Speak
BURROW
Yesterday Hairwoman yanked me from study hall and forced me to make up my “missing” homework in her room. (She made fluttering noises of concern and mentioned a meeting with my parents. Not good.) Nobody bothered to tell me that study hall was being held in the library today. By the time I find it, the period is almost over. I'm dead. I try to explain to the librarian, but I keep stuttering and nothing comes out right.
Librarian: "Calm down, calm down. It's OK. Don't get upset. You are Melinda Sordino, right?
Don't worry. I'll mark you present. Let me show you how it works. If you think you're going to be late, just ask a teacher for a late pass. See? No need for tears."
She holds up a small green pad--my get-out-of-jail-free cards. I smile and try to choke out a “thank you,” but can't say anything. She thinks I'm overcome with emotion because she didn't bust me.
Close enough. There's not enough time for a nap, so I check out a stack of books to make the librarian happy. I might even read one.
I don't come up with my brilliant idea right then and there. It is born when Mr. Neck tracks me through the cafeteria, demanding my “Twenty Ways the Iroquois Survived in the Forest” homework. I pretend that I don't see him. I cut through the lunch line, loop around a couple making out by the door, and start down a hall. Mr. Neck stops to break up the PDA. I head for the Seniors' Wing.
I am in foreign territory where No Freshman Has Gone Before. I don't have time to worry about the looks I'm getting. I can hear Mr. Neck. I turn a corner, open a door, and step into darkness. I hold the doorknob, but Mr. Neck doesn't touch it. I hear his footsteps lumber down the hall. I feel the wall next to the door until I find a light switch. I haven't stumbled into a classroom; it is an old janitor's closet that smells like sour sponges.
The back wall has built-in shelves filled with dusty textbooks and a few bottles of bleach. A stained armchair and an old- fashioned desk peek from behind a collection of mops and brooms. A cracked mirror tilts over a sink littered with dead roaches crocheted together with cobwebs. The taps are so rusted they don't turn. No janitor has chilled in this closet for a very long time. They have a new lounge and supply room by the loading dock. All the girls avoid it because of the way they stare and whistle softly when we walk by. This closet is abandoned--it has no purpose, no name. It is the perfect place for me.
I steal a pad of late passes from Hairwoman's desk. I feel much, much better.
