Ms. Finkleman found rather intimidating. Then the principal nodded sharply to Jasper, who nodded back and left the room. Ms. Finkleman wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the door lock from the outside.
“Ida, dear, how go the preparations for the All-County Choral Corral?”
“Oh,” Ms. Finkleman said. “Fine, thank you. Pretty good.” Why on earth was the principal asking her about the Choral Corral?
“Now, what is it that Jasper tells me you’re planning for this year’s concert? Victorian Sea Shanties? Is that right? ”
“No,” answered Ms. Finkleman. “Not exactly. Traditional English folk ballads from the—”
Principal Van Vreeland sprang forward in her chair with such velocity that Ida shrank back. For a terrifying moment, she thought her boss was going to bite her on the nose. Instead, Principal Van Vreeland narrowed her eyes, looked directly at Ms. Finkleman, and said a single word.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You see, Ida dear, there’s been the tiniest change in plan.”
Ninety seconds later, Ida Finkleman was standing in the hallway outside the main office, her face flushed, her heart pumping, trying to process Principal Van Vreeland’s bizarre request.
Request?
Demand
was more like it.
A rock-and-roll show? For the Choral Corral?
How was she going to do it? She wouldn’t! She
couldn’t!
But the principal’s tone had been unmistakable: Say no, and Mary Todd Lincoln would find itself a new music teacher. Ms. Finkleman staggered down the hallway, trying to get her bearings. She had to get to seventh period, but somehow she couldn’t remember where her room was. She raised an unsteady hand and ran it weakly through her hair.
This was a catastrophe!
She wanted to throw herself down on the grimy, gum-sticky floor of the hallway and pound her head against the ground.
And that’s when Ms. Finkleman saw her. In Converse sneakers and a navy blue skirt, her hair in two jauntypigtails, Bethesda Fielding leaned on a locker outside Mr. Carlsbad’s room, laughing and gesturing enthusiastically amid a boisterous crowd of admirers. Ms. Finkleman looked hard at Bethesda. Principal Van Vreeland had explained the origin of this “tiny change in plan,” including which bright young student had unearthed the “fascinating secret” of Ms. Finkleman’s past—and had seen fit to share it with the entire student body.
She strode swiftly down the hall and said, “Bethesda,” in a low voice. The other children got quiet and looked at Ida with wide eyes. This was the same awed, respectful expression she had seen during sixth period, but its origin was no longer a puzzle. These children didn’t see Ms. Finkleman anymore. They saw Little Miss Mystery. Their gawking curiosity made her feel cold and sick and angry, as angry as she had ever felt.
“Will you excuse us?” Ms. Finkleman said sharply, and watched the other kids scamper rapidly down the hall, glancing backward over their shoulders at Mary Todd Lincoln’s first-ever confirmed rock star.
“Ms. Finkleman? Hi!” said Bethesda warmly. “I—”
Ms. Finkleman looked her square in the eye. “You had no right to do what you’ve done.”
Bethesda blinked. “What?”
“My past is none of your business.”
“But—”
“And if I choose not to discuss it with the world, it’s for a reason.”
Bethesda said, “I—” again, and again Ms. Finkleman interrupted. “My life is not a joke, or a game, or a school project. It belongs to
me.”
Bethesda’s face burned red and she blinked back tears. “I …” she said for a third time, and trailed off helplessly.
But it didn’t matter. Ms. Finkleman walked away.
11
THE NOTE
Bethesda s father
put down his fork and sighed a big woe-is-me kind of sigh.
“This must be the worst dinner in the world,” he said sadly.
“What, Dad?”
“Oh! Bethesda! So sorry to bother you, dear. It’s just that I slaved away over a hot stove for five to eight minutes, carefully combining
“Ida, dear, how go the preparations for the All-County Choral Corral?”
“Oh,” Ms. Finkleman said. “Fine, thank you. Pretty good.” Why on earth was the principal asking her about the Choral Corral?
“Now, what is it that Jasper tells me you’re planning for this year’s concert? Victorian Sea Shanties? Is that right? ”
“No,” answered Ms. Finkleman. “Not exactly. Traditional English folk ballads from the—”
Principal Van Vreeland sprang forward in her chair with such velocity that Ida shrank back. For a terrifying moment, she thought her boss was going to bite her on the nose. Instead, Principal Van Vreeland narrowed her eyes, looked directly at Ms. Finkleman, and said a single word.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You see, Ida dear, there’s been the tiniest change in plan.”
Ninety seconds later, Ida Finkleman was standing in the hallway outside the main office, her face flushed, her heart pumping, trying to process Principal Van Vreeland’s bizarre request.
Request?
Demand
was more like it.
A rock-and-roll show? For the Choral Corral?
How was she going to do it? She wouldn’t! She
couldn’t!
But the principal’s tone had been unmistakable: Say no, and Mary Todd Lincoln would find itself a new music teacher. Ms. Finkleman staggered down the hallway, trying to get her bearings. She had to get to seventh period, but somehow she couldn’t remember where her room was. She raised an unsteady hand and ran it weakly through her hair.
This was a catastrophe!
She wanted to throw herself down on the grimy, gum-sticky floor of the hallway and pound her head against the ground.
And that’s when Ms. Finkleman saw her. In Converse sneakers and a navy blue skirt, her hair in two jauntypigtails, Bethesda Fielding leaned on a locker outside Mr. Carlsbad’s room, laughing and gesturing enthusiastically amid a boisterous crowd of admirers. Ms. Finkleman looked hard at Bethesda. Principal Van Vreeland had explained the origin of this “tiny change in plan,” including which bright young student had unearthed the “fascinating secret” of Ms. Finkleman’s past—and had seen fit to share it with the entire student body.
She strode swiftly down the hall and said, “Bethesda,” in a low voice. The other children got quiet and looked at Ida with wide eyes. This was the same awed, respectful expression she had seen during sixth period, but its origin was no longer a puzzle. These children didn’t see Ms. Finkleman anymore. They saw Little Miss Mystery. Their gawking curiosity made her feel cold and sick and angry, as angry as she had ever felt.
“Will you excuse us?” Ms. Finkleman said sharply, and watched the other kids scamper rapidly down the hall, glancing backward over their shoulders at Mary Todd Lincoln’s first-ever confirmed rock star.
“Ms. Finkleman? Hi!” said Bethesda warmly. “I—”
Ms. Finkleman looked her square in the eye. “You had no right to do what you’ve done.”
Bethesda blinked. “What?”
“My past is none of your business.”
“But—”
“And if I choose not to discuss it with the world, it’s for a reason.”
Bethesda said, “I—” again, and again Ms. Finkleman interrupted. “My life is not a joke, or a game, or a school project. It belongs to
me.”
Bethesda’s face burned red and she blinked back tears. “I …” she said for a third time, and trailed off helplessly.
But it didn’t matter. Ms. Finkleman walked away.
11
THE NOTE
Bethesda s father
put down his fork and sighed a big woe-is-me kind of sigh.
“This must be the worst dinner in the world,” he said sadly.
“What, Dad?”
“Oh! Bethesda! So sorry to bother you, dear. It’s just that I slaved away over a hot stove for five to eight minutes, carefully combining
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