Calliope: Voice of the Writers
The Great Novel Race 2008:
Shattered Places
by Emily Craig
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Chapter 5
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When Ted switched the lights on again, the bright classroom slowly came into focus and as before, Dr. Carmichael stood at the front of it with a proud lopsided grin on his face. He could read it in the students’ faces – this class had been a great start to a great semester. Of course, some of the students were not especially impressed with his presentation. At least, they were not awed past the point of note-taking, but to his satisfaction there were plenty of other students whose pages were blank and whose eyes and ears were still taking in what they had seen and heard. They wanted more, and yet did not have the means to even swallow what little he had taught. Of course, it could all be a false perspective on his part – but he knew that was not the case, because he had taught well today. Still… his main interest sat in the little desk chair to his far left. She had red hair and was currently drawing pictures in the corners of her notebook pages.
But now was time for those old words, that cliché from last year – “We’ll stop there. See you next Tuesday.” History class had such the type of essence that reminded Carmichael of the TV dramas that never, never, never end. The kind of which a viewer cannot miss a single peak, less none of the rest of the season make any sense. Students always on the edge of the seat, he thought, too much suspense, a hundred “To Be Continueds.”
But today he decided to add a twist to this session’s cliché, and almost surprised himself when he said it aloud: “We’ll stop there. See you next Tuesday. But Miss Danner – will you please stay?”
Her head yanked up and her brilliant green eyes beamed like a cat’s. “No offense,” she said in a clear and confident voice as she patted her artwork, “See, scribbling actually helps me pay attention.”
With a look of extreme scrutiny, he propped a foot on the base of his lectern and leaned forward somewhat boyishly. “I have really never understood that tactic, but that’s your business.” He leaned forward until his scraggly chin nearly touched the wood of the lectern and his face twisted curiously. “Actually,” he mumbled, “You could bring a whole musical band in here if it helped you pay any more attention, and it seriously wouldn’t bother me …but the drums might distract the other students.”
She looked incredulously at him. “A wha--”
“Do you play an instrument?” he asked with sudden bright eyes.
She shook her head slowly. “No…” What had this to do with history, or this class, or her drawing?
“Drums,” he insisted with a firm nod, then whispered for emphasis, “Always the drums.” He stood upright again, pushed away the lectern and grabbed his blue tie. “You used to live here in Faye,” he said matter-of-factly, as if to inform her as though she was unaware. But of course he meant to do that. He raised his chin and smiled. Would blow her mind, he thought, and when she looked up at him in disbelief, he proudly knew that it had.
“What has that to do with the price of rice in China…” Her words faded, because after all, was it really worth the trouble? She never liked that phrase, anyways.
But Carmichael’s face scrunched up in scrutiny as he considered the question. “Well… no,” he finally answered. “At least, there is not a direct correlation, although I’m sure you could come up with something…”
For a moment, he said nothing. In fact, it almost seemed like he had forgotten that she was still there. He stuffed all his papers and pens into his gym bag, and for good measure, he crammed in the blazer and blue tie as well. Kae watched him like he was a clown, and each move was an act. And when she noticed that the sleeves of his blazer, and his blue tie dangled from the gym bag like a few strings of spaghetti, she sat back in her seat in astonishment. Schools really did hand out degrees to just anyone these days, didn’t they?
Again he lectured, “You live on Barry Street.”
With a wrinkled nose – a freckled nose, he observed – she asked, “Should I be taking notes?”
He glanced at the blank wall for an answer. After a moment, “No, no…” Then looking at her, “Only if you need to,” he said.
She nodded a very understanding nod, and then straightened in her chair and closed her notebook tightly. “Well…” she shrugged, “It’s a bad point anyways.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Hm? What is?”
“That I live on Barry Street.”
“Oh?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Oh…” Now he looked over to his lectern for an answer. “I see,” he said.
She reached for her bag slowly as she watched him. He was thinking about something, mulling it over in his head like a pinch of cookie dough. “But how did you know I used to live there?” she asked, fully aware of how he knew. He was either a complete sociopath, snooping around in strangers’ affairs, or someone –and most likely a particular someone – had told him all about her for whatever reason. A dramatic soap opera-like reason did come to mind, but she dismissed it immediately. Or tried to.
He was slow to answer her question, which did not surprise her. Leaving his gym bag on one of the front desks, he began going down each row of all the other desks, stooping to pick up trash or rescue a forgotten text book. The Great Gatsby in hand, he looked back with an extremely carefree shrug. “Psychic abilities and all that,” he said, insincerely.
She wasted no time, and yet felt like she was wasting all the time in the world on this little conversation. She needed to get out, out to lunch, and back to studying. Still, his randomness irritated her enough to keep her attention and she plowed through it, inquiring, “What? Did Andrew Windsor tell you all about me? He seems to be the only person who would.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked. Apologetically now, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It all goes back to Barry Street, really. It has nothing to do with you. I’m just using you for research. Simply using you for research.” He squinted. “I hope that doesn’t insult you,” and for a moment she stared at him, wondering if he meant it or not, because it was not particularly insulting, but it very well could be.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, still confused and bewildered, wondering if he was the one who did not make any sense or if he had just played a joke on her that she was too dumb to catch.
He added another lost book to his growing collection. “Hmm… About Barry Street?”
She nodded.
“Well… I imagine you could guess.”
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