"Maybe she has natural talent," Mrs.
Brentwood offered. "You can test her."
"Yes. Of course. Yes," Mrs. Grossbard said, but without much enthusiasm. She returned to her volleyball net, and we continued. I looked out the rear doors, which opened to the ball fields, the tennis courts, and a golf driving range and putting green. None of that had been visible from the front of the building, and I was surprised at how big the school grounds were and how beautifully kept.
"The courts were a gift from one of our anonymous benefactors," Mrs. Brentwood
commented.
The corridor took us around to additional classrooms and the library. A tall, lean, dark-haired man was working at the file cabinet.
"This is Mr. Monk, our librarian," she said, and he paused. "Our new student, Celeste Atwell."
"Welcome," he said. "I'll give you a tour on your study period. We have a half dozen computers and twenty thousand volumes," he said proudly. "Students from the community college come here often to do research. With written permission first, of course," he added, nodding at Mrs. Brentwood.
She nodded without speaking, and he returned to his files as if it were brain surgery and he couldn't spare a second of his attention.
"Thank you," I said, and we walked to the lobby and then down to her office, where she paused.
"I guess that's easy enough to navigate. You can go to your homeroom. You still have three minutes, and your teacher, Mr. Hersh, who is also your math teacher, will enter you in his books. Good luck and welcome," she said, her pretty smile and soft eyes returning.
I thought of a deer in the woods and how it could blend in so well it could almost disappear. Like a chameleon, she could change colors, but in her case it was moods, appearances, whatever fit the moment. Perhaps that was the skill of a successful
administrator, a politician. She was telling me she could be all things to all people. Satisfy her, and she'd be Mrs. Sweet. Cross her, and she'd be Mrs. Executioner.
"Thank you," I said, and continued down the hallway to my homeroom. Even though she had spent time giving me a quick tour of the building, a lecture full of veiled threats, and introductions to some of the teachers, I felt tossed into the unknown. At my old school, the student body provided what we called Big Sisters or Big Brothers, who would at least show the new students about for a while and introduce them to other students. They had someone to talk to so that they didn't feel completely alone and strange. I guess everyone here is assumed to be independent and sophisticated enough not to mind, I thought. What choice did I have anyway?
Despite what I had been told about the size of the student body, I was still surprised to see only about eighteen students in the entire senior class. All eyes were on me the moment I opened the door and entered the room. The redheaded boy I had seen down the hall was in the first row, slumping, his long legs sprawled under the desk so that his black running shoes protruded in the front. He had patches of freckles on the crests of his cheeks and a dimple in his left cheek. The sharp bright blue of his eyes and the orange tint of his lips gave him a colorful face. He was smiling impishly, as if he knew all about me.
Beside him sat, I thought, a far more interesting and good-looking dark-haired boy, whose ebony eyes announced his sensitivity and intelligence. He sat straighter, firmer, and, without radiating arrogance, looked more athletic and self-confident. His eyes held mine for a moment, and then he softened his lips and looked at the teacher again.
I gazed at the rest of the class and thought the girls had as much interest in and curiosity about me as did the boys. One girl in particular, a pretty brunette with hazel brown eyes, looked a little upset at my entrance.
It was as though I had interrupted something she was saying or doing. She glared at the dark-haired boy and then back at me as I approached the desk.
Mr. Hersh was standing with his hands on his hips, his jacket unbuttoned. He looked at least in his fifties, with curly black hair sprinkled with gray and blue-gray eyes. I could sense he was in the middle of reprimanding the group. He straightened up quickly and turned to me.
"Welcome," he said. "Class, this is Celeste Atwell, who was just enrolled this morning." I waited as he jotted something in his register. Then he looked up and smiled. "Why don't you take the empty desk at the end of the first row, Celeste. I was just finishing up today's announcements, and we have only another minute or so before the first-period bell rings."
"Thank you," I said.
"How polite," the redheaded boy quipped. Some of the other boys widened their smiles, but not the dark-haired boy beside him. He simply shook his head.
I walked across the room and turned up the aisle, gazing at the pretty brunette girl as I passed her. I looked at her with some interest because of how hard she was staring at me, but she didn't smile back. As soon as I took my seat, Mr. Hersh continued.
"And so, as I was saying, Mrs. Brentwood wanted me to point out that someone has been careless about throwing paper towels into the garbage can in the girls' room in this corridor. If anyone sees a paper towel on the floor, she should put it into the bin."
"Ugh," a short, light-brown-haired girl moaned. "Who wants to pick up someone else's dirt?"
The girls around her nodded.
"Why can't you girls be as neat as we boys?" the redheaded boy cried. The other boys cheered.
"You don't wipe your hands on towels, Waverly. You wipe them on your pants," the short girl retorted, and there were cheers and hisses.
"All right, that's enough," Mr. Hersh said firmly. The students quieted down instantly. "You all spend most of your day in this building. You should be treating it the way you treat your homes."
"That's the problem," another boy shouted, and there was more laughter.