The Chickadee Girl

In Search of a Map

Isa had not often had reason to be in the headmaster's office at Croft Prep. She'd been sent there only once, a couple of months into her first year. It had been a waste of everyone's time: the school nurse had glimpsed a small series of cuts on her arm, and misinterpreted their significance. Cutting had never been her coping go-to, and yet she found herself sitting across from Mr. Harris, the nurse having chosen not to believe her explanation. The truth was that she had been pet-sitting a neighbour's reluctant cat while at home during her solitary Thanksgiving break; she'd attempted to make friends with it, and had her arm savaged for her trouble. Still, when the summons came to speak with the Head, she couldn't very well refuse. 

Mr. Harris was a brand-new headmaster, but he moved as though he   He had floated her a look of insufferably phoned-in sympathy as she entered, and he had patted the seat of the vacant chair across the desk. This feat required him to stoop forward awkwardly and extend a spidery arm to its maximum reach. Perhaps he had seen this gesture somewhere, and had decided that it communicated an acceptable level of sympathy. Harris never invited a student onto his side of the desk, for it was far too easy for a man in his position to be accused of things that he had only ever thought about doing.

He settled back into his chair, tented his fingers, and adopted a tone that Isa was clearly supposed to interpret as caring, but actually made him sound .

"Piper."

"Sir."

"Piper, I hear you've been under some stress."

"Well, Sir...."

He cut her off. "I'm very sorry to hear that, very sorry indeed. I don't want you stressed, Piper. I think that that might make your family very unhappy, to hear that you've been stressed... and that you have been... dealing with it in ways that are perhaps not ideal."

She kept her expression neutral. Let him fuss at her for a bit, then. She could just nod. Her only alternative was German class, after all. She was sick of explaining herself to people who weren't listening. 

"Yes, Sir." 

"Indeed. Indeed." And then: "Have you told your mother about your... troubles, Piper?"

"No, Sir."

"Because I shouldn't, if I were you. It would only worry her, you know. Much better to tell Reverend Turner. I can certainly set up a meeting with the Reverend, should you require one."

As Harris launched into a monologue about the importance of self-discipline and fresh air, Isa had zoned out and spent a few minutes idly examining the wall behind his head. And because she wasn't listening, she missed some sort of question, a fact that only dawned on her when his drone abruptly dropped off, and it was clear he was awaiting a response of some sort.  She refocused, and met his beady blue eyes, which were bright with irritation. He knew she hadn't been paying attention. What had he asked?

"Piper, do you suppose your grandfather will be attending any of our events this year?"

This question was so far removed from the last thing that she'd heard him say that Isa could only blink stupidly, and wonder exactly how long the man had been talking.

"My grandfather, Sir?"

"It's just that we'd be thrilled to have him. Would you be able to convey that to him when you see him at Christmas? He's a busy man, I quite understand, but surely he'd like to see how you're getting on at his Alma Mater?"

Isa was now thoroughly lost.

"At his Alma...my grandfather, Sir?"

And then the light had dawned and she'd made the connection, and she'd longed to laugh in his face.