Here Lies Bridget. Paige Harbison
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passing by. Some were on the way to the bathroom, some were late for class and a few probably had first period as an office assistant. I didn’t know all of their names, but they always seemed to know me. One girl quickened her pace as she drew closer to me, keeping her eyes directed at her feet. She glanced up, and the second our eyes locked, she looked away.
A moment later another girl walked by wearing a T-shirt from last year’s student government election, the faded letters reading Duke for SGA President! The election from which I, sensing more support for my fellow candidates, had withdrawn my name, claiming that it was because I had too many other things to worry about.
The girl (Suzanne?) waved, indicated her T-shirt, pointed at me and smiled. I smiled superficially back and watched her go. My own face smiled at me from the back of the shirt.
Kinda weird to wear that sort of thing post-election.
Others who walked by either waved enthusiastically or did the same as the first girl and tried hard not to look at me. That was how it usually was in my life: People were either overly friendly (possibly obsessive) or painfully shy.
Here’s why. My father was once a promising young superstar in the NFL until one fateful game where he blew out his knee. Being a good-looking favorite, he then rose to fame as a sportscaster. Every man knew him, every boy wanted to be him, every woman and girl stopped crossing the living room when he was on TV just to watch him finish his segment. Including me. Sometimes I saw him more often on my TV than sitting in front of it.
Anyway, his fame made me cool by association. I didn’t need to be head cheerleader (which is good because I never could be), or SGA president (which is what I told myself when I dropped out of the race).
I was a local princess.
I had just looked down the hall to notice one of the few people who had never been fazed by my reputation talking animatedly to a girl I didn’t recognize at all when Mr. Ezhno strode out of the classroom.
“Miss Duke.” He closed the door behind him.
“I know we’ve had this conversation many times before, but you still don’t come in on time and honestly I don’t know what more I can do …”
I stopped listening. He was right; we had had this conversation so many times. He would prattle on about how it was not only disrespectful to him but also to my classmates, and so on, and then try to relate to me by telling me a story from his youth.
I shifted my focus back to the pair I’d been watching before Mr. Ezhno had come out. They were still there in front of the office, Liam talking enthusiastically to the girl I didn’t recognize. She said something that was apparently just hilarious, and he laughed appreciatively.
My chest tightened, the way it always did when I saw Liam. It had been such a long time since he’d ended things, and yet it still broke my heart a little to see him talking to another girl. I strained to hear them, knowing that a hundred yards was definitely out of my earshot. And then I caught the tail end of something Mr. Ezhno was saying.
“… expulsion.”
Wait, what?
I must have misheard.
“Excuse me?” He closed his eyes for a few seconds before responding.
“I said that your repeated insubordination and frequent tardiness haven’t stopped, despite all of our discussions on the matter. I’m going to have to send you to the office, and frankly, after being late so many times—” he raised his hands for a second, in a movement I knew to mean What else can I do? “—the usual punishment is expulsion.”
My dad would kill me. Kill me. This was the kind of thing that had led to him giving me an old car instead of a new one and suspending my credit cards. Every now and then he’d say something embarrassing on the air about how he thought the Giants were a shoo-in, back to you Rob, and he had to get home to his insubordinate daughter.
“Well, frankly, Mr. Ezhno …” I said his name like it was absurd, like he’d asked us to call him “Mr. Snugglekins” or something “.I think that the time we waste having our ‘discussions on the matter—'” I put his words in sarcastic finger quotes “—is a lot more distracting to the class than when I’m late by, like, thirty seconds. I mean, what, do you think that they’re studying in there?” I pointed a finger toward the classroom.
When he kept looking at me, I pursed my lips and nodded, like I was trying to convince him to buy something that looked great on him.
As if.
“Just … take this and go to the office.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. I could see the imprint of some of the words on the reverse side.
I glanced at him and gave him a look that said something like your loss and walked toward the office.
I felt a small drop in my stomach when I saw that Liam and the girl were gone. Fine, there would be no strutting dismissively past them, then.
As I walked down the hall, I read the note.
Miss Duke has been a constant distraction to this class. She comes in late almost every day and is always disruptive during class periods. Does not ask to use restroom, just leaves class whenever she wants to. Consistently talks over me to fellow classmates who are trying to listen.
Ha! Someone had no self-awareness.
… spends most of her trusted computer time surfing the web, and relentlessly tries to entertain the class by being inappropriate and disrespectful…
I stopped reading. He was obviously making me out to be an awful, desperate class clown, and I didn’t need to read anymore of that nonsense. I ripped the letter in half, and then, considering the embarrassment if someone were to read it, ripped it a few more times before tossing it in the nearest trash can.
Why was he foolish enough to think I would actually bring it with me?
IN THE MAIN OFFICE, I decided to tell the secretary that I would “like to speak with Headmaster Ransic” rather than say “I was made to come here due to my frequent tardiness and disregard for rules.”
She smiled, indicated that I should sit in one of the seats around the corner from her and said she’d call me when the headmaster was ready to see me.
I turned the corner and took a second to consider my options. I could sit next to this kid, Vince, who seemed to be there every time I was and who always tried to make conversation with me that was riddled with clichés, like “What’re y’in for?” and who muttered things like “Pissin’ contest.” He was a textbook bully and had been taking lunch money from kids for years, which only made him more irritating.
I found him loathsome, exactly the kind of low-rent person I hated. It’s like he thought it his duty to make other people’s lives harder for no reason at all. This was like his third year as a senior, and he seemed to look more disgusting and unwashed every day. But I suppose that made sense, if he didn’t bathe.
And it smelled like he didn’t.
I could sit next to Brett, who was probably there to talk about picking up some more community service hours or something equally academically-oriented to help him get into college, where he seemed so desperate to go, to make up for his years as a rebel.
Or I could sit next to a girl I remembered from my first class on my first day in high school.
The teacher of that class had not had either of our names on the roll, and had asked for anyone who hadn’t heard their name to raise their hand. We were sitting next to each other, and when we both raised our hands she had leaned toward me to say, “God, we’re such losers, aren’t we?” and laughed nervously.
I remember observing her low ponytail, too-light-and-shiny lipgloss and under-plucked eyebrows, and thinking, Well, one of us is, and not responding to her.
From what I had seen of her in the last few years, she seemed just as frantic