The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(5) Mrs. Hardwork

Three thoughts play on a schoolyard roundabout in my head as the classroom clears around me. It's the kind of roundabout furnished with well-oiled bearings poised to fling children to the winds the moment they cross a certain threshold of momentum. I broke an arm on one of those once. My father grounded me for half a month on the grounds of being "unruly." I'd say that's not one of the thoughts, but it is, so I begrudgingly bump the number to four. The first is how much lunch I'm going to miss for this. The second is how well Mrs. Hardwick's name permutates to Mrs. Hardwork, which I think is very clever and therefore deserving of attention. The third is that the man in the doorway is gone. I don't remember him leaving.

And the fourth is the roundabout. I do not want to remember the roundabout. It reminds me of my father, and every memory of him stings in a way I swore up and down I'd never let myself be bothered by again. I made that promise years ago. It's always been a lie. But I'm the kind of person who hates being named a liar, least of all when the call-out comes from inside my own mind. This is the opposite of an exception.

"Desdemona Winchester," says Mrs. Hardwork over her spectacles.

"Des," I say. It's automatic.

"Des Winchester, then."

"Can't I just be Des?"

Pointless contradiction has always been my default when I'm not in control of a situation. Even to me, it feels pathetic. A kicked puppy snarling at the boot that kicked it. This won't go anywhere, but it still feels better than rolling over.

"Very well, Des," says Mrs. Hardwork. "Do you have a moment to spare to speak with me?"

She actually took the nickname.

Of all the things I expected here, a teacher's acquiescence on my aforementioned pointless contradiction is probably third-last on the list. Slightly above spectral haunting, and slightly below a vampire bite. I also register that she's asked an order as a question, thus opening the floor for more impotent obstinacy. The puppy's snarling at a fence post now.

"No," I say. "I'm hungry and I want lunch."

"Then I will only keep you for a moment. How has Melliford Academy treated you thus far?"

I stare at her. Just full-on fish mode: mouth open, jaw flapping a little, eyes probably bugged. Maybe I should grow scales while I'm at it. Maybe then I could jump in the lake and escape this place. If there isn't a lake outside at this point, I'll be very disappointed.

"You seem like a bright student," continues Mrs. Hardwork. I can't tell if she genuinely believes it. "My only hope is that you will find a way to thrive here, and I'd like to be a part of that however I can. Is there anything that would help you in class?"

It's a trap. It has to be; no self-respecting teacher detains me after class to deliver effusions on my scholarly promise. "No," I say. "I hate architecture."

"Do you truly, or do you hate being told to study it?"

That hits me like a slap in the face. I blink as my brain tries and fails to assemble another snappy comeback. Mrs. Hardwork continues to watch me from across her desk with an equanimous smile that I desperately want to wipe from her face. The worst part is, I don't actually have an answer for her.

"Think about it," she says, then un-steeples her fingers and rises from her teacher's chair. "In the meantime, I shan't keep you any longer. Lunch awaits, does it not?"

My mind, as a final Hail Mary, scrabbles for the only question it can forage from the useless, tattered paraphernalia of my thoughts. "Who founded the school?" I say.