“Now, what we have to do is tell Daddy we have tons of homework every night, tests, term papers. And we have the housework to do as well. He’ll understand, and he’ll tell her that, and very quickly she’ll see that she must get on her feet and put a stop to this ‘Oh, woe is me’ routine.”
“But—”
“Didn’t I tell you it would turn our world topsy-turvy? Didn’t I?”
“Yes, but whoever thought she would have a miscarriage?”
“Do you want me to quote the statistics of failed pregnancies occurring in women over forty?”
“Dr. Moffet thought it would be all right.”
She smiled. “Next time we see him, ask him why he was so confident.”
I was silent. I felt very confused. Was Cassie right? Was this the best thing to do? Ignore Mother?
“Remember when I used to tell you how we have to be special, Semantha, how we come from a very important bloodline? How we have to be perfect? Well, here’s an example of it. Just pull yourself together and follow me, and you’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.” She smiled to herself and chanted in a whisper, “We’re the Heavenstone sisters, the Heavenstone sisters.”
It was still echoing in my brain when we pulled into the school parking lot. Since my incident with Kent and the aftermath, I had a sinking feeling whenever I thought about school. That returned in spades this morning. I hurried to my locker and then to my homeroom, not even looking to see if anyone was interested in saying good morning to me. I took my seat and waited for Mr. Wegman, our homeroom teacher, to begin taking attendance. Roxanne Peters, who sat behind me, tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, and she leaned forward.
“Jami Wright’s mother called my mother and told her your mother had a miscarriage. Is that true?”
I stared at her a moment and turned around again without speaking. For a moment, it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. I felt her breath on my neck as she leaned even farther forward to whis
per.
“My mother said she wasn’t surprised and wondered why a woman your mother’s age with two fully grown daughters would start over with another baby. Was it an accident?”
“What?” I cried, spinning on her. Some of the other students stopped talking to each other and looked at us.
“I mean, her getting pregnant?”
“It’s none of your business or your mother’s business,” I said.
When she smiled, I couldn’t help myself. Something broke inside me, and I lifted her desk so that it fell back on her, knocking her and her chair to the floor. The noise was like a firecracker. Mr. Wegman stopped taking attendance. No one moved, no one spoke, until Roxanne began to cry. I was sent out with a written referral to see Mr. Hastings, the principal. Referrals from a teacher were like speeding tickets policemen gave to drivers, only we had to stand before the judge immediately. I was trembling so much when I left the homeroom I thought I would faint. Somehow, holding my breath all the way, I made it to Mr. Hastings’s office. His secretary took the referral, read it, gave me a look of surprise, and then told me to take a seat and wait. She went into his inner office with the referral.
The threads of all sorts of terrible thoughts spun in my brain. How disappointed would Daddy be when he found out? Would Mother somehow find out, and would that set her back even more? How would Cassie react? What about the rest of my teachers, who all thought good things about me? What punishment would Mr. Hastings dole out? Would Cassie be called out of class to take me home? Daddy was already in Lexington, I imagined. It would be just horrible if he had to turn back because of me.
“Mr. Hastings will see you now, Semantha,” his secretary said, and stood back in the doorway to permit me to enter. I did so slowly, probably walking like someone about to go to the electric chair.
Mr. Hastings sat back in his desk chair. I had never gotten anything but a smile or a pleasant hello from him, but I knew from the testimony of other students, students who were in trouble frequently, that he could be more like the warden of a maximum-security prison than a kind-hearted administrator in a public school. At the moment, his face didn’t show a tiny hint of disappointment or surprise. It was the face of the executioner, firm and dark.
A tall, stout man, Mr. Hastings had been a college football star. He was as big and as robust as Daddy and held a commanding presence behind his desk. To me, it looked as if he could press a button and drop me into some dark pit for punishment. His thick, dark brown hair was almost military short. He had a nearly square jaw, two piercing hazel eyes, and firm, straight lips, pressing on each other so hard they formed tiny white spots in the corners.
“Sit,” he said, nodding at the chair in front of his desk. I went to it quickly. He looked at the referral again, as if he had to read it many times to believe what it said.
Before he could speak, his secretary knocked on the door and poked her head in.
“What is it, Mrs. Whitman?”
“The nurse says Roxanne Peters has a nasty bruise on her right elbow. She is advising her mother to take her for an X-ray.”
He didn’t speak immediately. He looked at Mrs. Whitman and then at me and nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Whitman. Please have Mrs. Mills inform me about the follow-up ASAP.”
“Yes, Mr. Hastings,” Mrs. Whitman said. She backed out, closing the door.
“You’ve been here long enough to know I have a no-excuse, no-defense policy when it comes to anyone being physically violent with anyone in my school,” he began.