The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) by Alicia G. Ruggieri

whether he would send a message
home to her mother. If he did, Grace certainly would receive a sound beating
from Papa… if he was home. She cringed to think of his hand thudding against
her ear, to look forward to bearing the bruises of his punishment to school for
several days following it.
    Yet that surely
would not be the worst of it. The worst of it would be that Mr. Kinner would
never want Grace to be in the special choir now. For Grace had taken heart when
she’d heard Ben talk to Mama about her joining. She’d planned to ask Mr. Kinner
for another permission slip after school today.
    Grace drooped
down in her desk chair. Not now, though. Not ever.
     
    T he siren of the
school bell broke Grace’s miserable reverie. Her eyes traveled to the clock
above the classroom door. The black hands pointed out the time: 2:27 p.m. The
early afternoon sun slid through the paned windows lining the far wall, but it
did nothing to thaw Grace’s fear.
    Heart thudding
from her thin chest into her fingertips, Grace rose from the desk. She was
silent compared to the loud scraping of her fellow students as they gathered
their books together, laughing and chattering. But then, they didn’t have to
think about the rebuke that surely awaited her from Mr. Kinner’s mouth, the
disappointment that would certainly float in his eyes. Nor did they have to
dread the backhanded strike of Papa, which might meet Grace tonight.
    Ruth Ann caught
her eye and smirked. “Come on, Grace. Let’s get this over with,” she whispered,
flipping her cinnamon curls over her shoulder and picking up her small stack of
schoolbooks, piled up like Saturday morning pancakes. Grace knew Ruth Ann
wouldn’t be carrying them home; she’d only have to flutter her thick eyelashes
at some boy out front of the school and he’d tote all the books she wanted home
for her.
    Grace tucked her
own stringy hair behind one ear, fingers trembling worse than the autumn leaves
still clinging to some of the trees outside the classroom windows. She forced
herself to nod at Ruth Ann, pick up her own stack of books, and carve a path up
to Mr. Kinner.
    Beside his desk,
Mr. Kinner stood in his characteristic slight slouch, intently listening to
Paulie Giorgi. In his hands, Paulie held last week’s essay assignment, three or
four pages of paper clipped together. Mr. Kinner had returned the essays to the
class today, all graded with the now-thick-now-thin navy blue ink of his
fountain pen.
    “So I’m just
wondering, Mr. Kinner, why my grade is an A minus,” Grace heard Paulie say, his
peppy voice betraying no disrespect for the teacher, only confusion. “I added
together the points for the components of the essay, and it seems to come to a
ninety-six, sir, not a ninety-two.”
    Seeming to force
a smile, Mr. Kinner reached his hand out for the paper. “Here, let me see,
Paulie. I may have made a mistake.” He flipped through the lined yellow sheets,
filled to the margins with Paulie’s enthusiastic cursive. His lips moved
silently as he added the points marked beside each essay component while Grace
resisted the urge to look at the clock again. Mr. Kinner never gave an
incorrect grade; he did everything methodically as a pocket-watch. Couldn’t
perfect Paulie just accept the fact that this essay hadn’t turned out to be his
best? If Mr. Kinner didn’t finish with Paulie soon, and then with her and Ruth
Ann’s scolding in double-quick time, Grace knew she would pay for being late
from school again.
    Grace sighed,
and just then, Paulie turned his head a little and gave her a slight smile. He
has nice dimples, Grace surprised herself with thinking, despite her
growing anxiety. She turned red as spring beets, but it didn’t matter because
Mr. Kinner had drawn Paulie’s attention back to the essay in question.
    “You’re right,
Paul,” he said, taking his pen from inside his suit jacket. “I didn’t add that up
correctly.” His pen making a scratch-scratch noise, Mr.