Outrun the Moon(89)

My jaw snaps closed. Ah-Suk is full of surprises.

We continue circumscribing a wide circle around our camp. It is impossible to walk in a straight line more than twenty paces without bumping into a tent, or a tree.

At a park bench alongside one of the walkways, a man is shelling sunflower seeds. Headmistress Crouch lifts an eyebrow, and the man jumps to his feet. “Ma’am.” He brushes the shells from the bench with his cap, then hurries away.

She carefully lowers herself onto the now-unoccupied bench and peers up at me. “Well, are you waiting for an engraved invitation? Sit down.”

I do it.

“Now, I wish to discuss your present circumstances.” She knits her hands together and places them on her lap. “The other girls have families to return to, but you—”

“My father will find me, or I will find him.” She frowns at my interruption but does not rebuke me. “I will be fine.”

She tilts her chin to one side, and her pale profile reminds me of a crescent moon. I’m struck by how looking at something from a different angle makes you notice things you didn’t notice before, like the tiny mole on her earlobe, an indication of wealth, or how she looks almost frail from the side.

“Casualties have been estimated in the thousands. We have to prepare for the possibility that your father will not return.”

I lick my lips. God wouldn’t be so cruel, would He? Ma didn’t predict Ba’s death. “No. He will find me.”

“Perhaps. But it is hard to tell what the future will bring. The only thing we can do is prepare, and hope it knocks gently when it comes. You are a practical girl. Recalcitrant, but practical. You must consider your alternatives in the event . . .”

Her voice trails off, and I am left imagining Ba crushed in the debris of a falling building, or run over by a panicked crowd, or worse. Like a spooked horse, my mind careens from scenario to scenario, and I feel myself sway.

Headmistress Crouch has started talking again, and I force myself to pay attention.

“—significant aptitude, and therefore, I would like to propose an arrangement. My mother left me a house in San Mateo. Assuming it is still standing, you may live there with me until St. Clare’s is rebuilt. I am a woman of considerable means, not just a woman who is considerably mean”—she hooks one eyebrow at me—“and I will see the school rebuilt if it is the last thing I do.”

“That is very generous of you, ma’am,” I say slowly. “But, I don’t need your charity.” My ears burn with the memory of the dressing-down she gave me yesterday before her collapse.

She sighs. “I am not in the habit of apologizing, for the fact is, I am hardly ever wrong.” She glances up, daring God to disagree. “But I suppose I should make an exception in this case for my reprobation. I am sorry.”

The words drop as light as a feather from her mouth. I almost don’t hear them, much less feel them.

She continues, “In my defense, you do have a penchant for disregarding the rules, a penchant that borders on severe affliction. That combined with your”—she searches for the word on my forehead—“utter lack of self-preservation, well, I had every right to believe last night’s feast would spell the end. Not just for you, but for all my charges, who, for better or worse, look to you for leadership. I spoke hastily, but my intent was pure.”

It is not the apology of my dreams, but since it is probably the only one I will get from her in this lifetime, I accept it as one accepts an unexpected bit of meat in the bowl. You don’t question it; you just eat it.

“In any event, it will not be charity. I am not as spry as I used to be thanks to this cursed high blood pressure, yet I have a number of things to get done, and you are quite obviously someone who gets things done.”

“Yes, ma’am.” My mind struggles to make sense of what she is proposing. She wants to give me a home. She wants me to help her rebuild the school. I search her face for signs that she is joking, but this time there is no hooked eyebrow.

Is this the same woman who whipped me so hard her ruler broke? Who banished me to the attic? Could I really live with someone for whom rules and order are like a religion, for whom even the simple act of sitting violates the rule against bad posture?

Father Goodwin’s words from the confessional return to me. Rules are meant to keep us safe. You must think of Headmistress Crouch as your protector.

She rises, using her cane to stab her way back to the camp. I walk meekly beside her.

A family says grace around their dining room table, complete with six chairs, tablecloth, and candlesticks. If Headmistress Crouch is surprised by the scene, she doesn’t let on. “You will have comfortable room and board, and most importantly, you will have me to instruct you in the art of gracious living. However, there will be rules. In particular, the rule against sneaking about, which should only be the prerogative of old women.” Her lips bend in wry amusement. “I trust you found the attic comfortable?”

“You were the ghost in the attic?” I ask, incredulous.

She shrugs. “I might have gone up there occasionally when my knee wasn’t acting up. It’s a good place to ruminate.”

“Was that your parasol?”

“Yes, of course it was mine.”

“Why do you keep it there?”

“The same reason people braid hair into flowers and wear them on their chests: sentimental reasons. Only, Carl didn’t have much hair to spare.”