The Secret Life of Ms. Finkleman by Ben H. Winters Page B
Authors: Ben H. Winters
Tags: Suspense
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tonight because of the note.
The note was written on a piece of eight and a half by eleven notebook paper and folded over and then over again. Sometime during seventh period, someone had slid it through the tiny slats on the front of his locker. And all that it said, in careful, neat handwriting in red ink, was CHEF PILVERTON 8:30.
Tenny had no idea who the note was from. He didn’t really have any friends. He wasn’t in any clubs or extracurricular activities. There were Ian and Frank, a couple of guys from Grover Cleveland who he had sort of tried to start a band with last year, but Ian had moved, and he hadn’t talked to Frank since last summer. Tenny had let himself wonder if maybe it was a girl who had slipped him the note, like a secret admirer or whatever. But he had to admit that it was pretty unlikely. For one thing, girls didn’t usually go around randomly asking guys out. And girls definitely didn’t go around asking
him
out. And who asks
anybody
out by writing them a note to meet at Chef Pilverton?
So Tenny didn’t know what or who he was waiting for. But here he was, standing by the big clock, bobbing his head to “Lovable,” and waiting. What else was he going to do—his homework?
And then, at precisely eight thirty, just as Chef Pilverton popped out and said, “Je voudrais un cheesestick, s’il vous plait,” the mystery was revealed. An unremarkable woman with unremarkable brown hair, dressed in plain dull brown, approached Tenny Boyer and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Good evening, Tennyson,” said Ms. Finkleman. “Can I buy you a Cinnabon? ”
You can ask anybody who’s taken life sciences with Dr. Kesselmann: Human beings, like all animals, are driven by what Maslow called the hierarchy of needs. Food and water. Safety and security. And, if you’re a rock-obsessed seventh grader perilously close to flunking social studies, avoiding a future at the St. Francis Xavier Young Men’s Education and Socialization Academy.
So when Ms. Finkleman made her proposal, Tenny didn’t even think it over. He didn’t even say “Huh?” He put down his Cinnabon, wiped the frosting off his hand, and extended it for Ms. Finkleman to shake.
Just as Bethesda Fielding, clutching a folded-up piece of notebook paper and wearing her Mystery Solver face, walked into the food court.
“Bethesda,” called Ms. Finkleman, waving her over. “Won’t you come and join us?”
12
FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION
The next
day, Tuesday, Pamela Preston sat at her desk in sixth-period Music Fundamentals, a few minutes before the bell, her copy of
Greensleeves and Other Traditional English Folk Ballads
open on her desk beside a forty-ounce bottle of spring water. Pamela was a big believer that proper hydration was essential to maintaining a clear, glowy complexion. Pamela sincerely felt that the universe required people like her: People who always looked great and felt great, so other people had somewhere to focus their attention.
She sipped her water and looked impatiently around the room. Pamela was having an irritating week. Bethesda Fielding’s Special Project had been, like, this major sensation, which was totally marvelous for
her.
The only problem was that she, Pamela, who everyoneknew
always
had the
best
Special Projects, hadn’t even been called on to present yet! Even though she had sat in the front row both Monday and Tuesday, raising her hand higher and higher each time Mr. Melville scanned the room for his next victim. And so for two whole days, Bethesda Fielding had been the reigning queen of Special Projects, and Pamela … was not. The proper balance of the universe, therefore, was seriously messed up.
Ms. Finkleman walked in, and Pamela’s classmates instantly hushed and leaned forward in their chairs, staring, just as they had yesterday. Pamela rolled her eyes and took a long swallow of spring water.
Okay, Pamela thought. So Ms. Finkleman used to be some sort of rock-and-roll whatever. Uh,
The note was written on a piece of eight and a half by eleven notebook paper and folded over and then over again. Sometime during seventh period, someone had slid it through the tiny slats on the front of his locker. And all that it said, in careful, neat handwriting in red ink, was CHEF PILVERTON 8:30.
Tenny had no idea who the note was from. He didn’t really have any friends. He wasn’t in any clubs or extracurricular activities. There were Ian and Frank, a couple of guys from Grover Cleveland who he had sort of tried to start a band with last year, but Ian had moved, and he hadn’t talked to Frank since last summer. Tenny had let himself wonder if maybe it was a girl who had slipped him the note, like a secret admirer or whatever. But he had to admit that it was pretty unlikely. For one thing, girls didn’t usually go around randomly asking guys out. And girls definitely didn’t go around asking
him
out. And who asks
anybody
out by writing them a note to meet at Chef Pilverton?
So Tenny didn’t know what or who he was waiting for. But here he was, standing by the big clock, bobbing his head to “Lovable,” and waiting. What else was he going to do—his homework?
And then, at precisely eight thirty, just as Chef Pilverton popped out and said, “Je voudrais un cheesestick, s’il vous plait,” the mystery was revealed. An unremarkable woman with unremarkable brown hair, dressed in plain dull brown, approached Tenny Boyer and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Good evening, Tennyson,” said Ms. Finkleman. “Can I buy you a Cinnabon? ”
You can ask anybody who’s taken life sciences with Dr. Kesselmann: Human beings, like all animals, are driven by what Maslow called the hierarchy of needs. Food and water. Safety and security. And, if you’re a rock-obsessed seventh grader perilously close to flunking social studies, avoiding a future at the St. Francis Xavier Young Men’s Education and Socialization Academy.
So when Ms. Finkleman made her proposal, Tenny didn’t even think it over. He didn’t even say “Huh?” He put down his Cinnabon, wiped the frosting off his hand, and extended it for Ms. Finkleman to shake.
Just as Bethesda Fielding, clutching a folded-up piece of notebook paper and wearing her Mystery Solver face, walked into the food court.
“Bethesda,” called Ms. Finkleman, waving her over. “Won’t you come and join us?”
12
FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION
The next
day, Tuesday, Pamela Preston sat at her desk in sixth-period Music Fundamentals, a few minutes before the bell, her copy of
Greensleeves and Other Traditional English Folk Ballads
open on her desk beside a forty-ounce bottle of spring water. Pamela was a big believer that proper hydration was essential to maintaining a clear, glowy complexion. Pamela sincerely felt that the universe required people like her: People who always looked great and felt great, so other people had somewhere to focus their attention.
She sipped her water and looked impatiently around the room. Pamela was having an irritating week. Bethesda Fielding’s Special Project had been, like, this major sensation, which was totally marvelous for
her.
The only problem was that she, Pamela, who everyoneknew
always
had the
best
Special Projects, hadn’t even been called on to present yet! Even though she had sat in the front row both Monday and Tuesday, raising her hand higher and higher each time Mr. Melville scanned the room for his next victim. And so for two whole days, Bethesda Fielding had been the reigning queen of Special Projects, and Pamela … was not. The proper balance of the universe, therefore, was seriously messed up.
Ms. Finkleman walked in, and Pamela’s classmates instantly hushed and leaned forward in their chairs, staring, just as they had yesterday. Pamela rolled her eyes and took a long swallow of spring water.
Okay, Pamela thought. So Ms. Finkleman used to be some sort of rock-and-roll whatever. Uh,
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