Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck Page A

You—yes, even you—would have had fun.” She sighs. “It’s a bit odd, don’t you think? Ducking out of your own party?”
    I open my eyes, give her a look. “ Your party, you mean.”
    â€œOh, I suppose.” She rolls over in bed, blearily rubs her face. “Don’t bother helping to clean up.”
    â€œOne for all, all for one.” Kicking off my covers, I bolt to the windows and close them. “Besides, then you can’t hold a grudge.”
    â€œI never hold grudges!”
    I hustle into my robe, wrap a scarf around my neck for good measure. “Then you’ll never force me into another party again. That’s a fair exchange.”
    Helen yawns. “I’ll think on that.”
    It takes us nearly an hour and a half to get our domain in order. Then we dress as quickly as we’re able and manage to make the last church service of the day, held in the little white chapel across the quad from Garland Hall. It’s a sweet, simple service, very different from those I attended growing up, with hymns to sing and a fair portion of time for prayer. I try to pray for the boy from yesterday—for his safety and for the safety of his friends. I pray they are at their own church services this morning, sitting with their families, singing and praying, too.
    On the way back to Garland Hall, I tell Helen about the children’s swift disappearance from the game.
    She shrugs. “Kids were where they weren’t supposed to be. That’s all it was.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Helen gives her hair an impatient toss. “If you’re going to worry about anything today, Ruth, I’d say worry about tomorrow’s midterm. Even I’m a little anxious. I’d think you’d be overwrought.”
    Turns out, Helen has no qualms about the Sabbath. She tells me such notions are old-fashioned and that God would far rather she study than fritter away time and money by failing the class, which she just might do if she doesn’t get at least a B on this exam. Once we’re back in our room, she proceeds to pore over her textbook through the afternoon and into the evening. I can’t help myself: I break the Sabbath, too, scouring one chapter after the next, refreshing my memory, and then some.
    PROFESSOR TOBIAS IS “holding forth,” as Helen likes to say. Midterms collected, the bell about to ring, he sits jauntily on the edge of his desk, and regales us with a description of what we’ll study next. “Progressive education, based in a commitment to experiential and hands-on learning, as described in Democracy and Education and other works by John Dewey.” Professor Tobias crosses one leg over the other, as at ease being the center of attention as someone else might be in a hammock. “I happen to have interviewed John Dewey, which will be the basis for my next scholarly article.” He runs a hand through his carefully groomed dark hair. His fingers are long and graceful, his clipped nails buffed to gleaming. He wears a sapphire pinky ring. Sapphire cuff links adorn his shirt cuffs, and there’s a sapphire on his tie clip, too. He loosens his tie, smiling. “I promise, if you continue to be a very good class, I’ll reward you with a few particularly delectable tidbits from my conversation with Dewey. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll share portions of my article. You could be my first readers—you might be able to put that on a résumé someday! But only if you’re very, very good.”
    Laughter bubbles throughout the room, and inside me, too, a giddy release after so much focused concentration—directed toward a mediocre end, I’m afraid. So many questions, so little time, and me a bit sketchy on some answers, although I did anything but rest yesterday afternoon. I grimace, guiltily recalling this, as someone tugs smartly at a lock of my hair. Helen, who sits just behind me. I turn to find her