The interview with the principal took place in his cramped and humid office, the heart of the old Craftsman-style building tottering toward extinction. Atop the filing cabinets, a fern hung limply, fronds crisping to brown. Spangled on the walls, a gallery of photographs and banners marked the passage of his time at Friendship Elementary—the oldest sign, from 1970, welcomed him “on board.” Despite the constant blowing heat from the furnace, he seemed frigid beneath his baby blue sweater, out of which peeped a yellow striped shirt and a navy tie with a pattern of repeating anchors. Principal Taylor read part of Mrs. Quinn's letter, glanced up at the girl across from him, who smiled every time their eyes met, and then searched for his place in the text. At last he reached the ending, his lips twisted into befuddlement as he muttered the phrase “crosses to bear.” Norah hooked her wilting hair behind her ears and lifted an eyebrow when he turned his attention to her.
“Very curious.”
“About what part?”
“About the whole thing. Your notorious mother. Your grandmother, Mrs. Quinn. Why didn't she just bring you in herself today?”
Prepared for the question, she told her first lie. “She is something of an invalid.”
“An invalid? How can someone be somewhat an invalid? Do you even know the meaning of the word ‘invalid’?”
Norah lowered her voice, spoke slowly. “Agoraphobia, I'm afraid.” Seeing that her meaning was lost on the man, she restated. “A fear of the out of doors. Doesn't leave the house if she can help it.”
“I know perfectly well, young lady, what agro—”
“She can't quite shake it. I'm a godsend, really. You can't imagine the strain of the simplest things. Groceries, taking out the trash, fetching the mail.”
“And you are her granddaughter. What about your parents?”
“It says right there in the letter, Mr. Taylor. Are you going to make me say it out loud?”
“Yes, but—”
“Neither one of them really wants me, simple as that, I'm sorry to report.” She looked directly at his eyes.
He dug into his desk for the proper forms, flipping through a multicolored stack of papers. “I suppose we can accommodate you, Miss …”
“Quinn.” She leaned forward and laid her fingertips along the edge of his desk. Her nails were bitten to the quick.
“Right. Have your grandmother fill these out and sign them, and once your grades are transferred, you'll be official.”
Norah sighed and bowed her head. “I've never been to another school before. Have you ever heard of John Holt and Teach Your Own?. Homeschooling?”
Mr. Taylor looked up from the folder he had been inspecting. “You mean, your mother never sent you to school? Did she teach you at home enough so that you're even ready?”
He studied her eager, expectant face and then bent to his papers, brushing her away with a hastily scribbled note to the teacher. She could be the third grade's problem that day. In the margins, he jotted a reminder to call Mrs. Quinn, and then he added the letter to his overflowing in-box.
Norah flew down the hallway to her classroom, coat trailing like a windblown sheet, her sole-thin shoes squealing on the linoleum with every triumphant step. Catching her breath outside Room 9, Norah peered through the rectangular aperture cut into the door, as narrow as a window in a castle wall. Sean Fallon sat in the second row, fourth seat, and the nearest empty desk was in the third row, fifth seat, close enough for direct observation of him, far enough for her to go undetected. None of the other children spotted her face framed in the casement, for, scrupulous at their cursive penmanship, they watched their hands roll right-leaning spirals favored by practitioners of the Palmer method. Eight boys and twelve girls, and if no child was absent or out at the restroom, she would be number twenty-one, not as good as a prime, but a multiple of three and seven, two lucky numbers indeed. With these auguries in mind, she opened the door and marched directly to the teacher, presented her with the note from the principal, and stood like a willow hanging over her shoulder to read along silently. All of the children had stopped in their strokes. The teacher corrected her posture and stuck out her hand. “How do you do, Norah Quinn,” she stage-whispered. “I'm Mrs. Patterson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Norah whispered back, and shook her hand, pumping her wiry arm like a piston.
Mrs. Patterson unclenched and stood beside the girl, facing the twenty curious pairs of eyes peering out as if hidden inside twenty firkins. “Class, this is Norah Quinn, and she will be joining us, starting today. Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself, Norah?”