it the Susquehanna churns and shushes, Ovaltine waters gurgling forth.
The drive bends again, and there she sees the Caldecott School.
Ah, Victorian overindulgence. The middle of the school looks to be an old manor house, three stories high, the grim Gothic windows paired awkwardly with gingerbread trim. Each roof is red like a child's wagon, the walls a kind of gray-green, a clayey painted smudge dull in contrast to the house's red.
To the left and right of the house are the rest of the school – the bulk of it, really, plainly added on long after the original house was built. The two wings are almost prison-like in their austerity. Down to the wrought iron bars on the windows.
The Caldecott crest – eagles, books, a knight's helmet and other bullshit frippery – flies on a flag. The flagpole comes up out of a massive VW-bug-sized hunk of anthracite coal, which itself sits in the middle of the circular drive.
From here, the school looks silent, dead, no movement. No students, no teachers, not even a pair of ugly-ass pigeons.
Again that feeling: a twist, a twinge in her gut.
Like at any moment a big tentacle is going to burst out of the front door, coil around her, and drag her into its depths. Past other kids who mock the way she looks, walks, chews, exists.
Fucking school.
Let's get this over with , she thinks.
Time to find "Miss Wiz."
TWELVE
Trust Falls
Miriam passes an art class on the back lawn of the school, kids sitting in a half-circle around some wispy moonbeam teacher in a batik frock, all of them trying to sketch a fallen leaf.
Closer to the river, though, Miriam sees her target – no, that's not it, that's not right. Not target. Not victim. Customer.
How things have changed.
The woman sits on a park bench underneath a red maple, the leaves shuddering and shushing above her head as squirrels bound from branch to branch.
School squirrels are forever unafraid.
The woman is dowdy. Frumpy. Not what Miriam expected. Pink blouse, gray slacks, a build like a linebacker gone to seed. She's got a sweet face. A lullaby face. Were you to go to sleep every night and see that face, you'd feel safe, comforted, snoozy.
As she sees Miriam approach, she stands, offers her hand.
"Miss Wiz," Miriam says. She's not sure how to begin this exchange, so she snaps her fingers and points a pair of finger-guns at the woman. "Pow pow".
The woman seems taken aback.
Miriam clarifies. "We probably shouldn't shake hands. Because of the thing. You know. The thing . The reason I'm here."
"Right. Right. You're, ah, not what I expected."
"Nor you," Miriam responds.
The woman laughs. "Here people always tell me I look like a teacher."
"It's not that. It's just… you know. Katey ."
"Katey." The teacher doesn't understand.
"Right. Katey is – see, I have a thing for names, names that don't match, and yours is – okay, it's like this. Katey? Total pixie girl name. Katey is a tiny sorority girl who only drinks vodka because she doesn't want to put on weight. Katey dresses up like a slutty witch every Halloween. Katey has a bob-cut, wears size zero jeans, marries a banker who was once a quarterback. You look like a…" She gives the woman another good look over. "Kathy. There you go. See how easy that was?"
"Well. My name's Katey." The woman laughs, but it's cagey, nervous. For a moment the only sound between them is the river behind them. The forced smile wilts like a spinach leaf in a hot pan. "Maybe this was a bad idea."
"What?" Miriam asks. "No. No! No . It's fine. It's all good. Sit."
They sit. Hesitantly. Miriam drums her fingers. Beneath her hands, the table is carved with girl's names: Becky Vicki Rhonda Bee Georgia Toni Tavena Jewelia and on and on. Nothing profane. Just names.
"Oh, here," Katey finally says, pulling out a plastic JC Penney bag. She slides it over to Miriam.
"This my
The drive bends again, and there she sees the Caldecott School.
Ah, Victorian overindulgence. The middle of the school looks to be an old manor house, three stories high, the grim Gothic windows paired awkwardly with gingerbread trim. Each roof is red like a child's wagon, the walls a kind of gray-green, a clayey painted smudge dull in contrast to the house's red.
To the left and right of the house are the rest of the school – the bulk of it, really, plainly added on long after the original house was built. The two wings are almost prison-like in their austerity. Down to the wrought iron bars on the windows.
The Caldecott crest – eagles, books, a knight's helmet and other bullshit frippery – flies on a flag. The flagpole comes up out of a massive VW-bug-sized hunk of anthracite coal, which itself sits in the middle of the circular drive.
From here, the school looks silent, dead, no movement. No students, no teachers, not even a pair of ugly-ass pigeons.
Again that feeling: a twist, a twinge in her gut.
Like at any moment a big tentacle is going to burst out of the front door, coil around her, and drag her into its depths. Past other kids who mock the way she looks, walks, chews, exists.
Fucking school.
Let's get this over with , she thinks.
Time to find "Miss Wiz."
TWELVE
Trust Falls
Miriam passes an art class on the back lawn of the school, kids sitting in a half-circle around some wispy moonbeam teacher in a batik frock, all of them trying to sketch a fallen leaf.
Closer to the river, though, Miriam sees her target – no, that's not it, that's not right. Not target. Not victim. Customer.
How things have changed.
The woman sits on a park bench underneath a red maple, the leaves shuddering and shushing above her head as squirrels bound from branch to branch.
School squirrels are forever unafraid.
The woman is dowdy. Frumpy. Not what Miriam expected. Pink blouse, gray slacks, a build like a linebacker gone to seed. She's got a sweet face. A lullaby face. Were you to go to sleep every night and see that face, you'd feel safe, comforted, snoozy.
As she sees Miriam approach, she stands, offers her hand.
"Miss Wiz," Miriam says. She's not sure how to begin this exchange, so she snaps her fingers and points a pair of finger-guns at the woman. "Pow pow".
The woman seems taken aback.
Miriam clarifies. "We probably shouldn't shake hands. Because of the thing. You know. The thing . The reason I'm here."
"Right. Right. You're, ah, not what I expected."
"Nor you," Miriam responds.
The woman laughs. "Here people always tell me I look like a teacher."
"It's not that. It's just… you know. Katey ."
"Katey." The teacher doesn't understand.
"Right. Katey is – see, I have a thing for names, names that don't match, and yours is – okay, it's like this. Katey? Total pixie girl name. Katey is a tiny sorority girl who only drinks vodka because she doesn't want to put on weight. Katey dresses up like a slutty witch every Halloween. Katey has a bob-cut, wears size zero jeans, marries a banker who was once a quarterback. You look like a…" She gives the woman another good look over. "Kathy. There you go. See how easy that was?"
"Well. My name's Katey." The woman laughs, but it's cagey, nervous. For a moment the only sound between them is the river behind them. The forced smile wilts like a spinach leaf in a hot pan. "Maybe this was a bad idea."
"What?" Miriam asks. "No. No! No . It's fine. It's all good. Sit."
They sit. Hesitantly. Miriam drums her fingers. Beneath her hands, the table is carved with girl's names: Becky Vicki Rhonda Bee Georgia Toni Tavena Jewelia and on and on. Nothing profane. Just names.
"Oh, here," Katey finally says, pulling out a plastic JC Penney bag. She slides it over to Miriam.
"This my
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