We Run the Tides(8)

“Totally,” Maria Fabiola says. “Also, don’t you think the teachers are being easy on Faith?”

“Of course they are,” I say. “They should be.”

“I have a cousin,” Julia says, “who said that at her college they have a rule there that if your roommate dies, you automatically get As for the semester.”

“That’s not such a good rule,” Maria Fabiola says. “I mean, wouldn’t it just encourage you to drive your roommate to kill herself?”

We cross the street and pass by a parked, old-fashioned white car at the crosswalk. We notice a man sitting inside. The car window is rolled down and the man, who is older than we are but younger than our fathers, asks us for the time.

I check my Swatch watch—why is it ticking so loudly?—and tell him it’s just after eight in the morning.

“Thank you,” he says. “I thought it was later.” My friends and I continue walking.

“Did you see that?” Maria Fabiola says.

Julia looks hesitantly at Maria Fabiola. “Yes,” she says. Then, “Yes!”

“What?” I ask.

“He was touching himself,” Maria Fabiola says.

Julia looks at Maria Fabiola for a minute. “He was. That’s right.”

“What?” I say.

“Didn’t you see?” Julia says.

“He was stroking it the whole time,” Maria Fabiola says.

“Stroking what?” I say.

“His PENIS! And he said he’s going to find us later!” Maria Fabiola says.

“Yes, later, he said later!” Julia rushes to add.

We reach Faith’s house—two blocks away from where the car was parked—and Maria Fabiola and Julia tell Faith their version of what happened. Julia repeats what Maria Fabiola has already said, and Maria Fabiola adds new details. Faith shrieks a shriek that’s a mix of delight and horror.

“This is going to be such a big deal,” Maria Fabiola says.

“I swear I didn’t see anything strange,” I say.

“Oh, is that an everyday experience for you?” Julia says. “Penis-stroking in white cars?” Maria Fabiola laughs.

My friends tease me for not having seen anything, for not having heard anything, and then they start ignoring me. Even Faith, who wasn’t present at the time of the incident in question, is offended. Fueled by elated indignation, my three friends run ahead to school.

I lag behind and then stop. I feel like I’m on a boat tilting over in the wind—someone needs to leap to the other side to balance the weight. Maria Fabiola started the lie, Julia parroted everything she said, and now Faith believes them. I walk the last half block to school by myself.

Shortly after arriving at school, my homeroom teacher tells me I’m being summoned to Mr. Makepeace’s office. Mr. Makepeace—his real name—is the headmaster and he’s from England. His Brit ish accent and his framed degrees from Cambridge put all the parents at ease. I have never been summoned to his office before.

I walk all the way across campus, past each of the classrooms I’ve occupied over the years. I pass the sculpture of Ms. Spragg, the wealthy woman whom the school is named after. She was pretty, if the statue is an accurate representation of her appearance, and her beauty has not gone unnoticed. The statue is bronze and her breasts and her right hand have been polished silver by repeated touches.

I pass the bushes where butterflies like to flutter and feed. Sometimes we catch them in jars for a minute before releasing them. Sometimes we wait too long to release them and find them dead. We know the names of the girls who keep the butterflies too long, and we have no idea what to do with this information.

I am a very good student with a sinister side and I’m not sure how much Mr. Makepeace knows about this side. I wonder if the headmaster knows that occasionally I count how many times the new Australian P.E. teacher, Mr. Robinson, says “Understand?” when he’s explaining the rules of a game. Then, when Mr. Robinson’s finished talking, and asks if we have any questions, I raise my hand and say, “Do you realize you said ‘Understand’ thirty-one times?” This makes him ballistic and he lectures me in front of the class. During the lecture his Australian accent intensifies and he says, “Don’t ever count my words. Understand?” This makes all my classmates laugh and makes him more ballistic.

Mr. Makepeace’s secretary, Ms. Patel—the mother of the only two Indian girls in the school—stands up when I enter the front office and says, “Good morning, Eulabee.” She usually calls me “Eula” or “Bee” but today she is formal and asks me to take a seat and wait for my turn. Maria Fabiola emerges from Mr. Makepeace’s office looking radiant, like she’s an opera singer who’s just gotten a standing ovation. “Stick to the story,” Maria Fabiola whispers into my ear before Ms. Patel instructs her to return to her classroom. Then Ms. Patel leads me into Mr. Makepeace’s office, which has a large photo of the headmasters’ three sons in British school uniforms. It reeks of cigar though I’ve never seen Mr. Makepeace smoke. Two police officers sit uncomfortably in chairs that are typically reserved for sets of prospective parents or those parents who are being informed their daughter would do better elsewhere. They are chairs of transition.

I’m introduced to the officers and they ask me to describe what happened that morning. I tell them it had been a walk like any other. I tell them exactly where the car was parked. One of the officers scribbles notes in a little notebook. They ask me what happened with the man.