I hear her before I see her. Jimmy Choo stilettos tap-tap their way down the linoleum hall, their echo dragging the eyes' of the students whose classrooms she passes. There is excited murmuring, and the occasional squeal so unique to celebrity sightings. “I know I can't be late,” I hear her say as if she is explaining something very simple to someone very dumb. “Don't worry, I will get this over with and be there by the time you are ready to start shooting. Now let me hang up, it won't look good if I walk in on my phone. Yes, yes, I already told you. Goodbye, Dennis.” She hangs up as she turns into the hallway where I am sitting and there she is. Sunglasses fashionably perched on her glossy hair, a Louis Vuitton purse hanging from her arm. She looks just like she does in the magazines. It is her. Gwen Renoux. Rising star. Latest sensation. Face of glamour and glory. “Hi, Mom,” I say. “Darling,” she answers in what I assume to be her attempt at a slight British accent. Her assistant Clarisse stands off to the side, furiously tapping away at her phone. “I couldn't believe it when I got that message from Mrs. Nob—Clarisse, what's that woman's name?” “Mrs. Norbert.” Clarisse continues tapping without pause. “Yes, Mrs. Norbert. I told her it must be some sort of misunderstanding. You are one of the top students—“ “Is she, now?” asks Mrs. Norbert, standing by her door with a posture Mom would kill for and a physical therapist would curse. “Why don't you come in so we can discuss it.” “We certainly will,” says Mom, who always has to have the last word, as she brushes past Mrs. Norbert into the office. Clarisse and I follow. The chairs are leather, as if providing comfortable chairs will soften the blow of whatever the principal has to say. Fat chance of that. Mrs. Norbert slowly walks to her side of the desk, her fingers trailing over a thick file lying on her desk. Then, she looks up with a graveness that would put a judge to shame. “Mrs. Renoux, I am sorry for calling you down here so suddenly, but we have a serious problem with Kindra here.” Mrs. Norbert tilts her head, pausing. Oh, for goodness sake. She is totally doing the I-am-just-like-you act. When random people interact with my mother, they seem to feel like they can amp up on the drama, as if because she is an actress, she will appreciate their efforts. Well done, Mrs. Nobert! Have you a speech prepared for the Oscar award you are about to receive?“Kindra's behavior has been deteriorating for the past three months, and I have tried calling you about it. But what happened this morning has absolutely...” A blue car passes outside the window. Across the street, a paper lunch bag someone dropped is strewn across the road. A paper lunch bag. So cute and young. A sandwich is peeking out, and there is an apple and a can of soda that have rolled away. It probably even has a little handwritten note inside. How embarrassing. Good thing I can just buy something from the cafeteria. A blue Honda passes, its tires running straight over the forgotten can of soda, causing it to explode in a shower of sugary mess. The car whizzes past, its owner probably unaware of the sticky residue left on the blue paint. A puddle forms around the crushed can, just lying there. What a waste. * * * “...it may seem harsh, but I believe me when I say it will be in Kindra's best interests to find a school more suitable to her nature.” Mrs. Norbert holds the door as we file out, but stays inside her office as if awaiting my mother's inevitable assault. “Be well, and call me if you encounter any problems.” The door closes. Call me if you encounter any problems? Was she being serious? “Don't fret, dear,” Mom is already shouldering her bag, ready to leave. “There is a nice private academy I was thinking of transferring you to. It's more elite, and better suited to us than this cheap school in any case.” She checks that her sunglasses are in place and smoths her skirt. “Listen, I have to get to my shoot and they will kill me if I'm late. Clarisse will take you home. We will smooth this out, no worries.” And she is gone. “Kindra,” Clarisse sits down beside me and looks straight into my eyes. “You okay?” “I'm fine.” I say with a curtness that can't be helped. “It's not the first time, right? No big deal. I'm going to get my stuff.” I stand up without looking back. My locker is the third from the top, right near the classrooms. It's covered in cheerful stickers with quotes. “Just do it.” “Life's what you make it.” I try scratching one proclaiming “You only fall if you fail to rise” off, but the sticky white paper just gets jammed under my nails. Stupid sparkly purple nails. Why did I paint them that color anyway? I look like a tween Hannah Montana fan. I leave the sticker half hanging off, with the little bits I did manage to rip off scattered on the floor. Just get the stuff and go. I start shoving my sweaty gym clothes and spare sweatshirt into my corduroy backpack. I survey the rest. Textbooks that might not be on the syllabus in the next school. Papers from teachers who couldn't care less if I stay or go. I slam the locker shut and walk down the hall, right past Clarisse who is waiting for my transcripts and straight out the large glass doors. It is a beautiful day. Thank goodness I don't have to be in school now. The sun is shining, and my life is just glorious. Glorious.
“I know I can't be late,” I hear her say as if she is explaining something very simple to someone very dumb. “Don't worry, I will get this over with and be there by the time you are ready to start shooting. Now let me hang up, it won't look good if I walk in on my phone. Yes, yes, I already told you. Goodbye, Dennis.” She hangs up as she turns into the hallway where I am sitting and there she is. Sunglasses fashionably perched on her glossy hair, a Louis Vuitton purse hanging from her arm. She looks just like she does in the magazines. It is her. Gwen Renoux. Rising star. Latest sensation. Face of glamour and glory.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Darling,” she answers in what I assume to be her attempt at a slight British accent. Her assistant Clarisse stands off to the side, furiously tapping away at her phone. “I couldn't believe it when I got that message from Mrs. Nob—Clarisse, what's that woman's name?”
“Mrs. Norbert.” Clarisse continues tapping without pause.
“Yes, Mrs. Norbert. I told her it must be some sort of misunderstanding. You are one of the top students—“
“Is she, now?” asks Mrs. Norbert, standing by her door with a posture Mom would kill for and a physical therapist would curse. “Why don't you come in so we can discuss it.”
“We certainly will,” says Mom, who always has to have the last word, as she brushes past Mrs. Norbert into the office. Clarisse and I follow.
The chairs are leather, as if providing comfortable chairs will soften the blow of whatever the principal has to say. Fat chance of that.
Mrs. Norbert slowly walks to her side of the desk, her fingers trailing over a thick file lying on her desk. Then, she looks up with a graveness that would put a judge to shame.
“Mrs. Renoux, I am sorry for calling you down here so suddenly, but we have a serious problem with Kindra here.” Mrs. Norbert tilts her head, pausing. Oh, for goodness sake. She is totally doing the I-am-just-like-you act. When random people interact with my mother, they seem to feel like they can amp up on the drama, as if because she is an actress, she will appreciate their efforts. Well done, Mrs. Nobert! Have you a speech prepared for the Oscar award you are about to receive?“Kindra's behavior has been deteriorating for the past three months, and I have tried calling you about it. But what happened this morning has absolutely...”
A blue car passes outside the window. Across the street, a paper lunch bag someone dropped is strewn across the road. A paper lunch bag. So cute and young. A sandwich is peeking out, and there is an apple and a can of soda that have rolled away. It probably even has a little handwritten note inside. How embarrassing. Good thing I can just buy something from the cafeteria.
A blue Honda passes, its tires running straight over the forgotten can of soda, causing it to explode in a shower of sugary mess. The car whizzes past, its owner probably unaware of the sticky residue left on the blue paint. A puddle forms around the crushed can, just lying there. What a waste.
* * *
“...it may seem harsh, but I believe me when I say it will be in Kindra's best interests to find a school more suitable to her nature.” Mrs. Norbert holds the door as we file out, but stays inside her office as if awaiting my mother's inevitable assault. “Be well, and call me if you encounter any problems.”
The door closes. Call me if you encounter any problems? Was she being serious?
“Don't fret, dear,” Mom is already shouldering her bag, ready to leave. “There is a nice private academy I was thinking of transferring you to. It's more elite, and better suited to us than this cheap school in any case.” She checks that her sunglasses are in place and smoths her skirt. “Listen, I have to get to my shoot and they will kill me if I'm late. Clarisse will take you home. We will smooth this out, no worries.”
And she is gone.
“Kindra,” Clarisse sits down beside me and looks straight into my eyes. “You okay?”
“I'm fine.” I say with a curtness that can't be helped. “It's not the first time, right? No big deal. I'm going to get my stuff.” I stand up without looking back.
My locker is the third from the top, right near the classrooms. It's covered in cheerful stickers with quotes. “Just do it.” “Life's what you make it.” I try scratching one proclaiming “You only fall if you fail to rise” off, but the sticky white paper just gets jammed under my nails. Stupid sparkly purple nails. Why did I paint them that color anyway? I look like a tween Hannah Montana fan. I leave the sticker half hanging off, with the little bits I did manage to rip off scattered on the floor. Just get the stuff and go. I start shoving my sweaty gym clothes and spare sweatshirt into my corduroy backpack. I survey the rest. Textbooks that might not be on the syllabus in the next school. Papers from teachers who couldn't care less if I stay or go.
I slam the locker shut and walk down the hall, right past Clarisse who is waiting for my transcripts and straight out the large glass doors. It is a beautiful day. Thank goodness I don't have to be in school now. The sun is shining, and my life is just glorious.
Glorious.