A Certain Slant of Light (38 page)

  
I crept back to my room and changed for bed. As I buttoned
my pajamas, I glanced across the room and felt a chill. My book
bag was standing open and the contents were neatly stacked in
side. Cathy had found the camera. On top of having a heathen
boyfriend, I had committed the strange sin of taking pictures. I
was so startled when she opened the door, I shrieked.

  
Cathy looked at me coldly as if I had called her a name. I tried
to smile. I climbed under the covers and she came to my side,
putting a thermometer under my tongue. I sat with her in silence
for a full minute, her arms folded stiffly, her foot tapping, her
eyes red.

  
"No fever," she told me, reading the glass stick at last. "Do you need an ibuprofen?" She shook the thermometer as if pun
ishing it.

  
"No," I said. Then I added, "I'm sorry for making you angry."

  
"We'll talk about it later," she said. "With your father."

  
That sounded ominous. "Tonight?"

  
"He may be late." Her mind drifted. She stared at the floor,
holding the thermometer now like a candle. "You say your
prayers," she said without turning to me.

  
"I will," I told her. I prayed constantly—a flutter of pleading;

  
"And you ask God for forgiveness when you confess your sins," said Cathy, and left me alone.

  
I looked through my book bag, but my camera and all my
books were still there. I considered calling the police station and
asking about James, but I wanted to wait until Cathy had gone to
bed. I sat in bed with the light on, too anxious to read, listening
to the sounds of Cathy walking in the hall, clinking around in the
bathroom, crossing through the hall again. I didn't remember
falling asleep—only the vague impression of someone turning
off my lamp.

I turned the radio in the car on myself, the atmosphere was so oppressive. Dan and Cathy had been arguing about something when
I came into the kitchen that morning, and although I suspected it was at least partly about me, they didn't ask me any questions or
give me any orders. Prayer Corner was brief, a long silent prayer
with only a few words of Scripture wisdom. Again, the absence of
reprimand was foreboding. Now Cathy was sitting forward as she
drove, looking as if she hadn't slept, her grip so tight I could see
the taut muscles on her thin arms stand out through her sweater.
She didn't kiss me. She barely remembered to say goodbye. I
watched her pull away and was surprised she didn't run into the students crossing in front of her fender.

  
I stood in the middle of the courtyard, searching every face that passed, but James was not one of them. I went to my first
class but immediately asked to use the restroom. Wanting to hide
in a hole somewhere, I climbed into the empty theater loft. The
black cloth was still there. I smelled it, hoping to find a trace of
James, but it smelled only like paint. I cried into my sweater so no
one would hear me.

  
A sandpaper whisper stopped me. I lifted my head, wiping my tears with my sleeves. It came again, like a snake's belly on stone.
Leaning over the edge of the loft, I saw a woman, as delicate and yellow as onion paper, ebbing back and forth in the darkness, her
long dress floating behind her and her ringleted head bent over a small book. A faint and lovely scent of candle wax floated up to
me. She read in a smoke-thin voice, too soft to understand,
paused, held the book to her fragile heart, and closed her eyes. Her paper lantern face glowing up at me, she moved her lips as she committed her lines to eternal memory.

  
The bell was so loud it growled through my ribs like a passing
train. The vibration seemed to consume the apparition with an
invisible flame. The empty stage seemed impossibly dark until a
band of day stretched in like a searchlight. I could hear the second-period drama class talking, singing, banging noisily as they
dumped their belongings into the front row of seats.

  
The firm voice of their teacher interrupted, ordering two
pupils on stage. Words filtered up to me. The two voices were
awkward ducklings, but they were so free from shame, it was as if
they were inventing the poetry for the first time. I recognized the
verse, even though they had barely begun. It was Shakespeare.
Romeo was luring Juliet into a first kiss. I felt foolish, suddenly.
Why was I hiding? Juliet wouldn't sit on her bed and weep until
they married her off to Paris. Go find him, I told myself.

  
I climbed down, not caring whether the drama students saw
me. James might have been late to school, I told myself. I went to
the office and looked at the clipboard that hung on the wall near
the mail slots. This was where absent students are listed so the office could contact parents. The names were crossed off as the stu
dents arrived late, but Billy's name was not crossed through.
Olivia turned from her phone call. She was unnerved by the sight
of me, for some reason. I hurried out, pretending I didn't hear
her call Jenny's name.

  
In the phone booth where James and I had spoken, I dialed
his home, and Libby answered.

  
"Is Billy there?"

  
"No," she said. Someone in the background was talking to
her. "Who's this?" she asked me.

  
"I'm a friend from school," I said. "I was worried about him."

  
"He's out on bail," she said, then I hung up. Mr. Olsen, the
school psychologist, was standing outside the booth, waiting for
me. I came out, feeling as if I'd been caught stealing.

  
"Jennifer, we need to speak to you in the principal's office."
He was smiling, but his eyes, dark and tense, betrayed a trap.
"Would you come with me, please?"

  
I walked beside him, silent as a prisoner of war, feeling he
and I didn't have a common language. He was a mild man I had
never taken much notice of before. The passion with which he
dialed and redialed his cell phone was the most animated thing I
had ever seen him do when I had been with Mr. Brown. He never
spoke as he listened to the phone. Finally frustrated, he put the
phone away and as we entered the administration building, I held
my bag to my chest and kept my head down. When we walked
into the principal's office, I stopped breathing. Dan and Cathy rose
from two chairs against the far wall. Cathy looked as if she might
cry at any moment. Dan was so tense his neck was twitching.

  
"What're you doing here?" I asked.

  
Cathy opened her mouth, but Dan cut her off. "Jennifer Ann, please wait until you are spoken to."

  
The principal wasn't there, but behind her desk was vice prin
cipal Flint. Mr. Brown had been polite to him, but neither of us
liked him. His compliments were hollow and his smiles forced.
He half rose and motioned me to a chair beside the desk. No one
sat in the chair that faced the desk, isolated and waiting.

  
"We need to ask you a few questions," said Mr. Flint.

  
Don't say anything, I told myself. They don't know about
James. I never used Billy's name.

  
Mr. Olsen crossed behind the desk and whispered something
to the vice principal that irritated him.

  
"I'm in charge when she's away," Mr. Flint answered him.
"Let me do my job."

  
Dismissed, Mr. Olsen stood beside Cathy's chair, holding his
cell phone as if expecting a death-row pardon from the governor.

  
"Jenny, your parents have become aware of the fact that
you've gotten involved with someone recently," said Mr. Flint.
Like a proud usurper, he seemed pleased with his seat behind the
large desk.

  
"Where's the principal?" I asked, not meaning to open my
mouth.

  
"She's out of town today." Mr. Flint smoothed his tie and ad
justed his smile. "Your mother found this." He handed me a piece
of paper in a clear protective sleeve like exhibit A in a trial.

  
I took it and recognized it with a rush of blood to my cheeks.
It started with the words: "Dear sir: twelve hours is as twelve
years to me." And ended with the words: "I reread you, memorize
you, every waking moment we're apart."

  
"Who did you write that to?"

  
I knew I was blushing, but I couldn't help it. "No one," I lied.

  
"Jennifer!" Cathy hissed. Dan cleared his throat, a warning
growl that shut her up.

  
I handed the letter back and glanced up, noticing that Mr.
Olsen was looking very distressed by the interrogation.

  
"Didn't you tell your mother you had someone special at
school?" said Mr. Flint.

  
I knew I had to say something. "Just a boy," I mumbled.

  
"Even if that were true," said Cathy, and I was surprised to
find that she was talking to the vice principal and not to me, "it's still rape. She's only fifteen."

  
"Cathleen," Dan said.

  
Fifteen. That couldn't be right. Then I remembered what had
bothered me about Jenny's little paper license. The birth year.
She was more than a year younger than Billy.

  
Mr. Flint held up a hand to Jenny's parents to be patient.

  
Cathy turned to me, teary. "I found the underwear you tried
to wash. I read the letter. I saw the photograph. Tell us what hap
pened."

  
What photograph?

  
Dan clamped a hand on her arm, but she rushed on. "The
books you're reading now. They're not like you. I know what
Jam
Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
are about. They're about girls who
are in love with married men."