wall and cradled the receiver against my ear as if I were pressing a precious little baby to my cheek. "I miss you, Beau. I do," I said.
"I miss you, Beau, I do," I heard Gisselle mimic, and I spun around to see her behind me in the corridor with Samantha and Kate at her side, all of them smiling.
"Get away!" I screamed. "This is a private conversation."
"It's against the rules to say sexy things on the telephones in our dorm," Gisselle quipped. "Read page fourteen, paragraph three, line two of our handbook."
Kate and Samantha laughed.
"What's going on?" Beau asked.
"Just Gisselle, up to her usual self," I said. "I can't talk anymore. She's determined to spoil it."
"This is too much of a tease anyway. I'll call you again as soon as possible," he said.
"Try to come, Beau. Please."
"I will," he promised. "I love you and miss you." "Same here," I said, flashing a look of anger toward Gisselle and the girls. "Bye."
I hung up the phone sharply and spun around.
"Just wait. Just wait until you want some privacy," I told her and marched passed the three of them.
Being angry at Gisselle did little good. If anything, she enjoyed seeing me upset. It was better to simply ignore her. She didn't mind; she had the girls in our quad, who seemed just as comfortable spending most of their time around her during the times before homeroom, between classes, and in the cafeteria. Rushed along by Samantha, with Kate and Jacki at her sides, Gisselle and her entourage quickly became a separate entity, a clique that moved so tightly through the building they all looked attached by invisible wires emanating from Gisselle's wheelchair.
The chair itself metamorphosed into a rolling throne from which Gisselle issued her requests and commands and pronounced her judgments about other students, teachers, and activities. After school the three girls would obediently follow Gisselle back to the dorm, where she continued to hold court, tutoring them in misbehavior, describing her exploits back in New Orleans, getting them to smoke and neglect their homework. Only Vicki, driven by her desire to excel academically, remained aloof, which was something for which Gisselle did not forgive her.
Gradually Gisselle turned the other girls against Vicki. Even poor little Samantha, who was quickly evolving into Gisselle's alter ego, spent less and less time with her roommate and began to mimic Gisselle's contempt for her to her face. On Thursday night as a practical joke, Gisselle had Samantha steal Vicki's first research report for European history, a report about which she was very proud, since she had gotten right to it and completed it a week ahead of schedule. The poor girl was frantic.
"I know it was with my books in the closet," she insisted, pulling on her hair and biting her lip. Gisselle and the girls sat in the sitting room, listening to her turmoil as she recalled and reviewed her actions, trying to figure out where she could possibly have misplaced it. I took one look at Samantha's face and realized what Gisselle had talked her into doing.
"It was my only copy. I spent hours on it, hours!"
"Knowing you, you probably have it
memorized anyway," Gisselle said. "Just start writing it over."
"But . . . my references . . my quotes . . ."
"Oh, I forgot about quotes," Gisselle said. "Anyone have any quotes?"
I pulled Samantha aside, pinching her upper arm roughly. "Did you take your roommate's report?" I demanded. "It's just a little joke. We're going to give it back to her soon."
"It's not funny to put someone through so much pain just to get a laugh for yourself. Give it back to her right away," I commanded.
"You're hurting my arm."
"Do it or I'll go get Mrs. Penny, who will have to tell Mrs. Ironwood."
"All right." Her eyes were filled with tears of pain, but I didn't care. If she was going to be Gisselle's little slave, she was going to pay for it too.
Vicki went back into her room to tear everything apart again.
"This wasn't funny, Gisselle," I said.
She looked at
"I miss you, Beau, I do," I heard Gisselle mimic, and I spun around to see her behind me in the corridor with Samantha and Kate at her side, all of them smiling.
"Get away!" I screamed. "This is a private conversation."
"It's against the rules to say sexy things on the telephones in our dorm," Gisselle quipped. "Read page fourteen, paragraph three, line two of our handbook."
Kate and Samantha laughed.
"What's going on?" Beau asked.
"Just Gisselle, up to her usual self," I said. "I can't talk anymore. She's determined to spoil it."
"This is too much of a tease anyway. I'll call you again as soon as possible," he said.
"Try to come, Beau. Please."
"I will," he promised. "I love you and miss you." "Same here," I said, flashing a look of anger toward Gisselle and the girls. "Bye."
I hung up the phone sharply and spun around.
"Just wait. Just wait until you want some privacy," I told her and marched passed the three of them.
Being angry at Gisselle did little good. If anything, she enjoyed seeing me upset. It was better to simply ignore her. She didn't mind; she had the girls in our quad, who seemed just as comfortable spending most of their time around her during the times before homeroom, between classes, and in the cafeteria. Rushed along by Samantha, with Kate and Jacki at her sides, Gisselle and her entourage quickly became a separate entity, a clique that moved so tightly through the building they all looked attached by invisible wires emanating from Gisselle's wheelchair.
The chair itself metamorphosed into a rolling throne from which Gisselle issued her requests and commands and pronounced her judgments about other students, teachers, and activities. After school the three girls would obediently follow Gisselle back to the dorm, where she continued to hold court, tutoring them in misbehavior, describing her exploits back in New Orleans, getting them to smoke and neglect their homework. Only Vicki, driven by her desire to excel academically, remained aloof, which was something for which Gisselle did not forgive her.
Gradually Gisselle turned the other girls against Vicki. Even poor little Samantha, who was quickly evolving into Gisselle's alter ego, spent less and less time with her roommate and began to mimic Gisselle's contempt for her to her face. On Thursday night as a practical joke, Gisselle had Samantha steal Vicki's first research report for European history, a report about which she was very proud, since she had gotten right to it and completed it a week ahead of schedule. The poor girl was frantic.
"I know it was with my books in the closet," she insisted, pulling on her hair and biting her lip. Gisselle and the girls sat in the sitting room, listening to her turmoil as she recalled and reviewed her actions, trying to figure out where she could possibly have misplaced it. I took one look at Samantha's face and realized what Gisselle had talked her into doing.
"It was my only copy. I spent hours on it, hours!"
"Knowing you, you probably have it
memorized anyway," Gisselle said. "Just start writing it over."
"But . . . my references . . my quotes . . ."
"Oh, I forgot about quotes," Gisselle said. "Anyone have any quotes?"
I pulled Samantha aside, pinching her upper arm roughly. "Did you take your roommate's report?" I demanded. "It's just a little joke. We're going to give it back to her soon."
"It's not funny to put someone through so much pain just to get a laugh for yourself. Give it back to her right away," I commanded.
"You're hurting my arm."
"Do it or I'll go get Mrs. Penny, who will have to tell Mrs. Ironwood."
"All right." Her eyes were filled with tears of pain, but I didn't care. If she was going to be Gisselle's little slave, she was going to pay for it too.
Vicki went back into her room to tear everything apart again.
"This wasn't funny, Gisselle," I said.
She looked at
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