what she’ll be doing today, in the library—she can see the parking lot from where she’s standing and spots Victor’s shiny blue Cobra.
Genny sighs and weaves a path through the crowd. The stairs are wet and in some places the black strips of sand paper have dissolved under so many feet; Genny is careful to place her feet squarely on each step. She plans to get through the entire day without one mishap.
She pushes through the glass doors and enters the cavernous hallway. Her boots click on the tile floor, announcing her arrival at the office a full minute before she gets there.
“Miss Vout,” the vice principal greets her. “Do you have the detention slip from your mother?”
Genny pulls it from a pocket in her back pack and slides it across the counter. Her mother agreed with the punishment—two hour of detention—and asked that Genny serve it today after school.
The vice principal reads her mother’s note then looks up at Genny.
“We prefer that students spend an hour after school each of two days,” Ms. Gower explains.
“My mother understands that,” Genny says. But tomorrow is Friday and Genny’s father is playing at Candlestick. She’s supposed to invite Truman and even if he says no, Genny is expected to sit behind the dugout and cheer on her father. “She wants me to serve the two hours today.”
She meets Ms. Gower’s stare without flinching.
“Do you have plans tomorrow?” she asks. “Are the Giants in town?”
Obviously.
“Well,” she continues, “maybe we can set this up for next week.”
“My mother doesn’t want this waiting for me next week.” Genny’s supposed to move forward.
“Really?” Gower’s eyebrow arches along with her voice.
“Really,” Genny assures her. “She doesn’t mind that I do
the time, but she did say something about this being merely an exercise.”
Ms. Gower doesn’t know what to make of that. Her lips scrunch up into what looks like a pout, but Genny’s mother is a major contributor to the school, and the vice principal finally nods her head and applies her signature to the paper.
“We’ll see you at two-forty, then,” she says. “Bring homework. There will be no letter writing, no talking. We take consequences seriously here at Fraser.”
Genny nods and pushes away from the counter. The bell rings as she heads toward the staircase. History. Ugh. Mr. Cooke and his thin jokes at Genny’s expense. Truman Lennox and his attention-getting courtesy. His soulful eyes. His smooth voice. Genny thinks about plugging her ears with the buds from her iPod as she enters the classroom.
A desk was added to accommodate the new student. It’s at the end of the row, like Genny’s desk, but on the other side of the room. Could be better, but it could be a lot worse, too. She’ll just pretend she’s wearing blinders.
If he remembers her. Their walk back to school yesterday was silent. It was almost as if the touch they shared made them
mute. It definitely gave them something to brood about. And he did ignore her obvious willingness to be plundered.
Heat rises to her skin with the memory and she vows not to relive that embarrassment again. At least not for the rest of the day. She drops her back pack beside her chair and sits down before Mr. Cooke even notices her.
“Early today, Ms. Vout.” He smiles but his buggy eyes are cold. “Congratulations.”
She ignores him. The one and only time she complained about Cooke to her mother, she
Genny sighs and weaves a path through the crowd. The stairs are wet and in some places the black strips of sand paper have dissolved under so many feet; Genny is careful to place her feet squarely on each step. She plans to get through the entire day without one mishap.
She pushes through the glass doors and enters the cavernous hallway. Her boots click on the tile floor, announcing her arrival at the office a full minute before she gets there.
“Miss Vout,” the vice principal greets her. “Do you have the detention slip from your mother?”
Genny pulls it from a pocket in her back pack and slides it across the counter. Her mother agreed with the punishment—two hour of detention—and asked that Genny serve it today after school.
The vice principal reads her mother’s note then looks up at Genny.
“We prefer that students spend an hour after school each of two days,” Ms. Gower explains.
“My mother understands that,” Genny says. But tomorrow is Friday and Genny’s father is playing at Candlestick. She’s supposed to invite Truman and even if he says no, Genny is expected to sit behind the dugout and cheer on her father. “She wants me to serve the two hours today.”
She meets Ms. Gower’s stare without flinching.
“Do you have plans tomorrow?” she asks. “Are the Giants in town?”
Obviously.
“Well,” she continues, “maybe we can set this up for next week.”
“My mother doesn’t want this waiting for me next week.” Genny’s supposed to move forward.
“Really?” Gower’s eyebrow arches along with her voice.
“Really,” Genny assures her. “She doesn’t mind that I do
the time, but she did say something about this being merely an exercise.”
Ms. Gower doesn’t know what to make of that. Her lips scrunch up into what looks like a pout, but Genny’s mother is a major contributor to the school, and the vice principal finally nods her head and applies her signature to the paper.
“We’ll see you at two-forty, then,” she says. “Bring homework. There will be no letter writing, no talking. We take consequences seriously here at Fraser.”
Genny nods and pushes away from the counter. The bell rings as she heads toward the staircase. History. Ugh. Mr. Cooke and his thin jokes at Genny’s expense. Truman Lennox and his attention-getting courtesy. His soulful eyes. His smooth voice. Genny thinks about plugging her ears with the buds from her iPod as she enters the classroom.
A desk was added to accommodate the new student. It’s at the end of the row, like Genny’s desk, but on the other side of the room. Could be better, but it could be a lot worse, too. She’ll just pretend she’s wearing blinders.
If he remembers her. Their walk back to school yesterday was silent. It was almost as if the touch they shared made them
mute. It definitely gave them something to brood about. And he did ignore her obvious willingness to be plundered.
Heat rises to her skin with the memory and she vows not to relive that embarrassment again. At least not for the rest of the day. She drops her back pack beside her chair and sits down before Mr. Cooke even notices her.
“Early today, Ms. Vout.” He smiles but his buggy eyes are cold. “Congratulations.”
She ignores him. The one and only time she complained about Cooke to her mother, she
Similar Books
