that room,” said Mary Mudget approvingly. “It’s always been too light in there to do constellations and eclipses properly.”
And with that, before Roger or I knew what had happened, we had fixed my problem.
An hour later, after the meeting had adjourned, Becky and Carol followed me into my room, “to measure the windows”.
I began rifling through my junk drawer for a tape measure, but Carol stopped me with a gentle hand on my wrist. “Don’t bother. They’ve already been measured and I sent in the order as soon as I got Maxine’s okay.” Her eyes twinkled a little wickedly, but it may just have been the light reflecting off her glasses. “We even sprang for rush delivery, since you start eclipses this week. They should arrive in two days.”
I pushed my junk drawer shut and threw my arms around Carol.
“It wasn’t just me,” Carol said grinning happily. “Mary helped box in Roger with that little dog and pony show.”
“I helped too,” Becky said, “by shutting up. And I want you to know how much a sacrifice it was to let Mary say the part about your teaching high school bio.”
I was so elated by the news that not even wearing the face mask could bring me down. Instead of waiting until dark like I had planned, I put on the awful mask and followed Becky and Carol out. Between the flu and my sun allergies, I hadn’t been outside much during the day and just seeing the sun yellowing near the horizon, casting gold highlights onto the silvery blue water, cheered me enormously. For the first time since Dr. Nakata had delivered the bad news, I felt that things were going to work out okay.
The drive home was short and pretty. Bayshore Academy occupies the tip of a flat finger of land that runs along the ocean, beach on one side, bay on the other. The school had been built for pennies back when Long Beach was an unfashionable, flood-prone backwater. Its simple stucco buildings had probably been considered cheap and declasse at the time, but I found the contrast of their near blinding whiteness against their red tiled roofs rather elegant and I adore the flowers everyone seems to plant against stucco—big, bright spills of magenta bougainvillea, tall, reaching columns of purple-blue morning glories, and fat hedges of yellow daisies and fragrant mock orange.
I live three miles down the beach in a cute little neighborhood of sweet little cottage-style beach homes that, thanks to the recent real estate boom, now go for a cool million. I didn’t live in one of those. I lived in a tiny apartment on one of the crowded apartment-row streets tacked on the outskirts of the sweet little neighborhood.
I had to fight for a parking spot four blocks away, and by the time I made it up to my apartment I was giddy with hunger. I dumped my book bag at the foot of my desk and made a beeline for the fridge. After a quick inventory, I discarded plans for a healthy salad and made myself a giant, rare roast beef and horseradish sandwich that I inhaled standing over the sink.
I flopped on my old tweedy loveseat in a post-prandial stupor and snuggled down under an afghan knit by my grandmother to watch the second half of an old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie. It was a rare night that I didn’t have papers to grade and I planned to enjoy it. When the movie was over, I flipped lazily through the channels and settled on the local news.
The networks had gotten hold of a picture of the missing woman. When they showed it, I got up in surprise and moved closer to the screen. They had called her a brunette in the Internet article I’d read at lunch, but she wasn’t, not really. Her hair was auburn, a very dark red. She was tall, about my height, about my weight. Had another reporter covered the story, he or she might have described her differently. They might have described me.
A chill ran through my limbs, taking my happy mood with it. I grabbed my heavy flashlight from the bookshelf and did a quick intruder-check of the
And with that, before Roger or I knew what had happened, we had fixed my problem.
An hour later, after the meeting had adjourned, Becky and Carol followed me into my room, “to measure the windows”.
I began rifling through my junk drawer for a tape measure, but Carol stopped me with a gentle hand on my wrist. “Don’t bother. They’ve already been measured and I sent in the order as soon as I got Maxine’s okay.” Her eyes twinkled a little wickedly, but it may just have been the light reflecting off her glasses. “We even sprang for rush delivery, since you start eclipses this week. They should arrive in two days.”
I pushed my junk drawer shut and threw my arms around Carol.
“It wasn’t just me,” Carol said grinning happily. “Mary helped box in Roger with that little dog and pony show.”
“I helped too,” Becky said, “by shutting up. And I want you to know how much a sacrifice it was to let Mary say the part about your teaching high school bio.”
I was so elated by the news that not even wearing the face mask could bring me down. Instead of waiting until dark like I had planned, I put on the awful mask and followed Becky and Carol out. Between the flu and my sun allergies, I hadn’t been outside much during the day and just seeing the sun yellowing near the horizon, casting gold highlights onto the silvery blue water, cheered me enormously. For the first time since Dr. Nakata had delivered the bad news, I felt that things were going to work out okay.
The drive home was short and pretty. Bayshore Academy occupies the tip of a flat finger of land that runs along the ocean, beach on one side, bay on the other. The school had been built for pennies back when Long Beach was an unfashionable, flood-prone backwater. Its simple stucco buildings had probably been considered cheap and declasse at the time, but I found the contrast of their near blinding whiteness against their red tiled roofs rather elegant and I adore the flowers everyone seems to plant against stucco—big, bright spills of magenta bougainvillea, tall, reaching columns of purple-blue morning glories, and fat hedges of yellow daisies and fragrant mock orange.
I live three miles down the beach in a cute little neighborhood of sweet little cottage-style beach homes that, thanks to the recent real estate boom, now go for a cool million. I didn’t live in one of those. I lived in a tiny apartment on one of the crowded apartment-row streets tacked on the outskirts of the sweet little neighborhood.
I had to fight for a parking spot four blocks away, and by the time I made it up to my apartment I was giddy with hunger. I dumped my book bag at the foot of my desk and made a beeline for the fridge. After a quick inventory, I discarded plans for a healthy salad and made myself a giant, rare roast beef and horseradish sandwich that I inhaled standing over the sink.
I flopped on my old tweedy loveseat in a post-prandial stupor and snuggled down under an afghan knit by my grandmother to watch the second half of an old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie. It was a rare night that I didn’t have papers to grade and I planned to enjoy it. When the movie was over, I flipped lazily through the channels and settled on the local news.
The networks had gotten hold of a picture of the missing woman. When they showed it, I got up in surprise and moved closer to the screen. They had called her a brunette in the Internet article I’d read at lunch, but she wasn’t, not really. Her hair was auburn, a very dark red. She was tall, about my height, about my weight. Had another reporter covered the story, he or she might have described her differently. They might have described me.
A chill ran through my limbs, taking my happy mood with it. I grabbed my heavy flashlight from the bookshelf and did a quick intruder-check of the
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