. instructor, demonstrated how to wield a lacrosse stick.
“I thought her area of study was the polar regions,” I said.
Mr. Addomy asked for a volunteer to pitch him a few balls. I sat on my hands.
“That’s her concentration, sure, but she’s interested in any corner of the biosphere that is experiencing a sudden and potentially catastrophic mutation to its ecosystem. Deforestation of the tropics is disturbing everything from plant diversity to animal habitats to weather patterns.”
“Snjosson,” Mr. Addomy called over the rows of bleachers, “Why don’t you show us all that flick of the wrist I was just demonstrating?”
Busted. Normally I’d feel sorry for him. Even a bit guilty for being the other head in an unauthorized tête-à-tête. I was, however, so sick and tired of hearing about Brigid that I welcomed the interruption. Jack hangdogged his way down to Mr. Addomy, who tossed him a few easy balls. Frustrated and clearly embarrassed, Jack gave it several brow-scrunching attempts, but he never quite managed the “flick of the wrist” Mr. Addomy made look so easy. Jack, I could tell, wasn’t used to coming up short. With an iron clamp to his jaw, he handed the stick back.
After that, the gym was divided, boys on one side and girls on the other, for our first crack at lacrosse. And I’d thought it was some nice upper-crust lawn game, like croquet or badminton. More like hockey on steroids — for the criminally insane.
Upon exiting the locker room, I found Jack leaning against the wall and practicing the “flick” with an imaginary stick. Irritation chiseled his cheekbones.
Man,
the guy really didn’t like to fail. About as much as I didn’t like rough sports.
“You’re limping,” Jack said, pushing off the wall.
“Enjoyment of that game should be one of the criteria the FBI uses to profile serial killers.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Terry Andriks is deeply disturbed.”
Jack laughed and took my book bag from me. “Let me lighten your load.”
As ever, his mere presence did. By the time we reached the lunchtime school-newspaper meeting, I was considerably better.
I took a seat at my usual desk between Jack and Penny in the circle.
“Why don’t we take the first half of the lunch to work independently on our stories?” Jack said to the group before sitting down.
Work independently meant we’d yak about anything and everything. It happened at least once a week. Sure, we were putting out a school paper, but that didn’t necessarily mean we were all hard-boiled reporter types. On the contrary, plenty of us — myself included — viewed being liberated from the whole lunch scene as equal to, if not greater than, exercising our freedom of speech.
Penny and I discussed the upcoming production of
The Snow Queen.
On Friday, there would be rehearsals for the following week’s auditions. We were deep into our design-class project for costumes
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