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Authors: Michael D. Beil
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Interlopers.”
We’ve already had our discussion of the key elements of the story, so at the beginning of class, Mr. Eliot tells each of us to find a partner for an assignment related to the story—and warns us that we have to present our answer to the class before the end of the period. Rebecca’s not in English with us, so Margaret, Leigh Ann, and I look at one another, trying to figure out how to divide three evenly by two.
Finally, Leigh Ann, the newest of the Red Blazer Girls, says, “Go ahead, you guys. You’re used to working together. I’ll work with someone else.” She looks around the room, frowning. “Hmmm.”
I turn around, and there is Livvy, staring off into space; actually, she seems to be zeroed in on the very window where I first saw Elizabeth Harriman’s face—the time I screamed right in the middle of class. I’m guessing she hasn’t heard a word Mr. Eliot has said.
“No, Leigh Ann,” I say. “I always get to work with Margaret. It’s your turn. I’m going to ask Livvy.”
Whoa! Did I just say what I think I said? Out loud?
I guess so, because Margaret and Leigh Ann are staring at me as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead.
“Have you lost your mind?” Margaret whispers.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
I will be fine, right?
“Everybody have a partner?” Mr. Eliot asks as he hands me an index card with a single task: create a graph that illustrates all the conflicting emotions going through Georg’s head as he lies trapped beneath the fallen tree. “Miss St. Pierre? How about you?”
I spin around again to face Livvy, and this time she looks back at me.
“What?” she snarls. “Jeez, what did I do now?”
“Nothing. I, um, need a partner. For this assignment.” I hand her the card, and for a second she looks like an animal trying desperately to avoid a trap. She eyes Margaret and Leigh Ann suspiciously, but they’re already hard at work.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” says Mr. Eliot, who gives me a strange nod before retreating to his own desk.
“So, any ideas?” I ask cheerfully.
She just glares across the table at me. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she says, “Why?”
“Because we need to get this done before the end of the period, and I just wondered if you had any ideas on how to get started.”
“No, I mean, why me? I thought you and your friends hated me. You’re smart—lots of kids would be happy to be your partner.”
“I don’t hate you, Livvy. I mean, you haven’t exactly made it easy for any of us to
like
you, but … come on, let’s just do this one stupid assignment, all right?”
Another resigned sigh, this one not quite so dramatic. So she’s not thrilled to be working with me—but at least she doesn’t give me the eye roll of death.
And you know what? It’s not the most fun I ever had—in fact, it wasn’t fun at all—but our answer totally kicks butt. Together we create a bar graph showing all of Georg’s various internal battles in shades of blue and his external conflicts in shades of red.
The colors were Livvy’s idea, and she explains our choices to the class.
“Blue for internal conflict, because it all makes him, you know, sad inside, thinking about all the time he has wasted being enemies with Ulrich. And red because he’s angry at his predicament—the cold, the storm, the tree, and, uh, you know, what happens at the end.”
“Very impressive, girls,” Mr. Eliot says as we wrap up our presentation. On the way back to our seats—for just a fraction of a micro-mini-second—I get the feeling that Livvy’s going to high-five me, but the moment passes, and we sit without another look.
After the bell, though, she secretly drops a note on my desk before leaving to join the Klackettes for sandwiches, sodas, and sarcasm in the cafeteria. It reads: “Sorry about your nose.”
And there you have it: the cornerstone laid in a foundation.
A first step up an imposing mountain peak.
We’ve already had our discussion of the key elements of the story, so at the beginning of class, Mr. Eliot tells each of us to find a partner for an assignment related to the story—and warns us that we have to present our answer to the class before the end of the period. Rebecca’s not in English with us, so Margaret, Leigh Ann, and I look at one another, trying to figure out how to divide three evenly by two.
Finally, Leigh Ann, the newest of the Red Blazer Girls, says, “Go ahead, you guys. You’re used to working together. I’ll work with someone else.” She looks around the room, frowning. “Hmmm.”
I turn around, and there is Livvy, staring off into space; actually, she seems to be zeroed in on the very window where I first saw Elizabeth Harriman’s face—the time I screamed right in the middle of class. I’m guessing she hasn’t heard a word Mr. Eliot has said.
“No, Leigh Ann,” I say. “I always get to work with Margaret. It’s your turn. I’m going to ask Livvy.”
Whoa! Did I just say what I think I said? Out loud?
I guess so, because Margaret and Leigh Ann are staring at me as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead.
“Have you lost your mind?” Margaret whispers.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
I will be fine, right?
“Everybody have a partner?” Mr. Eliot asks as he hands me an index card with a single task: create a graph that illustrates all the conflicting emotions going through Georg’s head as he lies trapped beneath the fallen tree. “Miss St. Pierre? How about you?”
I spin around again to face Livvy, and this time she looks back at me.
“What?” she snarls. “Jeez, what did I do now?”
“Nothing. I, um, need a partner. For this assignment.” I hand her the card, and for a second she looks like an animal trying desperately to avoid a trap. She eyes Margaret and Leigh Ann suspiciously, but they’re already hard at work.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” says Mr. Eliot, who gives me a strange nod before retreating to his own desk.
“So, any ideas?” I ask cheerfully.
She just glares across the table at me. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she says, “Why?”
“Because we need to get this done before the end of the period, and I just wondered if you had any ideas on how to get started.”
“No, I mean, why me? I thought you and your friends hated me. You’re smart—lots of kids would be happy to be your partner.”
“I don’t hate you, Livvy. I mean, you haven’t exactly made it easy for any of us to
like
you, but … come on, let’s just do this one stupid assignment, all right?”
Another resigned sigh, this one not quite so dramatic. So she’s not thrilled to be working with me—but at least she doesn’t give me the eye roll of death.
And you know what? It’s not the most fun I ever had—in fact, it wasn’t fun at all—but our answer totally kicks butt. Together we create a bar graph showing all of Georg’s various internal battles in shades of blue and his external conflicts in shades of red.
The colors were Livvy’s idea, and she explains our choices to the class.
“Blue for internal conflict, because it all makes him, you know, sad inside, thinking about all the time he has wasted being enemies with Ulrich. And red because he’s angry at his predicament—the cold, the storm, the tree, and, uh, you know, what happens at the end.”
“Very impressive, girls,” Mr. Eliot says as we wrap up our presentation. On the way back to our seats—for just a fraction of a micro-mini-second—I get the feeling that Livvy’s going to high-five me, but the moment passes, and we sit without another look.
After the bell, though, she secretly drops a note on my desk before leaving to join the Klackettes for sandwiches, sodas, and sarcasm in the cafeteria. It reads: “Sorry about your nose.”
And there you have it: the cornerstone laid in a foundation.
A first step up an imposing mountain peak.
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