The Miles Between (2 page)

“We aren't really set up for babies here,” Mrs. Wicket says.

“And the boy, does he have to leave too?” I ask.

“He doesn't attend Hedgebrook.”

“Well, I bet wherever he attends school, he's not missing a single day of it,” Jillian says.

The room dims. I think I am the only one to notice. And then it lightens again, like a cloud has passed the sun. For a brief moment everyone is frozen in time, like the sculptures that decorate the garden, and I look at each one, wondering at how easily their lives are intersected by simple things beyond their control, like wind and clouds and people.

“Aren't you going to ask where Seth is, Des?” Mira asks.

Seth is new this year, and just because I happened to notice him when he first arrived and made a comment
about his scruffy blond hair, Mira seems to think I have an interest in him. Which I don't, of course, because that would break my number-one rule: Don't get attached. But I can't stop observing. It is my habit, always on the outside, looking at the armor others clothe themselves with, comparing their natures with my own, trying to imagine how they got that way and understand why circumstances crowd into one life and not another. Seth is connection to my distance, smiles and easiness to my everyday calculations, and I wonder at the divergent paths that have created us. But I don't wonder overly much. I find his smoothness impossibly annoying, and I don't really care where he is, but Mira still watches me, waiting for a response.

“All right, Mira,” I sigh. “Where's Seth?”

Aidan steals Mira's wind. “He has early-morning trash duty.”

“What did he
do
?” Jillian asks, leaning forward, the scoop about Seth far more interesting than her shriveled sausage.

I see Mrs. Wicket faintly shake her head, resigned to the passing of the story.

Aidan tips his chair back. “Yesterday in English lit, Mr. Bingham opened the window—”

“And a strong breeze flew in!” Mira finishes. “It blew some papers off the desk—”

“And it blew his
hair
.”

“Oh, my God, not his—”

“That's right! His comb-over!” Aidan confirms. “The whole class was trying not to laugh and then Seth raised his hand. Mr. Bingham calls on him, and Seth says, ‘Uh, Mr. Bingham . . . looks like the lid on your treasure chest is open.'”

Squeals and snorts explode through the dining room. Mrs. Wicket clears her throat.

“What did Bingham do?” Jillian asks.

“
Mr
. Bingham,” Mrs. Wicket corrects her.

“What else could he do?” Aidan answers. “He shut the lid. And once the whole class quit laughing, he gave Seth detention and trash duty.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Jillian says, picking up her sausage with her fingers and nibbling on it.

“It's an English class, after all,” Ben reminds everyone. “And Seth did use a metaphor.”

“A good one too.”

“He really should've gotten extra credit, don't you think?” Mira adds. “It was a compliment of sorts.”

“Extra credit is what would have been fair.”

“That's right,” Curtis adds so that now he has officially been part of the breakfast conversation.

Mrs. Wicket smiles. “Finish up, now. Ten minutes until classes.” She gulps down the last of her tea and stands, like she has every morning since I've been here, then claps her hands to send us on our way.

As we gather our dishes, Miss Plunkett enters with a piece of paper. Miss Plunkett is new and doesn't know all the students yet. “This call came a few minutes ago. They said you would inform Miss . . .” she looks at the note again and says, “Miss Faraday?”

I look up from my oatmeal.

Mrs. Wicket briefly scans the note and then looks at me. “Oh, Destiny, dear. There was a phone call. It appears someone has stolen the tires—all four of them—from your aunt Edie's car. She won't be able to come today, but—”

I stand, my chair screeching behind me.

Everyone stops and stares at me like I am a fragile twit. Which I am not.

“Seth's a fool,” I say. I snatch up my empty bowl and juice glass. “It would have been much more cruel to remain silent and let Mr. Bingham teach his entire lesson looking like a ridiculous lopsided rooster.” I throw my dishes into the dirty dish bin near the door. “And
that
is what would have been entirely fair.”

 

 

 

I
GENERALLY TRY TO STAY OUT
of trouble at Hedgebrook, and I am generally successful. But today, I'm afraid, trouble is already mine. I notice on my first step outside that it is a cloudless, windless day, as Mrs. Wicket had predicted. Yes, I can imagine things when I choose to. I can even be happily delusional if it suits me, which it often does. But I am always deadly observant, and I do know the difference between fantasy and fact. Back in the dining room, the sun dimmed on a cloudless day. And that is fact.

Instead of hurrying to my civics course as I should, I walk to the other side of Carroll Hall dormitory in search of a lone cloud, perhaps hiding in the garden because it is a pleasant place to be and because it is October 19, and I
don't take coincidences lightly. But once there, I only find myself standing in the middle of an empty garden under a clear blue sky. Not even the tiniest bit of spun sugar clings to a spruce.

I hear the distant sound of the late bell. It echoes through the air in a strange curvy way, like it's trying to find its way to me, to let me know,
Don't hurry, Des—it's too late anyway. You're too late again
. I walk farther down the gravel path to a long stone bench that sits among the well-trimmed hedges and slowly ease myself down, like if I am quiet enough and gentle enough, maybe the world will leave me alone. I feel the emptiness of the garden. No wind. No clouds. No Aunt Edie. The stillness is odd, like the garden is holding its breath, or maybe it is just me who is doing the holding. Four tires, all gone. A sufficient excuse. Aunt Edie will not be coming.

A cold tremble crawls the length of my spine and spins around in my chest, and only because I am completely alone, I allow myself to lean forward and bury my face in my hands. The trembling grows, until it is shaking my throat like a furious switch. I rock, keeping my mouth shut tight. If I keep it tight, I will win. I silently count.
One, two, three . . .

“Shouldn't you be in class?”

A gasp of air explodes from my throat and I sit up straight. A stranger sits on the other end of the bench.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“None of your business! It's rude to interrupt someone that way!” I clasp my hands between my knees, trying to keep them still. “You startled me,” I add.

“Were you crying?”

I narrow my eyes at the stranger. “Are you a serial killer?”

“Mr. Nestor.”

“I've never seen you here before.”

“A visiting teacher. Calculus.”

“Why aren't
you
in class?” I ask.

“And now we're back to where we started, aren't we?”

I study the stranger. He is an odd man. Not odd in his features. Those are mostly plain. Professorish. A thick tuft of hair that needs a comb. A short, trimmed beard with a frosting of white on the edges. A cheap dated suit in need of a good pressing. But the way he speaks, slow and calm, like he has all the time in the world, like he has planned to meet me out here in this garden. And that is impossible since I didn't know I was coming here myself.

“You came out of nowhere. I didn't hear you walk up,” I say.

He points to his shoes. Rubber soled. “You didn't answer my question,” he says.

“No. I was only stretching. Yoga. Haven't you heard of it?” He is trying my patience and rapidly turning my trembling to agitation.

“Yoga.” He draws the word out and rubs his chin, the wiry hairs on his chin bristling like a hemp doormat.

Extreme agitation.

“Yoga,” he says again, like there is some deep hidden meaning to it.

“All right, it wasn't yoga! But I
wasn't
crying.”

He is not an observant man. I can see that already.

“But you were distressed. What is there to be distressed about on such a beautiful October day?”

I stand. I have no time for dense thinkers. “We're done.”

“Have I said something?”

Rude! Forward! Intruding on my space! I don't even know him!

I sit. He's not going to drive me away. Even if he is a teacher. Even if I am late for class. I was here first, and today that matters.
Today
. I will make it matter. I glare, hard and deep, drilling into his eyes, so he can see I am not distressed.

“It's not a beautiful day for everyone, Mr. Nestor. It's not for me.”

“Is there something I can do? Something you want?”

Why doesn't he leave me alone?

He raises his eyebrows in the most annoying fashion and then, as if that is not bad enough, he tilts his head! Like I am obligated to tell him!

That's it. That is absolutely it. I stand. I sit. I look away. I look back. The trembling that circled my spine has shot to my mouth like a burst of fire, ignited by this doltish teacher. Counting to three or a hundred won't keep my mouth shut.

“Something I want?” I stand again.
“Something I want?”

“Yes.”

My vision explodes. My hands fly over my head. “
Want?
” I circle around the bench and stop when I am standing inches from his cheap-trousered knees. “You
really
want to know?”

“I don't ask idle questions.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.
One, two, three . . .

“Four tires! I want four matching tires! Is that too much to ask?” He begins to open his mouth, but I stop him. “I'm not done! Not by a mile! I want oatmeal without lumps! For one miraculous day, I want Cook to stand
there and stir the mush the way it's supposed to be stirred!” I walk three steps away and three back, this time even closer to his face. “I want a bed that will be mine, not just for a month or a year, but for the rest of my life! I want letters from home! I want my parents to know what it's like to be abandoned!”

“Is that—”

“
And I want Seth to get extra credit!
” My knees ache and my throat knots. I sit on the bench and look at him, an unblinking, impossibly long stare. “I'll tell you what I want,” I whisper between gritted teeth. “All I want is
one
day where the good guys win. One day where the world makes sense. Just one day, where the world is fair. Where it all adds up to what it should be.
Just one single fair day
. Is that too much to ask? That's what I want.”

“A fair day,” he says, like he has never heard the words before. He stands, his index finger tapping his lips. “A completely fair day. Interesting.” He turns and looks at me. His pale eyes narrow, looking so far into mine, I shiver. “What would that do?” he asks. “How would
one
fair day make a difference to you?”

How? I don't know.

There is no answer for a question like that. It's an endless circling question that feeds on itself over and over again
like a snake eating its tail. It can only go so far. I know. I've asked myself that exact question countless times. I look at my lap. My knees bounce, and I press with my hands to steady them. One day. Maybe I would feel less like a pawn in a game. Or maybe it would make me feel that the inequity of the world comes full circle eventually and it all evens out. Maybe it would make me believe again, in what, I'm not sure. Some sense of order. Meaning. Purpose. Maybe it would give me courage to make it through the other days that aren't so fair. Or maybe it would just make me feel like someone is listening. Or . . . maybe it would just plain feel good. All the way through every inch of me, it might feel wonderfully and deliciously good. For one day. Is there anything wrong with that?

“Maybe—” I look up to answer. Mr. Nestor is gone. I stand and twirl around. Gone! My first assessment of him was accurate. A rumpled rude clod! He didn't even wait for me to answer! Calculus! I bend down and grab a handful of gravel. “Go calculate this!” I yell, flinging it as far as I can. The gravel and my words are swallowed up by the empty garden, and the silence returns. I dust off my hand on the front of my uniform.

Wasted emotion. But no one has seen it. I sigh and shake my head. Any remnant of trembling is shaken off. I
head back down the garden path. I've missed half of civics by now, all because of a cloudless sky that mattered to no one but me and because of an ill-bred teacher who couldn't be bothered to wait and hear my answer to his stupid question. And it is all my own fault, really, for not sticking with the prescribed routine.

I turn at the end of Carroll Hall, and I see a peculiar sight. Not ten yards from me, parked on the lawn beneath a giant spruce, is a car. I am not familiar with the makes of cars, but it is a very long, barely pink thing with a white leather top that has been folded back, unusual but attractive, something I might choose for myself if I were to have a car. I have never seen it at Hedgebrook before. All the teachers here drive modest, sensible cars, and they certainly never park them on the lawn. The driver's-side door is wide open, and I can hear the engine humming. Who would be so careless? When the headmaster sees this . . .

I walk closer and reach out, running my fingers along the buttery smooth fender. The tires catch my attention. An old-fashioned sort with white on the sides. The two I can see are in pristine condition, like they have never seen the road. I bend down and look at myself in the convex, shiny hubcap, the world behind me distorted, my own image strangely accurate.

I stand. Someone is quite irresponsible to leave it running unattended like this. I turn and walk away, and a thought stops me. It must belong to the rude teacher. He is just the type who would be so irresponsible as to leave a car with the engine running—and on the lawn, of all things! I fume, wondering how someone in his position could be so foolish. I stomp up the steps toward the center quad. It would serve him right if someone just took off with it. It would serve—