Читать книгу Not That Kind Of Girl - Siobhan Vivian, Siobhan Vivian - Страница 14

CHAPTER EIGHT

Heads turned when I entered the library. I was still a few minutes early, but the room was already full. Several wooden tables had been pushed together to make one huge rectangle. I scanned for a vacant seat, until I remembered that mine was the one at the very front of the room.

“Where’ve you been?” Autumn asked.

“I was talking to Spencer in the bathroom, trying to get her to join student council. I think it could be really beneficial for her.” And then I had a great idea. “You should talk to her, Autumn. Tell her how good this was for you.”

Her mouth wrinkled up. “What do you mean?”

I could tell she was getting mad, and I guessed this wasn’t the best time to get into a conversation about the Fish Sticks incident. “Never mind,” I said.

I thought about asking someone to move, so Autumn could sit near me at the front of the room, but before I could, she took a chair in the last row, near the door. Which sucked, but was probably for the best. I didn’t want to look like I was playing favorites with my best friend. And if she had really wanted to sit up front, she would have run for vice president, like I’d suggested.

Dipak fought with the plastic window shades, pulling until they snapped up, exposing the library to a weak September sunlight. Outside, the tops of the trees — fiery reds and oranges and yellows — blazed through the thick leaded glass. Martin leaned over and whispered, “There are a lot of kids here, don’t you think?”

I nodded, and tried not to focus on the tiny flake of dandruff floating in a tuft of Martin’s wiry black hair.

Ms. Bee shut the doors and the talking quieted. She nodded at me to begin. I stood up and cupped my note cards in my hand.

“Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming,” I said, projecting my voice as best as I could, and then flipped to the next card. I probably should have written more than a sentence on each one, but my handwriting was really bad, and I wanted to make sure I could read it. “I am thrilled to have been voted president of student council at Ross Academy, and I call this, our first meeting, to order.” A few people clapped, which felt good.

“It’s going to be a very busy and exciting year, with lots of expectations on our shoulders. Everyone who participated in student council last year knows that I have enormous shoes to fill.” I went on to proudly list the many accomplishments of Will Branch, our most recent president. In addition to his regular student council duties, Will also established a senior lounge with leather couches, filibustered the banning of The Chocolate War by storming a secret school board meeting with a Gandhi-inspired sit-in, and coordinated a student-teacher basketball game to raise money for a freshman with leukemia.

Will had set the bar high, but I was going to aim higher. “Rest assured,” I said, “I have innovative ideas of my own. Including —”

Just then, the door slowly creaked open, and Spencer stuck her head inside. She had tried to be quiet, but everyone turned to look. “Sorry!” she said, and excused her way through the room, passing plenty of open spots, until she found a place to squeeze in at the table.

Clearly, it wasn’t the best timing. But I couldn’t be mad. I was happy that Spencer had shown up after all. Not just shown up, but pushed her way to the front, where the older students sat. The girl was fearless. I smiled and flipped to my next card.

“In addition to this year’s pep rally festivities, I’ve decided that, as my first act as student council president, we will have our very first bonfire, to take place immediately after the football team annihilates Saint Ann’s.” Whispers instantly overtook the room. People were excited. It was exactly the reaction I’d hoped for.

“I promise to work as hard as possible and make sure I leave Ross Academy a better place. But I can’t do this alone. I’ll need you to sign up for as many committees as possible, and join me, help me. Together, I know we will be able to accomplish great things. Thank you.” With a nod, I sat back down to another round of applause.

David replaced me at the podium and went over the list of committees that would immediately need members, beginning with the pep committee. Dipak addressed the state of our treasury. Low. I resisted the urge to shoot a dirty look at Kevin Stroop. This, Dipak explained, could possibly extinguish my bonfire plans.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I think the idea is cool. But how are we going to pay for it? We’ll need a permit, and to pay for the wood, and —”

“The permit fee would be waived,” I explained. “I already worked that out with the local fire department.” Of course I did. I wouldn’t have suggested the idea if I hadn’t thought it at least partially through. And I didn’t appreciate the hint of condescension in Dipak’s voice. But one thing I hadn’t thought about was who would pay for the wood. “We’ll just get a business to sponsor the bonfire,” I said.

“I’m not sure that would work with Ross Academy rules,” Ms. Bee said. “You know the board voted down the branded soda machines a few years back.”

Spencer cleared her throat. “We could sell little kits to make s’mores and roast hot dogs. That would help offset the costs.”

“That’s a great idea, Spencer,” I said. Seriously. I was impressed.

Dipak shook his head. “Offset is a good start. But we hardly have the collateral to begin with.”

The room got quiet. I felt my good idea going up in smoke.

Autumn raised her hand. You didn’t need to raise your hand at student council meetings, but Autumn so rarely spoke up, she probably never noticed. “How about you ask Connor Hughes? Maybe he could donate it.”

I could have kissed her, it was the perfect solution. Connor’s family owned the Hughes Christmas Tree Farm. They probably had plenty of scrap wood we could burn.

The rest of the meeting went smoothly. I took dutiful notes and loved the way that all the people in the room found me, talked to my eyes. I was the focal point.

Ms. Bee looked surprised when Spencer raised her hand to be a freshman rep. And maybe it was a little bit overkill, but she also signed up for almost every single committee and group.

After the meeting, Ms. Bee asked if she could speak with me for a minute. She walked me over to the portrait wall, away from everyone else.

“I love the bonfire idea, Natalie. It takes me back to my Ivy League days. You’re really thinking outside the box. And I’m anxious to see what other projects you propose this year.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bee.”

She leaned in close. “I didn’t want to tell you this before, in case something terribly unjust happened and you didn’t win the election. But there have only been eight other female student council presidents in the history of Ross Academy, and none since I returned to teach here eleven years ago. Which, honestly, as a woman who cares deeply about these sorts of things, made me feel like a complete failure.”

I turned to say something, but Ms. Bee just stood there, admiring the wall and the rows and rows of slightly dusty frames holding the portraits of former student council presidents. It took a second before I realized her picture was right in front of me.

I knew Ms. Bee had divorced her husband — a professor of philosophy — several years ago. They’d lived overseas and had never had children. After the separation, she’d returned to her childhood home in Liberty River and begun teaching at Ross Academy.

She had been beautiful back then, too. Pin-straight raven hair, dark eyes, small pearl studs and a tiny gold cross. She was grinning more than smiling, one eyebrow arched with a tinge of mischievousness. Nancy Bee.

Ms. Bee pointed to the empty space next to the final picture, of Will Branch. Unfortunately, he’d blinked at the worst possible time. I wondered if people ten years from now might assume he was blind. “This is where your senior portrait will hang, Natalie. It’s an exclusive club, but I know you’ll make a wonderful member. And you’ll be known forever as number nine.”