boyfriend I could lock lips with, a bell rang. I ran to catch Natalie as she was about to ditch me and leave me with no idea where I was supposed to head next. She seemed to have an awful need to slip off with Little Blondie and exclude me from their twosome.
“There’s the office,” she said, pointing.
“Duh,” my cousin’s friend added.
On the bus, Little Blondie had clucked her tongue at the sight of my boots and rolled her eyes when I had tried to compliment her on her cardigan. She was a judger. I checked my teeth for toast in case I had embarrassing brown stuff between my gums, but my finger came away clean. Natalie pointed to a sign that said “office” right behind me, and I thanked her. Aftershe and her mean friend plonked away in their Crocs, I opened a glass door and went searching for someone who could help me.
“Hello?” I called.
In a separate section behind a partition inside the office, I found two empty desks that would probably have been filled with secretaries if the economy wasn’t so bad. Nobody else seemed to be in the administrative area, so I was reminded of all those slasher movies filmed in empty high schools or hospitals. Someone hears a noise, has a smidgen of guilt on their conscience, and bloody revenge sneaks up behind them.
Carrie Nation, because it was so small, could maybe have run itself, but that wouldn’t have worked at French High School, where there weren’t shootings, but there were traffic flow problems. I called out “Hello” again and a tall man in a blue suit and a tie with tiny Snoopys opened a door and motioned me into his office.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He returned to his chair and fiddled with a pencil, flipping it end over end, watching its point touch his desk. I told him who I was and where I had come from.
He appeared interested in the details.
“The Louise part of my name is after Tina Louise, the Movie Star on Gilligan’s Island, ” I explained.
“That’s unusual,” he remarked.
I wasn’t sure who he was, whether I was revealing private information to a complete stranger, serial killer, or wife-bludgeoning gardener.
“Tina Louise and I are not completely alike.” I told him about my decision to be more of a blonde than a redhead.
“I always found that show quite funny.”
He stowed the pencil in a drawer and introduced himself as Mr. Gruber, the principal.
He was not as gay-seeming as the exclamation points on the back of my bus seat implied—no fuzzy headbands or flapping wrists, nothing to get Natalie excited or all worked up. He reviewed my transcripts, asked questions about the weather, brushed his tie, and showed me, by drawing a line on his desk with his finger, the way to my first class. I had been hoping after our chat that I might get to spend the day in his office, or at least stay until I felt a little less panicked. Fortunately, there were no annexes or subbasements at Carrie Nation like there were at French High School.
Just to be sure I understood all the particulars, I asked Mr. Gruber to repeat his instructions.
“Here,” he said, drawing the route again.
“Are you sure that is a left?” I asked, putting my finger on the desk.
“You’ll find the way,” he said.
I almost reached out and hugged him for having so much confidence in me.
I trekked first the incorrect way before I discovered my mistake and backtracked. I was more disoriented than I thought I would be. A few students lingered in the corridors, and I hurried to catch a boy in a black T-shirt. Mr. Gruber had stated that most of my fellow students wouldn’t mind being helpful, and though we weren’t in Des Moines, there was something about Mr. Gruber I trusted. The boy waited for me, but when I got near, instead of welcoming me to Carrie Nation, he flipped the plastic top of a canister into the air like a Frisbee. It just missed clipping me in the head.
“Where’s room 106?” I asked, retrieving the cap and returning it because I
“There’s the office,” she said, pointing.
“Duh,” my cousin’s friend added.
On the bus, Little Blondie had clucked her tongue at the sight of my boots and rolled her eyes when I had tried to compliment her on her cardigan. She was a judger. I checked my teeth for toast in case I had embarrassing brown stuff between my gums, but my finger came away clean. Natalie pointed to a sign that said “office” right behind me, and I thanked her. Aftershe and her mean friend plonked away in their Crocs, I opened a glass door and went searching for someone who could help me.
“Hello?” I called.
In a separate section behind a partition inside the office, I found two empty desks that would probably have been filled with secretaries if the economy wasn’t so bad. Nobody else seemed to be in the administrative area, so I was reminded of all those slasher movies filmed in empty high schools or hospitals. Someone hears a noise, has a smidgen of guilt on their conscience, and bloody revenge sneaks up behind them.
Carrie Nation, because it was so small, could maybe have run itself, but that wouldn’t have worked at French High School, where there weren’t shootings, but there were traffic flow problems. I called out “Hello” again and a tall man in a blue suit and a tie with tiny Snoopys opened a door and motioned me into his office.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He returned to his chair and fiddled with a pencil, flipping it end over end, watching its point touch his desk. I told him who I was and where I had come from.
He appeared interested in the details.
“The Louise part of my name is after Tina Louise, the Movie Star on Gilligan’s Island, ” I explained.
“That’s unusual,” he remarked.
I wasn’t sure who he was, whether I was revealing private information to a complete stranger, serial killer, or wife-bludgeoning gardener.
“Tina Louise and I are not completely alike.” I told him about my decision to be more of a blonde than a redhead.
“I always found that show quite funny.”
He stowed the pencil in a drawer and introduced himself as Mr. Gruber, the principal.
He was not as gay-seeming as the exclamation points on the back of my bus seat implied—no fuzzy headbands or flapping wrists, nothing to get Natalie excited or all worked up. He reviewed my transcripts, asked questions about the weather, brushed his tie, and showed me, by drawing a line on his desk with his finger, the way to my first class. I had been hoping after our chat that I might get to spend the day in his office, or at least stay until I felt a little less panicked. Fortunately, there were no annexes or subbasements at Carrie Nation like there were at French High School.
Just to be sure I understood all the particulars, I asked Mr. Gruber to repeat his instructions.
“Here,” he said, drawing the route again.
“Are you sure that is a left?” I asked, putting my finger on the desk.
“You’ll find the way,” he said.
I almost reached out and hugged him for having so much confidence in me.
I trekked first the incorrect way before I discovered my mistake and backtracked. I was more disoriented than I thought I would be. A few students lingered in the corridors, and I hurried to catch a boy in a black T-shirt. Mr. Gruber had stated that most of my fellow students wouldn’t mind being helpful, and though we weren’t in Des Moines, there was something about Mr. Gruber I trusted. The boy waited for me, but when I got near, instead of welcoming me to Carrie Nation, he flipped the plastic top of a canister into the air like a Frisbee. It just missed clipping me in the head.
“Where’s room 106?” I asked, retrieving the cap and returning it because I
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