Gifted by Beth Evangelista Page A

Together we limped over to the wall, and I sat down under the shady overhang of the mess hall roof. Mr. Z stood gazing at me with such tender concern in his eyes that I almost laughed out loud. Then I remembered that my life’s dream considered me weird and let out another groan instead.
    â€œIs there something I can get for you, George?” he asked.
    â€œHow about a little ginger ale,” I replied, really more for his benefit than mine. He looked like he was going to start wringing his hands if I didn’t give him something useful to do.
    After he shoved off, I unzipped my backpack and very nearly put my headphones to my ears until I remembered that music would only remind me of Allison. Not that the two of us ever had a “song,” per se, but she’d been on my mind so much since the second grade that basically every song I’d ever listened to, I’d listened to while thinking of her. So in a sense you could say we had thousands of songs.
    I reached for
A Tale of Two Cities
instead, and such were my amazing powers of concentration that when I got to the page I had marked, I was absorbed within seconds in the classic Charles-being-drugged-in-his-prison-cell scene. So absorbed that when my drink order arrived, I think I waved it aside with a careless hand and mumbled something about leaving the man a handsome tip.
    I was at my favorite part in the whole book. The part where the imposter prisoner, Sydney Carton, meets up with a fellow prisoner, a poor little seamstress with a sweet, spare face. And instead of telling the man, “I think you’re weird,” the lovely creature asks only to hold hisbrave hand. When they step out of the tumbrel, Sydney Carton says to her, “Keep your eyes open upon me, dear child,” and, in a spirit of gallantry, lets her go
first
to the guillotine. I knew right then that in spite of my aching heart, I would have done no less for Allison Picone—such was my undying devotion.
    My conscious mind was immersed in the book, but my subconscious mind noticed out of the corner of its eye that the Music Man was still close at hand. I was maybe ten feet away from the end of the building, and he was standing at the corner talking to a person or persons unknown, hidden by the adjoining wall. It struck me as odd because no one
ever
talked to him. Not even the other teachers. The guy was a lone wolf.
    They must have been discussing my accident because his eloquent hand gestures seemed to illustrate the
George Falling Out of the Truck
story. I heard the Bruder’s motherly voice say, “Poor little George. That’s too bad,” and saw Mr. Zimmerman limp off over the horizon. As I continued to read, the thought crossed my mind that I would probably be receiving a get-well plant from that kind lady before very long, but what I heard next made the words on the printed page dance and blur between my hands.
    â€œWell! That was fun to watch. It’s a shame he didn’t break his neck, though. I would have paid to see that.”
    It was Mrs. Love’s voice. There was no mistaking it.
    Then Mrs. Bruder’s kind, motherly voice said, “Look on the bright side, Marjorie. It knocked the wind out of him. It may have knocked some of the conceit out of him, too!”
    I froze against the wall and stopped breathing. They were talking about me.
    Then I heard Mr. Caruso.
    â€œI’d sure like to knock the wind out of that know-it-all myself! Except Mr. Clark would have my head on a platter. So I just smile and nod … even though I’d like to strangle him.”
    â€œHe’s pretentious!” a heated male voice chimed in, but I couldn’t identify it because my ears felt suddenly on fire. “He’s obnoxious! Completely obnoxious! The ‘authority’ on everything. Altogether too pleased with himself! Thank God this is his last year.”
    â€œIt’s going to be a very long year.”
    â€œOh, he’s