with a magenta leotard and an asymmetrical white leather
belt. Her boots were little white spikes. Her kitten-face earrings were clip-on. She smelled like apples and menthol and Suave.
She looked about twenty-eight years old, roughly the same age as her lipstick, which was roughly the color of borscht.
The forces of fashion had united against her. And yet. She was cute.
You could tell by the way some of the male teachers straightened in their seats. For the most part, Winston faculty hulked
like vultures. They slumped at laptops. They stooped over coffee. They wilted by dry-erase boards. Winston faculty earned
their bad posture in college, having slowly collapsed under the weight of their brains. Most of them graduated from Stanford
or Yale, which was sort of depressing when you thought about it (you know
they
thought about it, like, all the time.)
Miss Paletsky pressed her hands to her thighs and tipped into a little bow. “Ch’ello, stewdents,” she murmured into the mic.
Her voice was both breathy and Slavic, a strange mix of Marilyn Monroe and Dracula.
“Ch’ello,” she repeated, a little louder this time.
Glen cupped his hands to his mouth. “Community Expression needs our help!”
Miss Paletsky knitted her brow, confused by his random, enthusiastic outburst.
“Ye-es,” she continued with a timid smile. “This ‘Community Expression’ is not so popular. But as the new director of Special
Studies, I’m here to fix it.
So.
What is Special Study? Special Study is class that you, the
stewdents
create. It can be anything you like, and as long as your study is approved, you have
one period each week
to meet. Which means —”
“You must have a minimum of four students!” Glen interrupted, bursting with excitement. “That’s no less than
four
to qualify as an official class. Every Special Study must involve
legal
and
age-appropriate
activities. Which means absolutely no drugs, no sexual activity, and no violence of any kind! If you have an idea, please
talk to Miss Paletsky. All it takes is four or more interested students and it’s official: your very own Special Study is
good to go!”
With a grave look of concern, Miss Paletsky observed Glen pump his fist. She returned her gaze to the students, smiling bravely.
“Okay!” Glen continued, still beaming like the Patron Saint of Dorks. “Town Meeting dismissed!”
Jake had two classes lined up before lunch: Advanced Physics and French Cinema. (Guess which one Charlotte was in?) Advanced
Physics took place in an unremarkable Winston classroom (mahogany desks, chalkboards, French windows with spectacular canyon
views), and French Cinema didn’t take place in a classroom at all.
Thanks to the generous contribution of Alan and Betty Kronenberg, the Winston campus came equipped with a 100-seat movie theater.
Except for the screen, which was state-of-the-art digital, the theater was straight out of the twenties. Creamy silk curtains
hung in scalloped pleats. Chairs held out arms of warm red velvet. The seashell-shaped sconces fanned the walls with golden
beams. There was even a ticket booth with a window that opened and shut like a brass accordion. The more sophisticated students
dismissed the theater as “cheesy,” but then they’d sink into their seats, tip their heads back, and sigh. The black ceiling
twinkled with a galaxy’s worth of tiny white lights.
As far as cheese goes, this stuff was world-class brie.
Charlotte invited Jake to sit with her in the back row — and he accepted. The lights went down and the title came up. The
first film of the year was a black-and-white French classic called
Les Quatre Cents Coups.
“Four Hundred
Blows
?” Charlotte translated the title with a coy smirk. “
This
should be interesting.”
“Dude,” Jake replied. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” Charlotte threw back her long neck and laughed, breezy as a wind
chime. Jake stole a quick glance at the soft
belt. Her boots were little white spikes. Her kitten-face earrings were clip-on. She smelled like apples and menthol and Suave.
She looked about twenty-eight years old, roughly the same age as her lipstick, which was roughly the color of borscht.
The forces of fashion had united against her. And yet. She was cute.
You could tell by the way some of the male teachers straightened in their seats. For the most part, Winston faculty hulked
like vultures. They slumped at laptops. They stooped over coffee. They wilted by dry-erase boards. Winston faculty earned
their bad posture in college, having slowly collapsed under the weight of their brains. Most of them graduated from Stanford
or Yale, which was sort of depressing when you thought about it (you know
they
thought about it, like, all the time.)
Miss Paletsky pressed her hands to her thighs and tipped into a little bow. “Ch’ello, stewdents,” she murmured into the mic.
Her voice was both breathy and Slavic, a strange mix of Marilyn Monroe and Dracula.
“Ch’ello,” she repeated, a little louder this time.
Glen cupped his hands to his mouth. “Community Expression needs our help!”
Miss Paletsky knitted her brow, confused by his random, enthusiastic outburst.
“Ye-es,” she continued with a timid smile. “This ‘Community Expression’ is not so popular. But as the new director of Special
Studies, I’m here to fix it.
So.
What is Special Study? Special Study is class that you, the
stewdents
create. It can be anything you like, and as long as your study is approved, you have
one period each week
to meet. Which means —”
“You must have a minimum of four students!” Glen interrupted, bursting with excitement. “That’s no less than
four
to qualify as an official class. Every Special Study must involve
legal
and
age-appropriate
activities. Which means absolutely no drugs, no sexual activity, and no violence of any kind! If you have an idea, please
talk to Miss Paletsky. All it takes is four or more interested students and it’s official: your very own Special Study is
good to go!”
With a grave look of concern, Miss Paletsky observed Glen pump his fist. She returned her gaze to the students, smiling bravely.
“Okay!” Glen continued, still beaming like the Patron Saint of Dorks. “Town Meeting dismissed!”
Jake had two classes lined up before lunch: Advanced Physics and French Cinema. (Guess which one Charlotte was in?) Advanced
Physics took place in an unremarkable Winston classroom (mahogany desks, chalkboards, French windows with spectacular canyon
views), and French Cinema didn’t take place in a classroom at all.
Thanks to the generous contribution of Alan and Betty Kronenberg, the Winston campus came equipped with a 100-seat movie theater.
Except for the screen, which was state-of-the-art digital, the theater was straight out of the twenties. Creamy silk curtains
hung in scalloped pleats. Chairs held out arms of warm red velvet. The seashell-shaped sconces fanned the walls with golden
beams. There was even a ticket booth with a window that opened and shut like a brass accordion. The more sophisticated students
dismissed the theater as “cheesy,” but then they’d sink into their seats, tip their heads back, and sigh. The black ceiling
twinkled with a galaxy’s worth of tiny white lights.
As far as cheese goes, this stuff was world-class brie.
Charlotte invited Jake to sit with her in the back row — and he accepted. The lights went down and the title came up. The
first film of the year was a black-and-white French classic called
Les Quatre Cents Coups.
“Four Hundred
Blows
?” Charlotte translated the title with a coy smirk. “
This
should be interesting.”
“Dude,” Jake replied. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” Charlotte threw back her long neck and laughed, breezy as a wind
chime. Jake stole a quick glance at the soft
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