Читать книгу Here Lies Bridget - Paige Harbison - Страница 6

Nothing interesting ever happens or begins on a Thursday.

Friday and Saturday are the weekend. Sunday is the end of the weekend, the last day of rest. Monday is the beginning of another week. Tuesday’s a cool name. Wednesday is “hump day,” an expression I loathe.

But Thursday is nothing. Everything that’s going to happen during the week is over, and the weekend is coming but it’s not there yet. Even that old rhyme about the day you were born just says Thursday’s child has far to go.

What does that even mean?

When I woke up that day, I had no idea the day that lay before me was the beginning of the end. There was no strange weather event, the neighborhood dogs weren’t howling, no meteors struck Earth.

Maybe if I could have read the shreds of cereal at the bottom of my bowl like tea leaves, I would have gone back to bed. Or just transferred to the local public school right then. Instead, I ate the stupid cereal, drank the crappy coffee my stepmother made (fair trade=bitter and thin in my book) and idly checked to make sure my phone was charged.

Same as every day.

Then, just like every day, I left the bowl by the sink and glanced at the clock on the stove. It read 7:05 a.m. I still had ten minutes before I had to leave for school. Just enough time to double-check my makeup and outfit. I’d started toward the stairs to my room when I heard my stepmother’s high heels clopping into the kitchen.

“Hey, Bridget?”

I sighed audibly.

“What?” I had like a million things I’d rather do with my ten minutes than stand here waiting for her to stumble her way through yet another awkward conversation.

“Well …” She came into view at the bottom of the stairs.

“I was just thinking that maybe … if you’re not doing anything tonight, then maybe we could go see that new movie. The one you couldn’t see with your friends because of your father’s banquet the other night? Carriage?”

She shrugged her thin shoulders under the silk Michael Kors top I would have killed for. Sometimes I looked at her and thought she might be prettier than I was.

I hated that.

“I just figured with your father being out of town until next weekend, maybe we could have sort of a girls’ night out.” She gave me a tentative smile and waited for a response, and then after not getting one in reasonable time, kept talking.

“I looked it up and it sounds pretty good, actually …”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m busy tonight.”

I started up the stairs. I knew exactly which movie she was talking about, and I had been dying to see it. But going to the movies with your stepmother—how pathetic is that? She might as well have asked me to go to a midnight opening of Blue’s Clues 3-D in full furry costume regalia.

“Oh, but you were so disappointed when you couldn’t go the other night …”

I stopped when she said that and bent toward her, talking to her as if she were the child and I was the evil stepmother.

“That’s because I didn’t want to go to Dad’s stupid dinner thing, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She looked down at a piece of paper in her hand, which looked like it had the movie summary on it. I felt a small stab of guilt when I saw it.

She folded it in half and followed me as I walked up the stairs. I could feel her eyes on my back.

“Well, maybe there’s another movie you’d like to see, or we could do something else—”

I stopped and turned again, feeling disproportionately averse to the idea.

“Okay, Meredith? I don’t know how to make this obvious to you if you really don’t get it yet. I don’t want to do anything with you tonight. Mmkay?”

Her eyes widened and she looked like she was about to have another one of her crying fits. For God’s sake, what was wrong with her? She cried all the time lately. She was, like, forty. Was that too young to go into menopause?

Whatever. I wasn’t going to take responsibility for upsetting her. I’d walked away from arguments like this feeling guilty before. Walked away feeling like I must have really pushed the limit to make her cry. But then, later in the week, I’d see her sobbing over Sesame Street and realize it was not about me.

Though I did wonder why on earth she was alone in the living room watching Sesame Street.

I DROVE TO MY BORING, stuffy, private high school, Winchester Preparatory, in my 2007 Toyota Corolla (my father gave me his old car instead of buying me a new one in one of his few-and-far-between fits of parenting) and parked in my usual spot. I was late, also as usual, though this time it was because of the conversation with Meredith. So it wasn’t actually my fault. It never is.

Still, I guess I wasn’t exactly running down the hall. And I did stop at the vending machines to get a Vitaminwater. After a moment or two of deliberation between flavors, I headed to class. To Tech Ed, where my teacher was as useless as the subject.

His name was Mr. Ezhno, and he was just simply not cut out for teaching. He was weak and spineless, and on top of that, entirely boring. He blathered on, teaching us things everyone in our day and age already knows. How to turn on a computer. How to open a blank document.

When we weren’t doing that, we were doing things like building light switches. Which was stupid, in my opinion. Why should we have to figure it out when it’s already been figured out? I seriously doubted that I’d ever be in a situation where someone was saying, “Quick, it’s an emergency, put down those matches and build a light switch!”

It would have been almost impossible to pay attention to him even if anyone had tried.

Which, naturally, we didn’t.

On days when we were behind the computers, we were either working on essays with useless topics or ignoring him to play games or browse the internet, while the more studious students did work for other (real) classes. Either way, none of us were doing what we were supposed to.

About halfway through the semester, he noticed that no one was paying attention to him, so he started making us turn off the computer screens when we weren’t supposed to be doing something with them. All this did, however, was bore us into terrorizing him. We would raise our hands and ask deliberately stupid questions, and he would have to answer them, just in case one of them was for real.

Except, there was one day when Matt Churchill had asked, with a completely straight face, if there was really such thing as a “chick magnet.” Mr. Ezhno had refused to answer, calling it a “ridiculous question.”

But I’d seen the doubt flicker through his eyes as he wondered if Matt was serious.

As if the curriculum wasn’t irritating enough, the class was first thing in the morning, making it positively impossible for me to ever get there on time. And once I did get there, I admittedly gave him kind of a hard time.

Every once in a while, a twinge of pity for the man stopped me in my tracks. Him, with his button-down shirts and pleated khakis, his office supplies, weekly boxes of new chalk and the stickers he put on papers with good grades (which, incidentally, I knew existed only from spotting them on other people’s papers). He was the classic nerdy teacher. Seriously, if the makers of that movie Office Space had seen this guy, they would have given Milton and his stapler the boot and asked Mr. Ezhno to step in.

Often, however, I didn’t stop. It usually started with me saying something double-sided that Mr. Ezhno couldn’t respond to appropriately. He’d then send me to the main office, I’d get in-school suspension, my behavior wouldn’t improve and then he’d have several parent-teacher meetings with Meredith.

I hated that.

She was not my parent, and my father never got involved in this stuff. Thank God.

Still, they would meet, get along and, as I imagined it, plot ways to make my life more frustrating. Luckily, the meetings had stopped somewhere along the way. At this point it was like he’d given up. Which worked for me. Honestly, I’d been about to ease up on him—I could tell I was pushing him too far, and the last thing I needed was to get in trouble. But that didn’t seem to be an issue anymore.

So it was 7:40 on that Thursday morning when I waltzed into the classroom and crossed right in front of Mr. Ezhno, my shoulder grazing his grade book. I headed toward my seat next to Jillian Orman. I heard the boys in the back row talking about me, saying something sexist but still flattering.

But this time, as opposed to every other time, Mr. Ezhno stopped talking to the class.

His eyes fastened on me.

“Go on.” I raised my eyebrows at him, like I was giving him permission, and then twisted open my Vitaminwater.

“Miss Duke, can you please go wait out in the hall for me?” He sounded tired.

“Already?” Snickers from the class, who appreciated my anticipation of getting in trouble—just not yet.

“But Mr. Ezhno, I bought the flavor that’s supposed to help me focus. I bought it just for your class, Mr. Ezhno.” I raised my drink, tapping lightly on the label where it said Focus.

Most of the people in the class sniggered quietly, waiting for him to come up with something to say.

Instead he just pointed toward the door.

When I looked at him like I didn’t know what he was talking about, he repeated, “Please go wait for me in the hall.”

I sighed theatrically and walked out, making a face at his back as soon as I was past him. A ripple of muffled laughs ran through the class.

As I waited for him in the hall, I watched people passing by. Some were on the way to the bathroom, some were late for class and a few probably had first period as an office assistant. I didn’t know all of their names, but they always seemed to know me. One girl quickened her pace as she drew closer to me, keeping her eyes directed at her feet. She glanced up, and the second our eyes locked, she looked away.

A moment later another girl walked by wearing a T-shirt from last year’s student government election, the faded letters reading Duke for SGA President! The election from which I, sensing more support for my fellow candidates, had withdrawn my name, claiming that it was because I had too many other things to worry about.

The girl (Suzanne?) waved, indicated her T-shirt, pointed at me and smiled. I smiled superficially back and watched her go. My own face smiled at me from the back of the shirt.

Kinda weird to wear that sort of thing post-election.

Others who walked by either waved enthusiastically or did the same as the first girl and tried hard not to look at me. That was how it usually was in my life: People were either overly friendly (possibly obsessive) or painfully shy.

Here’s why. My father was once a promising young superstar in the NFL until one fateful game where he blew out his knee. Being a good-looking favorite, he then rose to fame as a sportscaster. Every man knew him, every boy wanted to be him, every woman and girl stopped crossing the living room when he was on TV just to watch him finish his segment. Including me. Sometimes I saw him more often on my TV than sitting in front of it.

Anyway, his fame made me cool by association. I didn’t need to be head cheerleader (which is good because I never could be), or SGA president (which is what I told myself when I dropped out of the race).

I was a local princess.

I had just looked down the hall to notice one of the few people who had never been fazed by my reputation talking animatedly to a girl I didn’t recognize at all when Mr. Ezhno strode out of the classroom.

“Miss Duke.” He closed the door behind him.

“I know we’ve had this conversation many times before, but you still don’t come in on time and honestly I don’t know what more I can do …”

I stopped listening. He was right; we had had this conversation so many times. He would prattle on about how it was not only disrespectful to him but also to my classmates, and so on, and then try to relate to me by telling me a story from his youth.

I shifted my focus back to the pair I’d been watching before Mr. Ezhno had come out. They were still there in front of the office, Liam talking enthusiastically to the girl I didn’t recognize. She said something that was apparently just hilarious, and he laughed appreciatively.

My chest tightened, the way it always did when I saw Liam. It had been such a long time since he’d ended things, and yet it still broke my heart a little to see him talking to another girl. I strained to hear them, knowing that a hundred yards was definitely out of my earshot. And then I caught the tail end of something Mr. Ezhno was saying.

“… expulsion.”

Wait, what?

I must have misheard.

“Excuse me?” He closed his eyes for a few seconds before responding.

“I said that your repeated insubordination and frequent tardiness haven’t stopped, despite all of our discussions on the matter. I’m going to have to send you to the office, and frankly, after being late so many times—” he raised his hands for a second, in a movement I knew to mean What else can I do? “—the usual punishment is expulsion.”

My dad would kill me. Kill me. This was the kind of thing that had led to him giving me an old car instead of a new one and suspending my credit cards. Every now and then he’d say something embarrassing on the air about how he thought the Giants were a shoo-in, back to you Rob, and he had to get home to his insubordinate daughter.

“Well, frankly, Mr. Ezhno …” I said his name like it was absurd, like he’d asked us to call him “Mr. Snugglekins” or something “.I think that the time we waste having our ‘discussions on the matter—'” I put his words in sarcastic finger quotes “—is a lot more distracting to the class than when I’m late by, like, thirty seconds. I mean, what, do you think that they’re studying in there?” I pointed a finger toward the classroom.

When he kept looking at me, I pursed my lips and nodded, like I was trying to convince him to buy something that looked great on him.

As if.

“Just … take this and go to the office.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. I could see the imprint of some of the words on the reverse side.

I glanced at him and gave him a look that said something like your loss and walked toward the office.

I felt a small drop in my stomach when I saw that Liam and the girl were gone. Fine, there would be no strutting dismissively past them, then.

As I walked down the hall, I read the note.

Miss Duke has been a constant distraction to this class. She comes in late almost every day and is always disruptive during class periods. Does not ask to use restroom, just leaves class whenever she wants to. Consistently talks over me to fellow classmates who are trying to listen.

Ha! Someone had no self-awareness.

… spends most of her trusted computer time surfing the web, and relentlessly tries to entertain the class by being inappropriate and disrespectful…

I stopped reading. He was obviously making me out to be an awful, desperate class clown, and I didn’t need to read anymore of that nonsense. I ripped the letter in half, and then, considering the embarrassment if someone were to read it, ripped it a few more times before tossing it in the nearest trash can.

Why was he foolish enough to think I would actually bring it with me?

IN THE MAIN OFFICE, I decided to tell the secretary that I would “like to speak with Headmaster Ransic” rather than say “I was made to come here due to my frequent tardiness and disregard for rules.”

She smiled, indicated that I should sit in one of the seats around the corner from her and said she’d call me when the headmaster was ready to see me.

I turned the corner and took a second to consider my options. I could sit next to this kid, Vince, who seemed to be there every time I was and who always tried to make conversation with me that was riddled with clichés, like “What’re y’in for?” and who muttered things like “Pissin’ contest.” He was a textbook bully and had been taking lunch money from kids for years, which only made him more irritating.

I found him loathsome, exactly the kind of low-rent person I hated. It’s like he thought it his duty to make other people’s lives harder for no reason at all. This was like his third year as a senior, and he seemed to look more disgusting and unwashed every day. But I suppose that made sense, if he didn’t bathe.

And it smelled like he didn’t.

I could sit next to Brett, who was probably there to talk about picking up some more community service hours or something equally academically-oriented to help him get into college, where he seemed so desperate to go, to make up for his years as a rebel.

Or I could sit next to a girl I remembered from my first class on my first day in high school.

The teacher of that class had not had either of our names on the roll, and had asked for anyone who hadn’t heard their name to raise their hand. We were sitting next to each other, and when we both raised our hands she had leaned toward me to say, “God, we’re such losers, aren’t we?” and laughed nervously.

I remember observing her low ponytail, too-light-and-shiny lipgloss and under-plucked eyebrows, and thinking, Well, one of us is, and not responding to her.

From what I had seen of her in the last few years, she seemed just as frantic for camaraderie and as ill-advised fashion-wise as she was then.

I took a seat next to Brett, guessing that he was the most likely to stay silent.

I was wrong. And I should have known better. He’d been trying to talk to me recently.

“Hey, Bridget.” He waved as he said it. Why wave? Like I’d wonder where on earth that voice was coming from if he didn’t?

I pulled my lips tight, making an expression that barely passed as a smile. It was impolite, but I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk.

He didn’t say anything else as we sat there, which was a long time, since the other two were called into the headmaster’s office first. When Brett’s name was called, he leapt from his seat like a cartoon character and walked as fast as he could without running.

Once he’d left, I went back to reading the magazine I’d stashed in my Prada bag.

Finally I heard my name called in the secretary’s nasally voice, and I headed toward the headmaster’s office. I noticed that Brett, who was exiting, avoided eye contact with me.

Drama queen.

By the time I reached the door of the office, I had plastered a wide smile across my face, all thoughts of Brett out the window. I shut the door behind me.

“Good morning, Headmaster.” I acted like we were old friends meeting for lunch.

“You’re pretty busy for so early in the morning.” I pointed a polished finger toward the now-empty waiting area.

“Yes, well, I’ve only got these seven and a half hours to fit in all the angst of private high school. So what is it you’re here for, Miss Duke?”

I let my smile fade and traded it for a much more serious expression, as I prepared to get out of trouble. My charm was a useful tool in these situations.

“Well—” I began, and the phone on his desk rang. He excused himself and answered it. I studied him as he listened to the person on the other line.

Headmaster Ransic was probably in his late forties and had obviously been attractive in his younger years. His hair was a little thin and graying at the temples, and there were faint lines in his face when he spoke or smiled, but he had blue eyes in a shade that looked hot on younger guys. There was something about him that made it seem strange that he worked at a school.

Perhaps it was his unkempt way of dressing and doing (or not doing) his hair. He seemed perfectly competent, but the fact that he wasn’t a carbon copy of some musty old politician seemed to turn off most of the parents at the school.

His desk, too, was different than the usual kind. It had none of those silly metal toys or anything. He had a frame that pictured him and a pretty woman who, judging by his naked ring finger, was his girlfriend. He had a couple of things that I supposed could only be called artifacts: one rock with two faces carved into it, a bowl that looked handmade and ancient and a few wooden sculptures. The only thing on the desk that looked at all academic or work-related was the yellow legal pad that lay in front of him.

I was just tilting my head to see what was written on the pad when he said, “All right then, I’ll talk to you later, John,” and hung up. I jerked guiltily back into a normal non-nosy position.

“All right, surprise me.” He leaned back in his chair.

From his knowing tone, I could tell that the jig was up. I was going to have to come up with a plan to get out of trouble. One that could explain my constant lateness and perhaps score me the chance to continue with my habit of sleeping in a bit.

“Well … it’s kind of hard to talk about.”

Probably because I didn’t know what I was going to say.

“It’s an easy question. Why is it that you can’t make it to class on time, like every other student?”

I took a deep breath.

“It’s my parents. Well, it’s my stepmother. I’ve hardly been able to get any sleep at home lately, so getting up so early has been a …” I searched for the right word “.challenge.”

“And why is that?”

Because I was watching reality TV late into the night and ignoring the texts of needy girls asking me to come hang out and guys asking Hey, what are you up to tonight?

“Well …” I tried to come up with something so personal that he wouldn’t dare pursue the subject. Maybe refer me to the guidance office, so I could get the hell out of here.

“Yes …?”

“Well, when my dad’s there, there’s a lot of yelling.” At the Redskins, the Orioles and every other sports team he followed like a maniac. I contemplated my next implication.

“And when he’s not, there are other noises.”

“Other noises? “

I bit my lip and looked down for a moment before meeting his eyes and delivering what I hoped would be The Silencer.

“My stepmother has … guests. Well, one guy in particular. It’s … uncomfortable to be around at those times especially, but—” I shrugged “—you know.”

My implication hung in the air for a moment, before he finally had the decency to look embarrassed and avert his eyes.

The truth was, the only objectionable sounds I’d ever heard coming from my stepmother’s room when my father was away were strains of Rod Stewart albums and, on one memorable occasion, the Partridge Family. And, more embarrassingly, her thin voice singing along.

But the headmaster didn’t know that.

The closest thing Meredith had to a male guest was Todd, the flaming interior decorator she’d employed for years who kept trying to leave chintz throw pillows on my bed. Apparently the mess in my room was “insulting” to him.

But the headmaster didn’t know that either.

“Really.” He didn’t say it like he wanted an answer. So I kept talking.

“Um, yeah. I mean I have to see him like five days a week, you know? That’s what makes it even worse.” I tried to look tortured for a moment. It was true; Todd was there all the time. Since Meredith didn’t have a job, she had nothing better to do than to redecorate every room in my house from bottom to top, baseboard to crown molding. I also suspected Todd might be one of her best friends.

I wasn’t sure if that was sad or not.

“That must be difficult,” he agreed, looking hesitant.

I nodded. Now it was time to get back on track.

“Listen, I’m not really comfortable talking about this,” I said, and it was true.

“The point is that I think it’s been hard at home, and it’s been hard in class.”

He paused.

“I certainly am sorry to hear about your trouble at home, but I still don’t see what one has to do with the other.”

Why wasn’t he letting this go?

I floundered, trying to wrap it up in a way that made sense.

“Well, how would you like to have the two people who hate you most plotting together about your future for their own convenience?” I was embarrassed at how clear the hurt was in my voice.

But Mr. Ransic had already lost patience.

“Miss Duke, I still don’t see what you’re talking about, and the point—”

“What I’m talking about is my stepmother and Mr. Ezhno’s little private …'rendezvous.'” I was raising my voice a little bit more, not having realized how mad I was about this until now. All the parent-teacher conferences that Meredith left saying what a “nice man” Mr. Ezhno was, and how “we both” just want the best for me, and that this kind of behavior wouldn’t “cut it in college.”

“I mean, why should I have to suffer because my teacher is, like, in love with my stepmom and he’s trying to impress her or whatever by scheming with her?”

I was practically panting.

“Are you saying—”

“I’m saying it’s personal,” I spat.

“Not professional. Not academic. Per-son-al.”

Mr. Ransic finally looked like he didn’t know what to say. Thank God. It was about time he pulled his nose out of my business. Whether it was imaginary business or not.

At last, looking as if he had a speculative grasp on the situation and the fact that Mr. Ezhno and Meredith had something personal against me and that I needed help, not punishment, he said something about his busy day and stood up to open the door for me. I walked out, finally free from being judged.

Two HOURS LATER, I WAS in the locker room with Michelle, one of my best friends. Our gym lockers were next to one another, which was convenient for my venting.

“I was seriously only thirty seconds late. And it wasn’t even my fault! It was his beloved Meredith’s fault.”

“Yeah, that sucks.” Michelle pulled on her shorts. She’d had them since freshman year, and they didn’t really fit her anymore.

“You know, you should really buy new shorts this year. Those are getting a little tight on your hips. I think they’ll order some for you if they don’t have your size.”

I pulled on mine, which I’d been forced to buy two sizes too big because I got stuck with one of the last pairs before I knew they could just order them, and my father had told me to deal with them (his go-to response whenever I complained—it really sucks that he’s not a pushover). Meredith had said, in that irritatingly sweet way of hers, that maybe I’d grow into them. Yeah, right, like I’d ever let myself go up two sizes.

They were constantly slipping down, putting me an inch away from embarrassment every time.

“Mine, on the other hand, are huge.” I pulled on the waistband, and looked down at my sneakers through the pant legs.

“Okay, so what happened when you came in late?” Michelle asked sharply.

“Basically, he sent me to the office with this totally stupid note talking about how I’m some kind of menace. Ugh, and he said something about me distracting other students who were trying to pay attention.”

I watched Michelle for an aghast reaction, and was disappointed to see her fiddling with the cord on her shorts.

I kept talking.

“It was so stupid. So then I had to wait for like, ever, with three of Winchester Prep’s Least Wanted.” I looked expectantly at Michelle again.

She was tugging violently on her waistband now.

“Are you even listening, Michelle? Or are you just going to rip your pants trying to make them fit?”

She looked up, like she’d forgotten I was there.

“Oh, sorry, go on, I was listening.”

I sighed.

“So, finally I go in, right, and then I’m about to be super-nice and just say something about how I promised not to be late anymore, and how homework’s been hard lately, possibly start crying, and then …” I paused for emphasis “… Mr. Ezhno actually called the office to tell him that not only was I late but that I was disruptive or whatever.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. So then I knew I was going to have to think fast, and really all I wanted to do was to get out of there, right? So I start talking about how Meredith’s always got this ‘male guest’ over.”

Michelle didn’t see my finger quotes, or my self-impressed smile, because she was back to messing with her shorts.

My smile faded and I decided to finish my story, because obviously she was incapable of paying attention.

“I just complained about how she and Mr. Ezhno were always meeting and stuff, and how he was like in love with her, and how everything he does is because of that.” I looked at her. Was nothing I said going to get her attention? “And how they’re totally doing it,” I added, just to get a reaction.

“Wait, what?” She looked up.

I glared at her, and a whistle blew to indicate the beginning of gym. Oblivious to the ball I’d just set rolling, I flounced off to class.