“And your schedule.” He slides a piece of paper across his desk. Biology, geometry, dressmaking, then lunch. Afternoon classes in English, alternating days of physical fitness and family life skills, and history. I notice a final portrait, this one smaller and given prime positioning on his desk. A younger version of Principal Cleary is frozen in time, grooming a small pink-tinted poodle.
I snort, then try to hide it in a cough, then almost choke.
“Are you all right, Miss Quinn?”
I nod, my eyes watering.
“The other students in your year are already weeks ahead of you. You’ll need to work hard to keep pace with them. We educate dedicated, diligent students in this school. Anything less will not be tolerated. Do you have any questions, Miss Quinn?”
Without waiting for an answer, he continues.
“I’ve appointed one of your classmates to ensure that you find your classes without disruption. Agatha Mackelroy was here yesterday and mentioned she’d already met you in town, so she volunteered her son, George. If you have any further questions, please direct them to him.” And with that, Principal Cleary shows me the door and closes it firmly in my face.
I stand for a moment in the hall, still facing the closed door, and pretend to study my schedule. I find Cass’s ribbon in my pocket. Students ripple around me, staring. Some whisper, and one knocks right into me, but no one says hello or offers help.
Then I hear a burst of Will’s laughter just beyond the window.
I fold my schedule into my books and follow his familiar voice out to the courtyard.
“Cliffton!”
A boy with closely shorn hair passes a soccer ball across the courtyard to Will. I lean against the metal stair railing and watch Will stop it with his foot, then shoot it back. He pulls his uniform tie from his pants pocket and loops it around his neck.
Another boy takes the ball, then passes it with too much force. The ball rolls past Will and comes to a stop at the foot of the steps, just in front of me. Will jogs toward it and does a double take. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, and flush, remembering that the last time we saw each other, I was in my nightgown.
“Who’s the sugar, eh, Will?” the boy with the shorn hair yells. Another teammate raises his fingers to his lips in a short, shrill whistle.
Will doesn’t look at me. He calls over his shoulder, “Leave it. She’s a friend.” He reaches for the spot at the back of his neck. Then he bends for the ball and tosses it between his hands. “Is someone coming to get you?”
“So I’m told,” I say.
The other boy continues. “Looks like Will’s already marking his territory.”
Will clenches his jaw. “Hey, Peterson,” he shoots back. “Then why don’t you piss off?”
He tosses the ball in front of him and runs around his teammates in smooth, fast arcs, daring one of them to try to steal it from him. It works to distract their attention from me.
A boy appears at that moment, half jogging from the orchard to the stairs where I wait. His hair is dirty blond and sticks up as though it’s rarely seen a comb. The front tail of his uniform shirt is untucked, and his tie is slightly askew.
“Aila?” He stretches out his hand as he approaches, and I release my hold on the railing to take it.
“I’m George. We have first period together—?Dr. Digby’s biology lab—?so I’m going to show you around. Shall we go?”
“That’s grand of you,” I say. “Thank you.” I smile at Will to let him know that I’m fine, that he doesn’t have to worry.
“Well, Cliffton, looks like you’ve got yourself a real honey of a houseguest,” the boy called Peterson says loudly as I follow George up the stairs.
“Shut it,” Will says, giving Peterson a swift elbow to the ribs just as the first bell sounds across the lawn.
“So you’ve met Principal Cleary then?” George nods at the principal’s closed door as he leads me down the hall. “We’re so fortunate to have him. But I’m curious—?what did you think? Personally, I’ve always found him to be so inspiring.”
This doesn’t bode well for a future friendship with George. I offer him a half smile in response and leave it at that. Principal Cleary does seem like just the sort who would stick me with the leader of his own personal fan club.
“Sometimes I’m not sure which I like more: his humility or his distinguished taste in the painted form,” George continues, confirming that this is going to be a very long day. He is walking at a brisk pace, and I’m almost running to match his stride. “Take those portraits hanging in his office,” he says. “Some students wait their entire scholastic careers for that honor, and you saw them on your very first day. Were you able to pick a favorite?” He stops abruptly and faces me.
His eyebrows rise as he waits for my answer, and then the corners of his mouth twitch. With his faded freckles and pleased expression, he almost looks like Miles.
