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"Well then, no sense in keeping her from starting." He rose from his seat and went to the door. "Mrs. Eltz," he said. "Please send for Caroline Higgins." He returned to his desk. "While she is in class, we can go through whatever you have in terms of information about her and I will take it from there. Please be assured," he added, narrowing his eyes, "that whatever you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence."
"I imagine," Daphne said in an icy voice, "that we won't be telling you anything you don't already know."
Daphne's regal posture and aristocratic tone was like water thrown on a budding fire. Dr. Storm appeared to shrink in his chair. His smile was weaker, his retreat from an important administrator to educational bureaucrat well underway. He stuttered, fumbled through some forms and documents, and looked relieved when Mrs. Eltz knocked on the door to announce Caroline Higgins's arrival.
"Good, good," he said, rising again. "Come along then, Ruby. "Let's get you started." He escorted me into the outer office, welcoming the distraction and the temporary reprieve from Daphne's demanding gaze.
"This is Ruby Dumas, Caroline," he said, introducing me to a slim, dark haired girl with a pale complexion and a homely face with glasses as thick as goggles that made her eyes seem grotesquely large. Her thin mouth turned down-ward at the corners, giving her a habitually despondent appearance. She flicked a tiny, nervous smile and extended her slight hand. We shook quickly.
"Caroline already knows what has to be done," Dr. Storm said. "What's first, Caroline?" he asked as if to test her. "English, Dr. Storm."
"Right. Okay, girls, precede. And remember, Ruby, the door to my office is always open for you."
"Thank you, Dr. Storm," I said, and followed Caroline into the corridor. As soon as we took a halfdozen steps away, she stopped and turned, this time, smiling wider and looking happier.
"Hi. I might as well tell you what everyone calls me so you don't get confused. . Mookie," she revealed.
"Mookie? Why?"
She shrugged.
"Someone just called me that one day and it stuck like flypaper. If I don't respond when someone calls me that, he or she just doesn't try again," she explained with a tone of resignation. "Anyway, I'm really excited about being your guide. Everyone's been talking about you and Gisselle, and what happened when you were just babies. Mr. Stegman is trying to discuss Edgar Allan Poe, but no one's paying attention. All eyes are on the door and when I was called to come get you, the class started buzzing so much, he had to shout for quiet."
After hearing that preamble, I was terrified of entering the room. But I had to. With my heart pounding so hard that I could feel the thump reverberating down my spine, I followed Mookie, half listening to her description of the school's layout, which corridors were where, where the cafeteria, the gym, and the nurse's office were, and how to get to the ball fields. We paused at the doorway of the English classroom.
"Ready?" she asked.
"No, but I have no choice," I said. She laughed and opened the door.
It was as if a wind had blown into the room and spun everyone's head around. Even the teacher, a tall man with coal black hair and narrow, dark eyes, froze for a moment, his right forefinger up in the air. I searched the sea of curious faces and found Gisselle sitting in the far right corner, a smirk on her face. Just as she had said, she was surrounded by boys, but neither Beau nor Martin were in this class.
"Good morning," Mr. Stegman said, regaining his composure quickly. "Needless to say, we've been expecting you. Please take this seat," he said, indicating the third seat in the row closest to the door. I was surprised there was a desk available that close to the front, but I discovered I was sitting right behind Mookie and imagined it had been prearranged.
"Thank you," I said, and hurried to it, carrying the notebooks, pens, and pencils Daphne had made sure I had.
"My name is Mr. Stegman," he said. "We al
ready know your name, don't we, class?" There was a titter of laughter, all eyes still glued to me. He reached down and picked two textbooks off his desk. "These are yours. I've already copied down the book numbers. This is your grammar book." He held it up. "I suppose I should remind some of you as well. This is the grammar book," he said, and there was more relaxed laughter. "And this is the literature book. We are in the middle of discussing Edgar Allan Poe and his short story, 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue,' a story everyone was supposed to have read over the holidays, I might add," he said, raising his eyes at the class. Some looked very guilty.
He turned back to me.
"For now, you'll just have to listen, but I'd like you to read it tonight."
"Oh, I have read this story, sir," I said.
"What?" He smiled. "You know this story?" I nodded. "And the main character is . . ."
"Dupin, Poe's detective."
"Then you know who the killer is?"
"Yes, sir," I said, smiling.
"And why is this story significant?"
"It's one of the first American detective stories," I said.
"Well, well, well . . . seems our neighbors in the bayou aren't as backward as some of us had
