Here Lies Bridget. Paige Harbison
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was wrong. And I should have known better. He’d been trying to talk to me recently.
“Hey, Bridget.” He waved as he said it. Why wave? Like I’d wonder where on earth that voice was coming from if he didn’t?
I pulled my lips tight, making an expression that barely passed as a smile. It was impolite, but I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk.
He didn’t say anything else as we sat there, which was a long time, since the other two were called into the headmaster’s office first. When Brett’s name was called, he leapt from his seat like a cartoon character and walked as fast as he could without running.
Once he’d left, I went back to reading the magazine I’d stashed in my Prada bag.
Finally I heard my name called in the secretary’s nasally voice, and I headed toward the headmaster’s office. I noticed that Brett, who was exiting, avoided eye contact with me.
Drama queen.
By the time I reached the door of the office, I had plastered a wide smile across my face, all thoughts of Brett out the window. I shut the door behind me.
“Good morning, Headmaster.” I acted like we were old friends meeting for lunch.
“You’re pretty busy for so early in the morning.” I pointed a polished finger toward the now-empty waiting area.
“Yes, well, I’ve only got these seven and a half hours to fit in all the angst of private high school. So what is it you’re here for, Miss Duke?”
I let my smile fade and traded it for a much more serious expression, as I prepared to get out of trouble. My charm was a useful tool in these situations.
“Well—” I began, and the phone on his desk rang. He excused himself and answered it. I studied him as he listened to the person on the other line.
Headmaster Ransic was probably in his late forties and had obviously been attractive in his younger years. His hair was a little thin and graying at the temples, and there were faint lines in his face when he spoke or smiled, but he had blue eyes in a shade that looked hot on younger guys. There was something about him that made it seem strange that he worked at a school.
Perhaps it was his unkempt way of dressing and doing (or not doing) his hair. He seemed perfectly competent, but the fact that he wasn’t a carbon copy of some musty old politician seemed to turn off most of the parents at the school.
His desk, too, was different than the usual kind. It had none of those silly metal toys or anything. He had a frame that pictured him and a pretty woman who, judging by his naked ring finger, was his girlfriend. He had a couple of things that I supposed could only be called artifacts: one rock with two faces carved into it, a bowl that looked handmade and ancient and a few wooden sculptures. The only thing on the desk that looked at all academic or work-related was the yellow legal pad that lay in front of him.
I was just tilting my head to see what was written on the pad when he said, “All right then, I’ll talk to you later, John,” and hung up. I jerked guiltily back into a normal non-nosy position.
“All right, surprise me.” He leaned back in his chair.
From his knowing tone, I could tell that the jig was up. I was going to have to come up with a plan to get out of trouble. One that could explain my constant lateness and perhaps score me the chance to continue with my habit of sleeping in a bit.
“Well … it’s kind of hard to talk about.”
Probably because I didn’t know what I was going to say.
“It’s an easy question. Why is it that you can’t make it to class on time, like every other student?”
I took a deep breath.
“It’s my parents. Well, it’s my stepmother. I’ve hardly been able to get any sleep at home lately, so getting up so early has been a …” I searched for the right word “.challenge.”
“And why is that?”
Because I was watching reality TV late into the night and ignoring the texts of needy girls asking me to come hang out and guys asking Hey, what are you up to tonight?
“Well …” I tried to come up with something so personal that he wouldn’t dare pursue the subject. Maybe refer me to the guidance office, so I could get the hell out of here.
“Yes …?”
“Well, when my dad’s there, there’s a lot of yelling.” At the Redskins, the Orioles and every other sports team he followed like a maniac. I contemplated my next implication.
“And when he’s not, there are other noises.”
“Other noises? “
I bit my lip and looked down for a moment before meeting his eyes and delivering what I hoped would be The Silencer.
“My stepmother has … guests. Well, one guy in particular. It’s … uncomfortable to be around at those times especially, but—” I shrugged “—you know.”
My implication hung in the air for a moment, before he finally had the decency to look embarrassed and avert his eyes.
The truth was, the only objectionable sounds I’d ever heard coming from my stepmother’s room when my father was away were strains of Rod Stewart albums and, on one memorable occasion, the Partridge Family. And, more embarrassingly, her thin voice singing along.
But the headmaster didn’t know that.
The closest thing Meredith had to a male guest was Todd, the flaming interior decorator she’d employed for years who kept trying to leave chintz throw pillows on my bed. Apparently the mess in my room was “insulting” to him.
But the headmaster didn’t know that either.
“Really.” He didn’t say it like he wanted an answer. So I kept talking.
“Um, yeah. I mean I have to see him like five days a week, you know? That’s what makes it even worse.” I tried to look tortured for a moment. It was true; Todd was there all the time. Since Meredith didn’t have a job, she had nothing better to do than to redecorate every room in my house from bottom to top, baseboard to crown molding. I also suspected Todd might be one of her best friends.
I wasn’t sure if that was sad or not.
“That must be difficult,” he agreed, looking hesitant.
I nodded. Now it was time to get back on track.
“Listen, I’m not really comfortable talking about this,” I said, and it was true.
“The point is that I think it’s been hard at home, and it’s been hard in class.”
He paused.
“I certainly am sorry to hear about your trouble at home, but I still don’t see what one has to do with the other.”
Why wasn’t he letting this go?
I floundered, trying to wrap it up in a way that made sense.
“Well, how would you like to have the two people who hate you most plotting together about your future for their own convenience?” I was embarrassed at how clear the hurt was in my voice.
But Mr. Ransic had already lost patience.
“Miss Duke, I still don’t see what you’re talking about, and the point—”
“What I’m talking about is my stepmother and Mr. Ezhno’s little private …'rendezvous.'” I was raising my voice a little bit more, not having realized how mad I was about this until now. All the parent-teacher conferences that Meredith left saying what a “nice man” Mr. Ezhno was, and how “we both” just want the best for me, and that this kind of behavior wouldn’t “cut it in college.”
“I mean, why should I have to suffer because