I slump back against the wall, which feels cold and rough through my worn cardigan sweater. Well, that’s that. Vicky will fall in love with Drew, forget about Court, and Kali will be off the hook. Everyone will be happy, even, perhaps Vicky.
Vicky’s on the move again. She continues down the checker-tiled hall, then stops by an emergency exit. The door makes a metal crunching sound as she presses her back to it and slips out.
She’s probably going outside to smoke. The door leads to a small grassy quad and an equipment shed.
Kids hurry to their classrooms. Chem lab will be starting soon.
Suddenly, Principal Swizinger hurries up the hall, her eyes and mouth all pulled into severe lines. She stops at the emergency door, then follows Vicky out.
I know a bust when I smell one. I’m not the only one who can smell the tobacco breath that Vicky covers with mint gum.
I emerge from my hiding place. I should get to class, but I suddenly have the urge to peek out the door. As I reach the emergency exit, the door swings open, and a sour-faced Vicky followed by the principal sweep by me.
“But I only wanted some fresh air,” says Vicky. “You have no proof.”
Her face screws up when she sees me. The principal gives me a curt nod. I pretend like I was about to get a drink from the water fountain and dip my head.
Principal Swizinger taps her toe. “I don’t need proof. This isn’t a courtroom. I’ve smelled it on you several times before. I’ll need to call your stepmom.”
“No, you can’t do that. You don’t understand. She’ll ground me from homecoming.”
“Maybe she should.”
“But it’s so unfair.” She hiccups like she’s about to cry.
The principal makes uncomfortable throat-clearing noises. I stop drinking and head back down the corridor.
“Mim?” The principal’s voice resonates off the tiles.
I freeze, then slowly turn back around. Behind the principal, Vicky puts her hands on her hips and mutters something coarse.
“You’re in charge of volunteers at Puddle Jumpers this year, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How many volunteers do we have so far?”
“Thirty-two students, two faculty.” I cringe, as a vision of Mr. Frederics breaking into the Latin Hustle in front of Ms. DiCarlo’s startled eyes crosses my mind.
Her eyes become sly. “Make it thirty-three. Miss Valdez, you are lucky I have a soft spot for the Puddle Jumpers. Volunteer, and I will consider clemency.”
Vicky’s arms drop to her sides and her mouth falls open. Snapping it shut, she narrows her eyes at me. Either she’s going to thank me or spit at me, and my nose tells me they’re equally venomous.
EIGHTEEN
“TRAVEL WIDELY. WHEN YOUR FEET
EXPAND, SO SHALL YOUR NOSE.”
—Marjoram, Aromateur, 1784
WHEN THE LUNCH bell rings, I head toward the library to collect my bike. Through the library windows, I see Ms. DiCarlo typing at her computer. The bleach smells emanating off her desk are especially strong, which means she’s been cleaning again. Still stressed. I bet if I went in there, I’d come out a blonde.
I should unchain my bike and leave. Court will be meeting me at the windsock soon.
But I can’t.
Ms. DiCarlo looks up as I push through the familiar doors. “Hi, Ms. DiCarlo.”
“Oh, hello.” Her features look especially pale today under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “What can I help you with?” she says a shade too brightly.
I fumble around for an answer, not knowing myself why I’m here. Guilt, probably.
Her manuscript, Avoiding the Torture Chamber of Medieval Library Collections, lays open on her desk. “That looks interesting.”
She touches her face. “Thank you. I’m hoping to get something published. It’s hard to make a name for yourself as a medieval collections specialist, especially if you’re a woman.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.” Because I did not know medieval collections specialists existed until today.
“Yes, well, it’s a huge problem. Most librarians are women, but the ones at the top are inevitably men.” She squirts her desk with cleaner and rubs it with a paper towel, rubbing so hard, she may set the desk on fire. “I hate to say it, but women get the short end of the stick almost everywhere, especially middle-aged women.” She chucks her paper towel in the garbage, then teases out a tissue and wipes her nose, which has started to run.
“That’s . . . sad,” I say lamely. If not for my mistake, Ms. DiCarlo would be sharing her lunch with a certain math teacher, instead of spending it contemplating gender treatment. “But I think that as long as there’s hydrangea, there’s hope.”
Smile lines appear on her cheeks, but instead of making her look old, they give her face a sweet kind of vulnerability.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kali rolls up on her bike and parks it in the racks. I exit the library.
“Talofa,” Kali says, jerking her chin up. “I’m late for lunch duty.” She starts making tracks. Her nylon windbreaker swishes with each pump of her arms. I jog to keep up, and together we join the noisy mass of students on their way to the cafeteria. The nauseating smell of enchiladas and pizza intensifies with each step.
“You get your plants?”