AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes, I always thought of time travel as more romantic. I mean, I kind of imagined Charlotte in her own historical films. Dancing with Mr. Darcy at a ball, falling in love with some sexy Highlander. Telling Anne Boleyn it would be a really, really bad idea to marry Henry VIII. That kind of thing.”
“Anne Boleyn’s the one they beheaded?”
Lesley nodded. “There’s a great film with Natalie Portman. I could borrow us the DVD.… Gwen, please promise me you’ll talk to your mum today.”
“I promise. I’ll do it tonight.”
“Where’s Charlotte?” Cynthia craned her neck to look around the tree trunk. “I wanted to copy her Shakespeare essay. Er—I mean I wanted to get a few ideas from it.”
“Charlotte’s not well,” I said.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“Diarrhea,” said Lesley. “Very bad. Spends all her time sitting on the loo.”
“Ew, spare us the details!” said Cynthia. “Can I look at your essays, then, you two?”
“We haven’t finished them yet,” said Lesley. “We’re going to watch Shakespeare in Love again first.”
“You can read my essay,” Gordon Gelderman said in his deepest bass voice. His head appeared on the other side of the tree trunk. “All out of Wikipedia.”
“I might just as well look up Wikipedia for myself,” said Cynthia.
The bell rang, and break was over.
“Double English,” groaned Gordon. “For a man, that’s torture. But I can see Cynthia slobbering already when she thinks of Prince Charming.”
“Shut up, Gordon.”
Everyone knew that Gordon never shut up. “I can’t imagine why you all think Mr. Whitman is so great. I mean, he’s such a poof!”
“He is not!” Cynthia said indignantly, standing up.
“He’s definitely gay!” Gordon followed her to the entrance. He’d be needling Cynthia all the way up to the second floor.
Lesley rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said, and gave me her hand to pull me up from the bench. “Off we go for our date with Prince Charming Squirrel!”
We caught up with Cynthia and Gordon on the stairs up to the second floor. They were still talking about Mr. Whitman.
“You can tell from that weird signet ring he wears,” said Gordon. “Only gay guys wear that sort of thing.”
“My grandfather always wore a signet ring,” I said, although I didn’t really want to get mixed up in this.
“Then your grandfather was gay too,” said Gordon.
“You’re just jealous,” said Cynthia.
“Jealous? Me?”
“Of course you are. Because Mr. Whitman is the best-looking, most masculine, cleverest, straightest guy ever. Next to him you look like a silly, weedy little boy.”
“Thanks very much for the compliment,” said Mr. Whitman. He’d appeared behind us, unnoticed, with a stack of paper under his arm and, as always, breathtakingly good-looking. (Even if he did also look a bit like a squirrel.)
Cynthia went even redder than bright scarlet in the face, if that’s possible. I actually felt sorry for her.
Gordon grinned nastily.
“As for you, Gordon, maybe you ought to do a little research into signet rings and their wearers,” said Mr. Whitman. “I’d like you to write a short essay on the subject by next week.”
