smart and graceful and wanted. Then you got the attention and it was like being hit over the head with a baseball bat.
First period bells rang.
Reluctantly the crowd around her dispersed and went on to class. Ming was slow to depart. She gave Rose plenty of time to say, Of course I’ll tell you; you’re my best friend; I wouldn’t leave you out.
Rose did not say it.
She could see no point in hurrying to meet with the principal and vice principal. She walked so slowly that both men had appeared in the office doorway by the time she finally arrived. Star students always got to know the administration. She liked the two men well enough, although they were pompous and played favorites.
She did not go into the office. “I expect you have received a report from the police,” she said courteously. “This is a delicate family situation. I cannot discuss it with you. It has nothing to do with school and I do not want to be late for botany.”
“Rose, we’re so concerned. Come into the office and share with us,” said Mr. Burgess.
I don’t share well, thought Rose. I think we established that when I refused to share my diary. And if I’m not going to share with Dad or Mom or poor old doing-her-job Megan Moran, I’m unlikely to share with you two. “You’re welcome to talk to the judge,” she said politely.
“You’re a juvenile. He won’t talk to us,” said Dr. Siegal grumpily.
Rose kept her voice so courteous she sounded like Nannie in an earlier century. “I’m afraid I will have to follow the same rule. Please excuse me.” She turned stiffly like a doll made from a wooden spoon and neither of them intercepted her.
Ignoring two principals turned out to be rather like stealing a police car.
Do it quickly and cleanly. It’s over before they can stop you.
On her way to botany, Rose happened to pass the library. She walked in and tapped a few keywords on the nearest computer screen. There actually was a book on the subject that concerned her: Dewey decimal number 070, a shelf in the library where Rose had never gone. She preferred 500s—biology, botany; or 973—American history.
The book was in, of course; who would check it out?
Rose browsed through a history of diary writing.
Five million diaries were sold every year in America, which seemed like enough. How surprising that even with e-mail and handheld computers and laptops and computer disks and instant messaging, people were still sitting down and laboriously scribbling in paper books.
Diaries were a rather recent concept, the book said. For most of literate time, people didn’t think of writing about themselves every day. Then, in the sixteenth century, ministers began to keep daily track of whether they had been pure of thought.
Why did I write? wondered Rose.
I wanted to be sure Grandfather and Nannie knew what a nice present they’d given me. So I wrote to be polite.
I wrote because I loved my handwriting. I loved the shape of my letters and the way I dotted my i’s with a circle.
I wrote because I felt important. I, Rose Margaret Lymond, would be a red leather book with gold edges.
The question is not why I wrote it. It’s why I kept it.
It was Alan Finney, not Ming, who met Rose at her locker after school. Their paths did not usually overlap. He had had to search her out.
Her pulse skyrocketed. I still adore him, she thought. She could not manage an attractive, relaxed smile. Her lips stretched as if she were wearing braces that had just been tightened. Immediately she wondered about her hair.
Alan took a deep breath. He looked around to make sure nobody could overhear. He was so furtive that several people stopped in their tracks to see what he was up to. He said, “The police talked to me, Rose.”
Her cheeks went hot and scarlet. She began turning the dial on the combination lock, gradually realizing she was facing the wrong locker.
“They told me you stole that police car to buy yourself time to destroy the
First period bells rang.
Reluctantly the crowd around her dispersed and went on to class. Ming was slow to depart. She gave Rose plenty of time to say, Of course I’ll tell you; you’re my best friend; I wouldn’t leave you out.
Rose did not say it.
She could see no point in hurrying to meet with the principal and vice principal. She walked so slowly that both men had appeared in the office doorway by the time she finally arrived. Star students always got to know the administration. She liked the two men well enough, although they were pompous and played favorites.
She did not go into the office. “I expect you have received a report from the police,” she said courteously. “This is a delicate family situation. I cannot discuss it with you. It has nothing to do with school and I do not want to be late for botany.”
“Rose, we’re so concerned. Come into the office and share with us,” said Mr. Burgess.
I don’t share well, thought Rose. I think we established that when I refused to share my diary. And if I’m not going to share with Dad or Mom or poor old doing-her-job Megan Moran, I’m unlikely to share with you two. “You’re welcome to talk to the judge,” she said politely.
“You’re a juvenile. He won’t talk to us,” said Dr. Siegal grumpily.
Rose kept her voice so courteous she sounded like Nannie in an earlier century. “I’m afraid I will have to follow the same rule. Please excuse me.” She turned stiffly like a doll made from a wooden spoon and neither of them intercepted her.
Ignoring two principals turned out to be rather like stealing a police car.
Do it quickly and cleanly. It’s over before they can stop you.
On her way to botany, Rose happened to pass the library. She walked in and tapped a few keywords on the nearest computer screen. There actually was a book on the subject that concerned her: Dewey decimal number 070, a shelf in the library where Rose had never gone. She preferred 500s—biology, botany; or 973—American history.
The book was in, of course; who would check it out?
Rose browsed through a history of diary writing.
Five million diaries were sold every year in America, which seemed like enough. How surprising that even with e-mail and handheld computers and laptops and computer disks and instant messaging, people were still sitting down and laboriously scribbling in paper books.
Diaries were a rather recent concept, the book said. For most of literate time, people didn’t think of writing about themselves every day. Then, in the sixteenth century, ministers began to keep daily track of whether they had been pure of thought.
Why did I write? wondered Rose.
I wanted to be sure Grandfather and Nannie knew what a nice present they’d given me. So I wrote to be polite.
I wrote because I loved my handwriting. I loved the shape of my letters and the way I dotted my i’s with a circle.
I wrote because I felt important. I, Rose Margaret Lymond, would be a red leather book with gold edges.
The question is not why I wrote it. It’s why I kept it.
It was Alan Finney, not Ming, who met Rose at her locker after school. Their paths did not usually overlap. He had had to search her out.
Her pulse skyrocketed. I still adore him, she thought. She could not manage an attractive, relaxed smile. Her lips stretched as if she were wearing braces that had just been tightened. Immediately she wondered about her hair.
Alan took a deep breath. He looked around to make sure nobody could overhear. He was so furtive that several people stopped in their tracks to see what he was up to. He said, “The police talked to me, Rose.”
Her cheeks went hot and scarlet. She began turning the dial on the combination lock, gradually realizing she was facing the wrong locker.
“They told me you stole that police car to buy yourself time to destroy the
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