She opens my door quietly, reaches in, and flicks off the light.
“Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
I sure hope they bite Mama.
11
Marie reads out loud while I stare out the classroom window.
“You okay?”
Pixie whispers from the side of her mouth, pretending to take notes as Mrs. Hadley regards us sternly.
“I’m fine. Shhhh.”
Pixie is amused by this, by my shushing her. With her hair on fire and her peculiar fashion sense—a canned-corn yellow sundress tied across the shoulders of a tie-dyed long-sleeved t-shirt, with multicolored stripped stockings underneath, laced into combat boots (Delaney owns a few well-worn pairs herself), Pixie couldn’t stick out more if she tried.
“Well, you don’t look okay. You look nervous. Like something’s bugging you,” Pixie says, pressing.
Now I’m the one talking out of the side of my mouth.
“I’m fine. You’re going to get us in trouble.”
Pixie pretends she’s concentrating on the book in front of her, fooling Mrs. Hadley, who turns back to the notes on the blackboard.
“Delaney giving you shit about Ryan?”
I stare at her.
“What? Because I said shit? It’s just a word,” she says matter-of-factly, turning back to The Great Gatsby, yawning and flipping a page. “Can you believe they make us read this shit?”
She giggles, and I can’t help but grin.
Bored myself, I watch Pixie use her pen to connect the freckles on her arm into the shape of the stainless-steel dipper we’d used to scoop our rabbit stew.
She stares proudly at her handiwork. “That’s the Little Dipper, like I see over our house at night.”
I think of the violin constellation, twinkling down over the camper, and nod appreciatively, my eyes back on my book as Mrs. Hadley turns around.
“Courtney, I’d like you to read the next page, please.”
“Busted,” Pixie whispers out of the side of her mouth.
I follow the words as Pixie drones on, her dislike of the story comically apparent. But, something else catches my eye—a familiar grin filling up the rectangle of glass in the classroom door.
It’s Ryan, pointing at his watch and making exaggerated chewing motions.
Mrs. Hadley marches to the door and throws it open, catching him mid-chew. Pixie uses the moment to ball up a sheet of notebook paper and hit me in the head with it.
“Score,” she proclaims under her breath.
“Look, everyone. It’s Ryan Shipley,” Mrs. Hadley says, and even I have to laugh.
“This isn’t trigonometry! I’ll have to report you, Mrs. Hadley, if you don’t produce my trigonometry class at once,” he says.
“Get to class, Ryan, before I report you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, winking at me.
“As you were,” he says to the class, saluting and clicking his heels. Mrs. Hadley closes the door, shaking her head, like we’re all impossible.
I settle back in my seat, smiling, until I remember. I turn slowly toward the left. Delaney looks away and proceeds to make a big production out of folding a sheet of notebook paper into squares.
“Psssst.”
I turn to Pixie, whose eyes are shining.
“You’re soooo lucky,” she whispers. “Ryan definitely likes you. Damn, girl, I wish I were older—believe me, you’d have some stiff competition.”
I force a smile, but my insides jump like I’ve eaten the tumors we found in some of the catfish a few summers back. I can feel Delaney staring at me, but I refuse to look. My mind’s a jumble.
The important question is, Where can I meet Ryan for lunch this time? I reckon the courtyard’s out. It needs to be a place where Delaney and her friends won’t find us.
I scribble like I’m scribbling Gatsby notes, then tear the sheet from my notebook and pass it to Pixie.
Can you pass a message to Ryan for me? Don’t let on, okay? I don’t want Delaney to see. Ask him to meet me in the library at lunch.
Pixie nods, making it appear as if she’s nodding at something Mrs. Hadley is saying.
And that’s that.
“Mrs. Hadley?” Pixie stabs her hand in the air, waving her arm frantically.
“What is it, Courtney?”
“May I have a pass to the ladies’ room?”
Mrs. Hadley checks the wall clock. “The period’s almost over. Can’t you wait five minutes?”
Pixie shakes her head violently, scrunching her face in agony.
As soon as Mrs. Hadley turns to retrieve the girl’s room key, a key that dangles from a block of wood with the room number wormed into it, Pixie winks at me and collects her things.
“Here you go.” Mrs. Hadley motions for her to come to the front of the room.
“Catch you tomorrow,” Pixie says into my ear, “when you can tell me all about it. Bon appétit!” she adds in a strange, high-pitched voice.
I regard her blankly.
“Like Julia Child. You don’t know Julia Child?”
“Is she a sophomore?”