We Run the Tides(53)

*

WE HAVE OUR NEXT CLASS APART—we’re in different sections of math. Maria Fabiola and I have arranged to meet after class in the hallway so we can walk to Mr. Makepeace’s office together and make a plan. I wait for her until I’m about to be late, and wonder if there was a mix-up on my part. I rush to the office and say hello to Ms. Patel, the secretary, and take a seat. While I’m waiting, I pick up a pamphlet titled “Financial Aid at Spragg.” On the cover is a photo of a biracial girl from seventh grade. Everyone knows she’s from one of the wealthiest families in the school—her father is a well-known musician. They pay full tuition and are big donors to the annual school raffle.

As soon as Maria Fabiola walks in I see the reason for why she’s late: she’s somehow put her hair in two French braids that intertwine just above the nape of her neck. It makes her look at once more vulnerable and more formidable. She sits down next to me. “Zodiac Killer wannabe,” she says. “That’s the story.”

Mr. Makepeace and Ms. Catanese come out of his office with a slender woman in a pink cardigan and tight black pants. She has thin skin that reveals wrinkles sprouting from her mouth and her nose, but still she’s luminous, the kind of woman who might live on Nob Hill with Siamese cats and a lover.

“Girls,” Mr. Makepeace says, “we’re going to have to change the order of events here. I was hoping to meet with you before the Chronicle interview so I could hear more about the terrible, terrible experience you’ve endured, but it appears that our journalist had to come a little ahead of schedule—ahead of the detectives, even! I’d like to introduce you to my friend Shelley Shein—”

“Stine,” the journalist interrupts. “Shelley Stine.”

Mr. Makepeace blushes furiously. “Yes, my friend Shelley Stine. She’ll take good care of you . . .” His error with the journalist’s name has robbed him of linguistic certainty. “You young women,” he finally says.

We introduce ourselves and shake her hand, which is oddly calloused. Then we’re led to a small conference room, where Maria Fabiola and I are seated side by side in swivel chairs. Shelley Stine’s beauty seems to have a hypnotic effect on Mr. Makepeace and Ms. Catanese—the second Shelley Stine asks them to leave so she can speak to us privately, they retreat, scuttling backward like crabs.

“Oh it goes without saying you should feel free to ask them about their history here,” Mr. Makepeace adds from the doorway. “They’ve both attended Spragg since kindergarten and are exemplary students.”

“Wonderful,” Shelley Stine says and gives him a smile that’s meant to simultaneously win him over and hasten his exit.

She turns to us with a different smile, the smile of a confidante. “So I should be honest with you girls since I expect you to be honest with me. For years I’ve been covering gardening for the paper. And women’s issues. But no one else, well, was disposed to doing this piece right now. Plus it’s winter and flowers aren’t exactly blooming, so I stepped up for the job.”

“No one else was disposed because ABC might still do something, right?” Maria Fabiola says.

“Sure,” Shelley Stine says. “That’s one explanation.”

“Even though they don’t have an exclusive anymore, I’ll have to call ABC to let them know I talked to you. But our story will still be on the front page, right?” Maria Fabiola says. “Above the fold?”

“I really can’t promise you where it’ll be placed,” Shelley Stine says, “but let’s get started, shall we?” She peers at the first question in her notebook. “How do you girls like school?”

“We like it,” I say. “It’s a good school.”

Maria Fabiola stares at me.

“The school has quite a reputation,” Shelley Stine says. “Shakespeare in fifth grade, Goethe in seventh. And I understand now you’re reading Homer?”

Amazing, I think. Mr. London’s already gotten to her.

“So my question is,” she continues. “Do you ever feel the academic pressure is too intense?”

“Not really,” I say.

Shelley Stine doesn’t bother to write down anything I’ve said.

“And what about you, Maria Fabiola?” Shelley Stine asks. “What do you think about the academic load?”

“Well, I’ve been coming here since kindergarten. Even then, our valentines were critiqued.”

I look at Maria Fabiola—why is she bringing up valentines?

“Oh,” says Shelley Stine, waiting for more. We are silent. “So,” she continues, “the school has a reputation for being a pressure cooker. Do you ever get a break?”

“Sure,” Maria Fabiola says. “We have a week at the end of the school year when we get to study something else besides the usual curriculum.”

“What does that mean?” Shelley Stine asks.

“Well, sewing, for example,” Maria Fabiola says.

“Sewing,” Shelley Stine repeats. “Interesting.” She sits more upright. “What else?”

It’s my chance, I think. I know what catnip is for Shelley Stine and, not wanting to be outdone by Maria Fabiola, I offer it now. “There’s also a class about how to look good in a bathing suit.”