hour, the book had been everywhere I’d been: the University Diner, where I’d had lunch; the box office; the abandoned construction site; the Happy Face deli, where I’d bought the food that had sustained me through the weekend; Great White and, finally, back to Sunny Side again.
I told him about all of it - except the abandoned construction site.
After I was through, Yale strode up to my desk and leaned against it like a TV attorney interrogating a witness. ‘What about Miss Jean Brodie?’
‘Veronica? Not her style. Too subtle.’
‘That principal of yours is a little odd.’
‘Terry would never go into a woman’s purse, and he’d never deface a book, even with a pencil. Besides, I think he’s sort of scared of me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I screamed at a cop.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Terry didn’t write hide in my book.’
Yale paced a full circle around my desk, then reversed direction.
‘Yale, you’re bringing back my hangover. Why don’t you just forget—’
‘I’ve got it.’
‘Oh, really.’
He rested both elbows on the edge of my desk and smiled. ‘The message wasn’t directed at you.’
‘Then who was it directed at, Nancy Drew?’
‘Your bag, of course.’ Yale explained: Since no one in the box office disliked me enough to write hide in my book, and since I wasn’t in the deli long enough for someone to remove it from my bag, write in it and put it back without my knowledge, the culprit was obviously ‘some nasty queen at Great White.’ And not just any nasty queen. A nasty queen with a passionate aesthetic sensibility .
‘That’s just so obviously it,’ he said.
‘Someone is writing threatening notes to my bag ?’
‘You take that piece of hippie hell into Great White and someone is going to tell you to hide it. Probably thought he was doing you a favor.’
‘But—’
‘You were bombed, right?’
‘Well, yeah I guess.’
‘Bombed enough to turn your back on the bag for a few minutes?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And was there anything else in aforementioned bag, besides aforementioned dog-eared page of aforementioned book that someone with a need to express himself regarding aforementioned desecration of natural fiber could’ve written on?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He smacked his hand against the desk. ‘I rest my case.’
I looked at Yale, tried to smile. I hadn’t told him about the man at the river. And, as I remembered the head with its pencily shadow of hair, turning to reveal those impossible eyes - eyes that could refract light and burn holes through flesh, eyes without pupils - another thought came to me: Maybe I’m the one who wrote the word . ‘We should go,’ I said.
‘First, tell me about thee a me abo cop you screamed at.’
I sighed. ‘He was here for community outreach, but he didn’t have on a uniform and he showed up early. I saw his gun and—’
‘Oh, Sam.’
‘He was nice about it. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of these fucking primary colors.’
Yale clasped my shoulder and gave me a look that was much too concerned for my liking. I half expected him to put a hand on my forehead and check my temperature. ‘You need to relax.’ Relax, princess . ‘You drink too much coffee.’ Stop moving .
‘I happen to enjoy coffee!’
‘Sorry. Just trying to help.’
‘I . . . know you are.’
Yale searched my eyes with his own. It wasn’t the first time I noticed how sweet and pure a blue they were - like a baby’s blanket, a few cottony white flecks sprinkled around the pupils. Yale was three years older than me and smoked and drank and stayed up all night on a regular basis, but he still had the eyes of a child - bright and uncorrupted, no lines in the delicate skin around them. He said, ‘There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?’ and I heard myself reply, ‘If I told you that I think I might be going crazy, would you take me
I told him about all of it - except the abandoned construction site.
After I was through, Yale strode up to my desk and leaned against it like a TV attorney interrogating a witness. ‘What about Miss Jean Brodie?’
‘Veronica? Not her style. Too subtle.’
‘That principal of yours is a little odd.’
‘Terry would never go into a woman’s purse, and he’d never deface a book, even with a pencil. Besides, I think he’s sort of scared of me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I screamed at a cop.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Terry didn’t write hide in my book.’
Yale paced a full circle around my desk, then reversed direction.
‘Yale, you’re bringing back my hangover. Why don’t you just forget—’
‘I’ve got it.’
‘Oh, really.’
He rested both elbows on the edge of my desk and smiled. ‘The message wasn’t directed at you.’
‘Then who was it directed at, Nancy Drew?’
‘Your bag, of course.’ Yale explained: Since no one in the box office disliked me enough to write hide in my book, and since I wasn’t in the deli long enough for someone to remove it from my bag, write in it and put it back without my knowledge, the culprit was obviously ‘some nasty queen at Great White.’ And not just any nasty queen. A nasty queen with a passionate aesthetic sensibility .
‘That’s just so obviously it,’ he said.
‘Someone is writing threatening notes to my bag ?’
‘You take that piece of hippie hell into Great White and someone is going to tell you to hide it. Probably thought he was doing you a favor.’
‘But—’
‘You were bombed, right?’
‘Well, yeah I guess.’
‘Bombed enough to turn your back on the bag for a few minutes?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And was there anything else in aforementioned bag, besides aforementioned dog-eared page of aforementioned book that someone with a need to express himself regarding aforementioned desecration of natural fiber could’ve written on?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He smacked his hand against the desk. ‘I rest my case.’
I looked at Yale, tried to smile. I hadn’t told him about the man at the river. And, as I remembered the head with its pencily shadow of hair, turning to reveal those impossible eyes - eyes that could refract light and burn holes through flesh, eyes without pupils - another thought came to me: Maybe I’m the one who wrote the word . ‘We should go,’ I said.
‘First, tell me about thee a me abo cop you screamed at.’
I sighed. ‘He was here for community outreach, but he didn’t have on a uniform and he showed up early. I saw his gun and—’
‘Oh, Sam.’
‘He was nice about it. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of these fucking primary colors.’
Yale clasped my shoulder and gave me a look that was much too concerned for my liking. I half expected him to put a hand on my forehead and check my temperature. ‘You need to relax.’ Relax, princess . ‘You drink too much coffee.’ Stop moving .
‘I happen to enjoy coffee!’
‘Sorry. Just trying to help.’
‘I . . . know you are.’
Yale searched my eyes with his own. It wasn’t the first time I noticed how sweet and pure a blue they were - like a baby’s blanket, a few cottony white flecks sprinkled around the pupils. Yale was three years older than me and smoked and drank and stayed up all night on a regular basis, but he still had the eyes of a child - bright and uncorrupted, no lines in the delicate skin around them. He said, ‘There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?’ and I heard myself reply, ‘If I told you that I think I might be going crazy, would you take me
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