It was no secret that Faith was blossoming daily. And we had all had sex ed and knew exactly why.
“But what—”
“We don’t gossip here at Hedgebrook,” Mrs. Wicket warns.
“Of course we do,” Jillian says.
“But not very much,” Mira clarifies.
“Why does she have to leave?” I ask.
“We aren’t really set up for babies here,” Mrs. Wicket says.
“And the boy, does he have to leave too?” I ask.
“He doesn’t attend Hedgebrook.”
“Well, I bet wherever he attends school, he’s not missing a single day of it,” Jillian says.
The room dims. I think I am the only one to notice. And then it lightens again, like a cloud has passed the sun. For a brief moment everyone is frozen in time, like the sculptures that decorate the garden, and I look at each one, wondering at how easily their lives are intersected by simple things beyond their control, like wind and clouds and people.
“Aren’t you going to ask where Seth is, Des?” Mira asks.
Seth is new this year, and just because I happened to notice him when he first arrived and made a comment about his scruffy blond hair, Mira seems to think I have an interest in him. Which I don’t, of course, because that would break my number-one rule: Don’t get attached. But I can’t stop observing. It is my habit, always on the outside, looking at the armor others clothe themselves with, comparing their natures with my own, trying to imagine how they got that way and understand why circumstances crowd into one life and not another. Seth is connection to my distance, smiles and easiness to my everyday calculations, and I wonder at the divergent paths that have created us. But I don’t wonder overly much. I find his smoothness impossibly annoying, and I don’t really care where he is, but Mira still watches me, waiting for a response.
“All right, Mira,” I sigh. “Where’s Seth?”
Aidan steals Mira’s wind. “He has early-morning trash duty.”
“What did he do?” Jillian asks, leaning forward, the scoop about Seth far more interesting than her shriveled sausage.
I see Mrs. Wicket faintly shake her head, resigned to the passing of the story.
Aidan tips his chair back. “Yesterday in English lit, Mr. Bingham opened the window—”
“And a strong breeze flew in!” Mira finishes. “It blew some papers off the desk—”
“And it blew his hair.”
“Oh, my God, not his—”
“That’s right! His comb-over!” Aidan confirms. “The whole class was trying not to laugh and then Seth raised his hand. Mr. Bingham calls on him, and Seth says, ‘Uh, Mr. Bingham . . . looks like the lid on your treasure chest is open.’”
Squeals and snorts explode through the dining room. Mrs. Wicket clears her throat.
“What did Bingham do?” Jillian asks.
“Mr. Bingham,” Mrs. Wicket corrects her.
“What else could he do?” Aidan answers. “He shut the lid. And once the whole class quit laughing, he gave Seth detention and trash duty.”
“That hardly seems fair,” Jillian says, picking up her sausage with her fingers and nibbling on it.
“It’s an English class, after all,” Ben reminds everyone. “And Seth did use a metaphor.”
“A good one too.”
“He really should’ve gotten extra credit, don’t you think?” Mira adds. “It was a compliment of sorts.”