Here Lies Bridget. Paige Harbison

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ