by Gurley, Jan
But the Dog’s shoulders were too wide, they were blocking too much of his face. “Come on,” I barely breathed the words, “look up. Look at me.” Through the lens, like he maybe sensed someone watching, his face turned sideways, down the hall toward me. Joy fizzed up inside my chest like a sparkler and I hit the autosnap button of the camera and held it, a tiny explosive electronic cha-ching, zing, zingzingzingzin. Not one picture — a bazillion pictures –close-up, stop-motion filming. Reflected gold light from the double doors underlit him, and he was gorgeous — bare pecs, cheekbones, mussed hair. No wonder Celia paid $400 for this.
But in that micro-second of time, as I concentrated, channeling everything I had into one photo-shoot, the image changed through the lens. He was not an iCandy snap, not a way to save my trees, not even the Dog.
He became a person. He had a raw scratch across his shoulder-blade and his hair was sweaty and clumped and even if he was a pitt, he was even more gorgeous because he was real. He focused on me, his gaze no longer distant, one sharp black eyebrow going up even as the tiny zinzinzin of the camera’s autosnap grabbed pictures faster than my racing pulse. For a flicker of an instant, I could have sworn his eyes narrowed and sparkled with amusement.
My breath stuck in my throat.
Busted.
I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I maybe expected he’d straighten up in surprise or anger and, like a massive Orc in a video game, head down the hall after me.
What I never expected was that a hand would grab my hair from behind and slam me into the ground.
CHAPTER TWO
From Bad To Worse
Chapter 2
This was the most crowded I’d ever seen the waiting room for the Dean’s office. I figured, to assemble the hordes, it had taken all of the time (two hours) since I was Taken Down.
Yes, Taken Down. That is exactly how the security detail described it when they gave their report to the Dean: Underage female, presumed trespasser, Taken Down in main corridor outside men’s locker room.
Given how my wrist, face, head and skull felt, Taken Down is apparently police-speak for the act of subduing someone by inflicting the most damage possible. Cheekbone-rocking-on-concrete-floor is a required step in the process.
But the excitement didn’t end there. Here are the fights that have already occurred:
My Dean (Dean Verona) rips into the University’s Dean (Dean Padua, the pig), for not informing the campus-at-large that a professional security detail had been hired to cover the game. Dean Verona, a mite bit testy, also mutters that a full security detail must have cost a fortune and her pod can’t even afford art paper. Dean Padua sneers back, “well there’s no point throwing good money after bad, now is there?” Before they come to blows, the head of the security detail butts in and explains to Dean Verona that they were hired to monitor adherence to NCAA restrictions on recruiter activities, and to prevent unauthorized filming of minors (yikes). The Dog, sulking in the corner of the waiting room (with his shirt on, I might add), is not yet 18. By a couple of months, but still.
Presumably to prove the security guy’s point, within minutes the media storm the school and nearly cause a riot. People are climbing on cars, using lenses that I’ve only dreamed of, shoving into hallways in an organized scrum and even prying at locked doors, thereby setting off random alarms all over our four acre campus. The security detail (Giant Men In Polyester Suits with Curly-Tailed Hearing Aids In Their Ears) are losing the battle and are forced to call the Actual, Real Police. The sound of staticky walkie-talkie cop-chatter fading and then growing in the hallway outside the Dean’s office makes my stomach knot so hard I think I’m going to puke.
The Dog’s mom, an imposing woman named Mrs. Bullard with a solid, curved bumper of breasts and a perma-frown (why does she seem so familiar — if only my head would stop hurting I might remember), rips into my Dean (Dean Verona) for not caring about the safety of her son. “A student at this school, I might add,” Mrs. Bullard adds, unnecessarily.
My mom (not imposing ever) rips into Mrs. Bullard AND the University Dean (Dean Padua, the pig) about the fact that her underage daughter is not a possible victim, but an actual victim of professional assault. She demands a wet towel for my face — twice — but in the shouting argument, no one seems to listen. Go mom. I try, all nearly-six-feet of me, to look delicate and feeble.
Tio, in a misguided attempt to help, arrives with Bianca and tells Dean Verona that Celia and I merely wanted some shots for our extracurricular newspaper. Dean Verona peers out of slitty eyes over her bifocals at me. I get the feeling she knows that Celia and I are about as likely to team up on some fun (giggle!) project as the Dog and Tio are. We’re talking total culture clash. Once Celia’s name is spoken, Celia’s parents (have I mentioned that they’re both lawyers?) arrive in a poof of noxious green smoke (or was that my imagination?). Celia’s parents state loudly that — unlike some people (pointed look at me)– Celia has college to worry about in two years. Undoubtedly, according to them, an Ivy. They threaten every lawsuit known to humankind if their daughter’s name is ever associated with this “sordid scuffle.”
Celia, unwisely, pipes up and — waving her piece of paper — also threatens to sue if she doesn’t get her $400 naked photo of the Dog.
The whole room went silent. All heads swiveled toward me (camera still around my neck and baggie of ice-chips slumped against my vertical, crusted scab-hair). It was so quiet, you could’ve heard the tiny click of a camera shutter.
Dean Padua, the pig, stalked across the room and said in a scary voice while looming over me. “What photo.”
In the silence right after, Tio said, “Kate doesn’t do naked.”
All heads turned toward Tio.
He shrank to miniature poodle size, but unfortunately kept yapping. “Not that I’d know. That’s just what Kate says. Not, like, every day, you understand. And when I say ‘do naked,’ I mean Take Naked Photos. She’ll do naked from the waist up, maybe.” (collective gasp) “Not herself, I mean, but…”
Thank God he stopped talking.
That’s when Padua put his hand out, palm up. I took a deep breath and lifted the camera strap over my head. Dean Verona materialized next to Dean Padua and said, “It’s our camera, give it to me.” So I did. Dean Padua turned a raw-beef color in the face. Somehow I don’t think Dean Verona likes Dean Padua any more than I do.
Deans Verona and Padua, in the silence, stood close together as Dean Verona held the monster-camera at eye level and turned it on. You could see the multi-color glow of the digital display reflected on Dean Verona’s glasses. She clicked through the first couple of shots in the locker room. I knew she was looking at the photos that hadn’t worked — the mug shot, the confused look — those. “Well,” she said brightly, “that’s not so bad!”
Then she clicked another couple of times and froze. “Oh,” she said in a little voice.
After a long pause, she clicked again. “Oh, my.” Dean Padua, beside her, raised both eyebrows. His face had gone from raw-beef to raw-chicken-skin color.
Dean Verona clicked a few more, paused, turned the camera for a vertical view and, then, without realizing it, she fanned herself.
That was when Mrs. Bullard, the Dog’s mom, stepped forward and snatched the camera out of Dean Verona’s hand. Before looking at the viewfinder, Mrs. Bullard stared at me, like a challenge.
The weird thing was, I hadn’t actually seen the pictures yet. But I could imagine how they would look. Especially to his mom. I cringed in my seat. Everyone in the room looked away from me.
What really hurt, though, was that my mom, in her chair next to mine, unconsciously shifted away from me. Like maybe she was cringing, too. For the first time, and we’re talking not even when my nose bled, not even when the Dog came around the corner and saw me pinned on the ground with my crinoline crumpled up, not even when my head was banged against the concrete so hard I saw flashing lights, for the first time in all this, it all ca
me crashing home. I felt the heat of embarrassment flash-bulb my face. The edges of the room flickered with tears that tried to form. I swallowed hard.
I would not cry. Not now. No way. Oh please, not now in front of all these people.
But then, as Mrs. Bullard lifted the camera up to look, my mom sat up straight, her chin raised, and stiffly scooted next to me and put her arm around the back of my chair. I felt her hand on my shoulder and she pulled me close, tilting me over until my sore head nestled under her jaw. A tiny knot loosened in my throat and I could swallow again.
That’s how we were sitting when Mrs. Bullard looked up from the viewfinder, her face very, very Barbie pink. Strangely, the person she stared at was my mom. Not me. There seemed to be a long moment of silent communication between them. My mom stayed stiff beside me.
After a shuddery deep breath, Mrs. Bullard tugged down on the front of her dress and said, “I have one very important question for you, young lady. And believe me, I can get Dean Padua to interview every student in this school to verify your answer if necessary, so don’t even think about lying to me.”
My mom stiffened even more and I knew why. Mrs. Bullard had no business accusing me of lying. But then Mrs. Bullard asked me the one question I couldn’t answer truthfully. Not here.
“Tell me what you were going to buy with the $400.”
The room erupted in muttered surprise. Dean Padua, “I hardly think that’s the most important issue…” Dean Verona, “There’s such a thing as privacy. You can’t grill my students about any topic that enters your head…” Celia, “Look at her clothes. Isn’t it obvious?”
My mom gave me a sharp look, like she just remembered about the money. Most birthdays and holidays I answered the question of so-what-do-you-want with a distracted “I dunno.” Sure, I like nice things as much as the next person. But I tend to earn and then buy things when I need them, and I put some effort into not wanting things I’ve got no hope of owning. Until I saw the redwood fairy circle, that is.
It was really easy to think of Dean Padua (the pig) as the enemy, and just as hard to think of Dean Verona as an enemy — but the brutal truth was, they both were The Enemy. Because once the school found out that our group, the Greenbacks, wanted to buy that tiny strip of land on the edge of the field, the school would simply raise the price, or ban us from purchasing it before they could buy it.
Yet here I stood in a small room, with the people who could destroy any hope of saving my trees, being asked to talk openly about our semi-secret club’s fundraising. It made the bottom of my stomach shake — you know that rumble you feel in your guts when you’re too close to the tracks and a train goes by?
I had to say something. If I got expelled, we’d never make it and the trees would be razed. The other club members also cared about the trees, sure, but really, everyone knew I was the possessed fiend who drove them all like a maniac-demon with a whip (although they only called me that in the nicest way, I’m sure).
Mrs. Bullard, like she owned the school (maybe she does), said, “Quiet down, everyone. I think I have a solution here, but it depends on the answer to my question.”
Everyone looked at me. Except the Dog, who still lounged in his chair and stared at a far corner of the ceiling like all of this was beneath him.
When cornered by adults, I rely on time-tested methods.
1) Evasion:
“You mean, was I going to buy drugs or something like that?” I gave a tittery laugh. “I’m so not into that. Really. I’m not.” Tio and my mom chimed in to back me up. And, surprisingly, Celia too.
“No way,” said Celia. “That crowd wouldn’t allow her in if she was the last student left in school.”
Mrs. Bullard: “I want to know specifically what you wanted the money for. You took a lot of risk, young lady. Why?”
2) Distraction:
“I didn’t think it was that much risk. Not really — it was just a photo of another student. Celia’s the one who made it difficult.”
Celia: “You’re the one who came up to me and offered to take a naked photo of any guy I wanted!” She sucked in her cheeks. “I would never…”
Mrs. Bullard, to me: “I’m still waiting for your answer.”
She’s tough, I’ll give her that. I was forced to pull out my most potent weapon.
3) Partial truth:
“Have you seen Celia’s piece of paper?”
Mrs. Bullard: “Hand it here.”
Celia: “But Daddy!…it’s mine. Now I’ll never…”
Mrs. Bullard: “Hmm, this is clearly a work-order. Tell me about iCandy.”
“Eye candy?” said Dean Verona in a horror-struck voice. She — again — fanned herself.
“No,” I answered, “little i. Like iPhone, iPod. iCandy is the name of a fundraiser some of us are doing for a school club. We”- no point is saying it was just me — “take a spontaneous digital shot of the student of your choice, print it 8 by 10, put magnetic strips on the top and bottom, and you can hang it in your locker. Ten dollars and your digital photo is a one and only. They’re erased afterward.”
“What club is doing this?” said Dean Verona.
“Greenbacks,” I said, “It’s an environmental club.” The trick now was for me to say enough to convince them our club was legitimate, without saying enough to raise any red flags.
Tio, catching on, said, “Kate started Greenbacks this year. There are eight of us who belong and we believe money works — that you can’t use violence to change people’s minds about helping the environment. We do iCandy orders and used book sales and rummage sales and…” I knew he suddenly realized he wasn’t supposed to mention the Flash Mob Snack sales (we buy banned junk food, sodas and transfats and sell it on campus in secret — notifying potential buyers The Store Is Open and the location on school grounds by tweets only). “Well. You get the picture. Greenbacks raises money for environmental…things.”
Mrs. Bullard gave him a sharp look.
Dean Padua said, “I want this verified.”
Dean Verona said, “Should be simple. All school clubs are registered and all fundraising has to be deposited in the school bank.”
I said, as off-handed as I could manage, “You can check if you want. It’s all there.” I hoped to God no one really checked it out and found out how much money we had, or where all that money was going. Our only real protection is that we were buried among 438 other clubs. Unlike the other Legacy pods, the school bank at Academy wasn’t computerized, partly because of lack of funds for a database and partly because that never seems to be a priority for arty people. Our pod still struggled with ledgers and paper receipts, so it would take some work to dig up all our Greenbacks entries and total them.
Mrs. Bullard said, “Stand up. Let me take a look at you.”
My mom gave me a look and I thought this was going to be one of those annoying adult moments where they make you do the slow-twirl so they can comment about how you’ve grown, or that you look like a “fine young woman,” or something like that. I slouched out of the chair.
But Mrs. Bullard surprised me. “That’s a nasty hit you took. Can’t someone get her a washcloth? Or at least some paper towels?”
Dean Verona started toward the door. “Wait,” said Mrs. Bullard, “what am I thinking. Andrew!”
The whole room startled. Who the heck was Andrew? Her valet?
“Andrew!” Still no answer. After a long pause, the Dog unfolded from his chair. “Yes,” he said, sullen.
“Go get her a washcloth. Now.”
Hello? Andrew?
I stared in shock as he did his slow, sulky walk out the door but Mrs. Bullard took my chin in her fingers and turned me back to look at her. “Something made this $400 a priority. How much money, total, does your club need?”
It was like being asked by someone you don’t know very well, if you had one wish, what would you wish for. Do you act cool and pretend it’s a joke? Or do you take the chance of looking like a fool and answer
with your heart open?
I swallowed hard, trying to decide.
Mrs. Bullard said, “You come from good people. I know your family. Tell me how much you need, for this club, for you to be so very determined.”
I licked suddenly dry lips, feeling the scabbed blood on my upper lip crack. I whispered “Eight thousand more dollars. By May.”
Mrs. Bullard only raised one eyebrow, black and sharp as her son’s. “Less than two months. If you take on the job I want you to take, you’ll earn every single penny.”
***
Ever since I spent most of fifth grade hanging out in hospitals with my mom, watching my dad die from pancreatic cancer, I get the creeps whenever anyone asks people to leave the room so we can have a “talk.” No one clears the room to tell you good news. Only the really bad stuff. Maybe Mrs. Bullard does own the school, because Dean Verona gave her an office to use without batting an eye. By the time Mrs. Bullard and I were alone, I stood with my hands up under my armpits and my shoulders raised — the way you’d stand if you knew someone was going to hit you with a pail of ice-cold water and you had to stand there and take it.