“Sorry,” I say stiffly, and he waves it away. But I notice then how clean his house is. Spare and sterile, as if he cleans it every day with bleach.
“What were you in jail for?” I ask abruptly when he returns to his seat.
He pauses. “Robbery,” he says. Which is partly true.
“When did you get out?”
“Twenty-five years ago.”
“You never came back.” What I meant was, You never came back for me.
He grunts and scrapes the stain of stew from the inside of his bowl.
“And what of . . .” He trails off. I know whom he means. But I don’t want to tell that long, awful story. Not tonight. So I shrug and shake my head, and he doesn’t bring her up again.
The rest of dinner is filled with gaping, painful silences. This, I think: the culminating event, the bookend to my life. But when he walks me to the door, he gives me his telephone number on a scrap of paper. “I need some help with odd jobs,” he says brusquely. “Maybe you could come back again.”
Later, on the platform, when the train hurtles toward me, I stare down into the abyss of the tracks and rock on my heels. I have not written a note to leave; there is no one to leave it for. But I feel in my pocket for that one ripped scrap of paper.
Close my fingers around my father’s handwriting. When the train is almost upon me, I step safely back into the clear, starless night.
Chapter Eight
The morning Miles and I start school, Mrs. Cliffton is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a coat slung over her arm and a leather pouch in her hand. William has already left for practice. “I’m sure you’re eager for a bit of this,” she says. She applies the Looking Glass Variants to a hand mirror so I can examine myself. Then, before I am quite done straightening my uniform and smoothing my hair, she ushers me and Miles out to the car.
“Don’t want to be late,” she says.
The drive to the school is familiar until the final fork, where we bear right instead of taking the left toward town. Mrs. Cliffton is chattering on from the front seat, but I’m only vaguely aware of what she’s saying. I reach into my pocket and feel for Cass’s ribbon, my reminder that I am only passing through.
When I look up, we are nearing two stories of faded brick. I take in the high school’s cascade of wide concrete stairs, the apples and silver swords emblazoned on flags above the arched entrance, and, finally, the students themselves, milling in clusters around the stone wall that separates the grounds from an orchard. Miles’s elementary school building is barely visible just beyond it.
“I’m going to bring Miles to his new classroom,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “The principal’s office will be the first door on your right. He’s expecting you.” She reaches into the back seat to give my knee a slight squeeze. Her hand is warm. Then so are my face, my ears, my neck.
“Don’t forget that William’s always there if you need anything,” Mrs. Cliffton says as I climb out.
“Bye, Miles,” I say. “I’ll see you after.”
“It’s going to be great,” Miles says, his chin raised defiantly. I raise my hand to wave goodbye. When he waves back, I glimpse the small heart on the inside of his elbow.
Then I close the door, the car pulls away, and I am alone.
The whispers start as soon as I cross the schoolyard. I want to shake them off, but they cling to me like strands from a web as I walk up the steps and under the curved arches of the entrance. I fight to keep my gaze at eye level, but I settle on looking somewhere on the ground just ahead. It’s as though I’m watching myself under a microscope, trying my best to walk and move like a normal person. As far as blending in goes, my uniform can do only so much.
I find the principal’s office just as Mrs. Cliffton directed—?PRINCIPAL CLEARY carved into brass on the door—?and knock.
“Come in,” a deep voice says.
Principal Cleary sits behind a massive oak desk, his hands clasped in front of him. He seems to start at the sight of me, then quickly recovers. He has a high forehead, thinning brown hair, and ears that seem a degree too low. His portraits hang on three walls of the office: one of him receiving a diploma, another of him staring pensively out of a window, and another of him signing some document with an ornate pen. In each he wears the same pursed look he gives me now.
“Miss Quinn.” He gestures to a chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
I do, tilting my arm so that I can just make out the tiny heart on the inside of my elbow.
“It’s very rare for us to welcome a new student to this school,” Principal Cleary begins. “I take it that you’re well aware of our . . . unusual circumstances in Sterling?” He leans forward.
“I am.”
“Because of these special circumstances, we have a number of rules by which you will need to carefully abide,” he says, rising. The pleats of his pants are sharp and exact. “These rules will be especially strict until you are Of Age.” He hands me a thick booklet, A Guide to Complete Variant Compliance at Sterling High School.
