Tells

by Scott Rhine

  With a hint of a smirk, she said, “Hi, Noel. I’m Lilith Cotton.”

  “Not Noel. Isa, which is like Lisa, but no L.”

  “So which do you want to be called, Noel or Lisa?”

  I could smell the fabric softener on her clothes, which irritated me even more. The scent meant that this snob still had a mother, and I didn’t. “I’m going to call you Illith so you’ll remember. Isa. Without. The. L!”

  She held up a hand. “You don’t have to be mean. You’re worse than Salma Harvard.”

  “Who’s she?” I asked.

  Illith nodded to the head of the senior line to a girl who had butted in front of poor Lucretia with a small entourage of lackeys. She technically wore the school uniform, but her shoes were the same bright red as her lipstick, some strappy designer label. Her purse was Gucci, and her jewelry was off the bling charts. She was Queen-Bee Jessica on steroids. Her skirt was the shortest dress code allowed and then puffed outward to show more.

  So I didn’t look like I was staring at another girl’s legs, I waved to Lucretia five feet away. Ignoring me, she kept reading something on her phone.

  “Don’t get her attention,” Illith said, cringing behind me so she wouldn’t be seen.

  “We’re poker buddies.” I made that up because I didn’t want to brag that her father worked for my aunt. This version would add to my street cred. “She’s fine as long as you don’t cheat.”

  “Right. I wondered how Valentina lost that finger.”

  “Hey, don’t spread rumors about my friend.” I saw the faintest edge of a smirk on Lucretia’s face. Yeah, she’d heard every word.

  Waiting our turn took forever. The Harvard gang took way longer than their five minutes. When the line monitor let me into the gym, all the teachers were standing in booths like lemonade stands, each labeled with a fascinating choice. I rushed to Dad’s table to see how many people had signed up for his elective so far. He had a camera set up beside him and a world map on an easel. Instead of a banner above his head like everyone else proclaiming “Aura Reading,” “Scavenger Hunts,” or “Sinful Baking Skills,” he had a 3x5 card labeled “World Journalism.” His name sheet was empty.

  If he doesn’t get his act together, I’m going to lose him, too. I won’t let that happen. “Dad. You have to market yourself!” I pulled out my red Sharpie marker and climbed up on the table.

  “Honey, I don’t think that’s safe. She’s the daughter I was telling you about,” he said to the lady in the next booth.

  There were already a few thumbtacks in the overhead board. “Hand me seven sheets of that paper.” I pointed to the booth next to his. The teacher there looked away from his weak-tea display. She was giving origami roses to everyone who signed up. She had glasses on a chain around her neck. If she fixed her hair and lost a few pounds, she’d be able to play an elf maiden in a movie. Her beauty wasn’t striking, but she had an air of innocence and kindness that was refreshing. Her nametag matched my math instructor—Creutzfeldt, just like the Mad Cow guy.

  “It’s pink,” he objected.

  “It’ll get their attention. May I?” I asked the math teacher.

  “Be my guest.”

  I borrowed her stapler, too, arranging the pink sheets in a row. Now, we need a catchier name. I remembered a reality-TV show from England I’d enjoyed a few years ago. I wrote SPY 101, using one page per letter. Dad couldn’t see from below where he held my ankles because he was looking away to avoid seeing up my skirt. However, even the uppity Miss Harvard stopped talking to stare at the new sign.

  In the distance, Miss Bradstreet tried to get my attention.

  As I climbed down, girls swarmed closer. I drew them in like a carnival barker. “This man is too modest to tell you, but he has tracked down and interviewed wanted people around the world, men with prices on their head. He’s published over two hundred articles and three books. He can snap a photo of anyone without them knowing. The FBI follows him to this day, but they’ve yet to prove a thing.”

  People were fighting to sign up once I was done. Even the Mad Cow lady was looking at him in a new light. “Did you really work for the CIA?”

  “With, not for,” he replied, confused by the sudden influx of questions. “I’m a British citizen.”

  We collected twelve signatures before the headmistress parted the crowd. “What’s the meaning of this? This is not the course title I approved.”

  “I gave it some pizzazz,” I said.

  Dad leaned around to peek at my work while Bradstreet dragged me off the table. “A Colony girl strives for decorum.”

  Miss Harvard elbowed us out of the way to write her name on the rapidly filling list, buying me a few more moments.

  “You can do it,” I whispered to Dad. “It’s what they want.”

  Crossing to the teacher’s side of the booth, Headmistress Bradstreet asked Dad, “Is this her idea of a joke?”

  “No, ma’am. We merely discussed the issue and determined that the same skills that make a good war correspondent make a good spy. Intelligence gathering is relevant to any powerful minority group who’s persecuted, like the Israelis.”

  Bradstreet crossed her arms and turned to Mad Cow. “Is this true?”

  With her paper being used for the sign, the poor teacher had been roped in. “Yes, ma’am. It’s marketing.”

  “Mmph. What does Miss Hutchinson have to do with this circus act?”

  Dad surprised me. “She’s my assistant.”

  Technically, I’d helped him for years with the photography part. “Yeah.”

  “She needs another elective, and places are running out.”

  “Right. Go on,” Dad said, making a shooing motion.

  “However, Miss Hutchinson now owes me a four-page essay on manners by start of classes tomorrow. One does not show one’s underwear in public.”

  Unless you’re Harvard. “Fine.” Witch. There’s a reason nobody wants to marry you.

  “Attitude! Stand in the corner for five minutes.”

  How did she know what I was thinking?

  Mad Cow leaned in to whisper to my dad. “I can see how she got her name.”

  By the time I left the corner, all the good classes were taken. I signed up for Study Hall with the gym teacher so I could finish my “remedial” classes sooner. I would also need the time for essays. I planned one on dinner-table manners in the court of Henry VIII—one step improved from a Viking mead hall. My thesis was that money and power defined etiquette rather than expertise.

  7. Bento and Gossip

  Remedial English was my last class of the morning. I detested the basement detention hall. I hated being underground in general, but this room was deathly quiet. No one would hear us if we screamed for help. The walls were lined with books from fifty years ago, and it had cobwebs in the corner. The place was so creepy that even the teachers wouldn’t go down there. Worse, I couldn’t get cell service to play my trivia game, and the walls inched closer to my desk over time.

  The colonial girl’s journal was written in old-time cursive, with tall Ss that looked like Fs. I had to look up several words in the gigantic paper dictionary. When lunchtime came, my cousin Blaise led me through the maze.

  I pointed to a hallway heading further underground. “What’s that?”

  “The original seminary had tunnels between the campus buildings for bad weather or Indian attacks. We used them to hide escaped slaves.”

  I remained silent until we reached open air again. “Freedom!” I proclaimed.

  Blaise must be so pale because she rarely saw light of day. She had huge, dark eyes that would attract boys like bees to honey if she ever smiled. The utter lack of fun in her life made her talk in this quiet monotone, like she lived in a funeral home. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me? Most people think my inability to manifest could be contagious.”

  I waved the idea away. “Pft.”

  We stopped at our lockers to trade books for lunch bags. I gestured to Prepp
ies around us coming to life as they reconnected with their cell phones. “At least you’re not a zombie like them.”

  Blaise took me to the cafeteria, which used to double as an auditorium years ago. I could see the old stage at the far end, where the faculty table monitored the room like guards in a tower scoping out a prison exercise yard. Dad wasn’t there, but I did catch sight of Lucretia in line. I cut ahead to chat with her while Blaise reserved an empty table near the window to hold a spot for me.

  “You have a lunch already,” Lucretia said.

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not big on my aunt’s rice and sushi.”

  “Ooh. Bento! I love Japanese shrimp.”

  “Uck. Sea bugs. Go for it.” I’d sooner eat cockroaches. I handed her my bag. As we progressed through the line, I picked up a fancy pear for snack later.

  Blaise moped over while I grabbed a bag of whole-grain chips. “Want one?” I asked.

  She pointed to her mouth. “Can’t. Braces.”

  “Man, life just kicks you while you’re down,” I said.

  “It’s okay.” Blaise sounded shy around Lucretia. “This way, I get all the bad stuff at once. The Harvards of the world peak early and then get fat and alcoholic. You want pizza?” She offered one of her slices.

  “Nah. Had that a couple times this week.” I stepped in line for the gourmet sandwich stand. Everything at this place seemed to be five-star cuisine. They even had tiny carrot and watermelon sculptures as decoration. The cantaloupe snowman was hilarious.

  Lucretia warmed to the gossip. “Maybe not. Take Tom Cruise. He’s a senior citizen, and he still looks like he did when he started!”

  “Proof that he’s a vampire,” I said. Then I paused. “Wait. Are vampires real?”

  After a moment’s consideration, Lucretia replied, “Not like in the movies, but he could be an Outsider or have a deal with one.”

  “There’s always a cost,” said Blaise. “I’ve always suspected Madonna of being an Outsider. Her career was renewed every three years. Who did she have to sacrifice?”

  I snorted. “Probably some new act with talent.” I poured myself an apple juice. None of the options at the fountain were soda, but I didn’t feel like another milkshake so soon after losing one.

  Lucretia lowered her voice. “Don’t talk about other practitioners.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “Jewish Kabbalah magic.”

  “With a Catholic name?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Lucretia asked, “Don’t you read anything? She wears one of their cords around her wrist and wouldn’t do concerts on the Sabbath.”

  The chicken smelled great. I could see the Swiss cheese and special sauce dripping off the grilled breast. “My compliments to the chef,” I said to the timid woman slicing the fresh-baked bread.

  She put the sandwich on a China plate and slapped it on my tray. “Are you smarting off?”

  I placed a hand on my chest. “Heavens, no. I’ve worked food service before, for the homeless shelter. It’s hot, long hours, and thankless. You do your work with your whole heart, and it shows. Your artistic touches brighten everyone’s day. What’s your name?”

  “Meg.”

  “Meg, you’re a blessing on this house. I thank you.”

  The server blushed as she bowed. “Thank you, miss.”

  Nervous, Blaise dragged me to her table. “That wasn’t weird. Come on. You don’t have to suck up to them. They’re not Sensitive.”

  Lucretia opened her mouth to let her have it with both barrels on behalf of the working class, but I interrupted with a bland, “They have feelings, too.”

  Everyone sat and unpacked lunch.

  I said grace quickly while my friends stared in awkward silence. I asked, “What? You study angels, and you don’t pray?”

  “Not in public,” Blaise said.

  My first bite of the sandwich was glorious. The flavor from the browned grill marks mixed with the sauce and the cheese. “Yes!”

  Curious about my attitudes, Lucretia asked, “What did your mom do for a living?”

  “Brought people to life emotionally after life kicked the hell out of them.”

  “Does that pay well?”

  “Victims compensation from the state was about half her normal rate. When she died, though, the line of people who wanted to thank us for the difference she made in their lives went around the block.” Inspired, I turned to Blaise. “Maybe you should try helping people. See if Raphael is your angel. Maybe you get sick every year because you’re soaking up other people’s diseases—like an empathic healer.”

  Mentioning her frequent hospital visits made her stop eating.

  I tried to put a positive spin on the comment. “Doing something different led to a breakthrough for my magic.”

  “You’re out four days, and suddenly, you’re an expert?”

  “Could it hurt to try?”

  “I’m tired of personality and aptitude tests. I’m a dud.”

  Lucretia tried to boost her morale. “No, you just haven’t needed your gift yet. When some guy jumped me behind a shopping center, I found my reflexes. You’re a key to a lock you haven’t found yet.”

  “It probably goes to a bus-station locker.” My cousin sounded like Eeyore.

  With my mouth full of chicken, I said, “No. You just need to practice listening.”

  “You mean nap time? Maybe I should play Bingo and wear a shawl.” Her bitter tone suggested that she’d bite my head off if I pushed this any further.

  We all ate in silence for a while. When my hunger was diminished, I risked conversation on a safer topic. “Seems less crowded in here than the gym this morning. I don’t see the Harvard gang.”

  “Girls with cars can go off-campus for lunch,” said Blaise wistfully.

  Lucretia shook her head. “No. Salma and her posse don’t eat most days. They wander down to the baseball diamond where boys from the other school happen to hang out. Enough about those hags. How has your first day been so far, Isa?”

  She gets my name right, a treasure above all others. “The remedial dungeon would put anyone to sleep. I’m reading ahead as fast as I can so I can get out of confinement. We only had a couple minutes of science after sign up, but the syllabus looks interesting. History was a bit of a downer. Do you have any idea how many cultures oppress women?”

  Lucretia nodded. “Our order assisted the Underground Railroad because no man should own a woman and do those things to her.”

  “Even today we’re helping persecuted people around the globe.”

  “To find more women with the Art. They’re just trying to recruit the Bookless to do their dirty work in the field,” said Blaise.

  “Well, by the time she finished, I was ready to join the cause. You were right about Math, too. The Mad Cow lady rocks, but we’re underage. How can we go to the casino?”

  “The tribe closes off a banquet room to feed us,” Lucretia replied.

  “Why go to all that expense?”

  “They take our photos and make sure none of us play at any Indian casino in the state. Nobody wants ‘card counters’ robbing them blind.”

  “Fair point.”

  A bell rang. Lucretia gathered our napkins and trash while I closed up the Bento box as if I’d eaten the meal.

  Blaise growled. “Back to journaling to find my hidden talents.”

  “Hey,” Lucretia said, “I found my food allergy that way. Peanuts. A lot of us have that issue. Isa, if you see anyone like getting a sunburn, getting bumps on their forehead, or grabbing their throat, call a teacher. Unless it’s a Harvard wannabe. Then you can watch for a while.”

  I ate peanut butter on a daily basis, but looking around, I noticed that the cafeteria only had almond or cashew butter. “Does the trait have something to do with sensitivity?”

  “No, just inbreeding like European royals.”

  “So gross,” said Blaise.

  “Meet you both tomorrow here at the Rejects’ table?” asked Luc
retia.

  “Deal,” we both agreed. To seal the pact, we exchanged cell-phone numbers.

  8. Back to Stately Wayne Manor

  My second remedial period of the day was a real drag. Not only did the basement give me goose bumps, but my cousin wouldn’t talk to me because she was upset about my advice. Tomorrow, I’d bring a jacket to keep warm. While she slept, I finished all my homework. We had to write an essay about something that struck us during active listening. Even I knew that the universe told us things if we paid attention. Mom’s favorite story in the Bible was the one about the guy on the road to curse the Israelites, and his donkey tried to talk him out of it. Dad did a great donkey impression when he read it out loud.

  It turned out to be an angel doing ventriloquism. Mom said it was proof we shouldn’t make fun of other religions because God can speak through anything. Dad’s moral for the story was that we should even pay attention to jackasses because it might save our lives. Then Mom had smacked him for cursing. I miss her so much.

  Gym class turned out to be a real boost. Coach Williams started us out with exercises similar to the volleyball drills I’d been running for the last month. The rest of these spoiled, upper-class cream puffs hadn’t left the sofa all summer. I ran circles around them, encouraging them to move. Seeing Illith and a couple of Harvard’s lackeys collapse in a puddle of sweat while the coach praised me felt awesome. Blaise sat out due to her asthma.

  Coach didn’t do a lot of running herself anymore, but her arms had muscle. She could bellow like a drill instructor. “You’re doing these drills because for people with your knowledge level, the safest thing to do is run away. Get someplace public and well lit. If you can’t escape, attract attention. Rapists and kidnappers don’t want that. Failing all of that, use any weapon you can—keys, a tire iron, or even a brick in your purse. Anything can be a weapon.” Turning to Blaise, she said, “Name the first weapon you’d grab if someone attacked you in this gym.”

  Blaise froze. “Uh. Your m-megaphone?”