school this dishevelled, but like a lot of things that had mattered before, she had ceased to care about her appearance. The sixth-period bell rang as she neared the principal’s office. The hallway succumbed to bodies in plaid and green and white, suffocating with chatter and screams. The sea of uniforms shocked her as she minnowed her way towards the office, forcing her shoulder blades to kiss in an approximation of confidence. Eat or be eaten.
She said hello to Susan Taylor, who was standing at her locker applying hot-pink gloss in a tiny square of mirror. Susan, who normally greeted Sadie with a warm hug and a slug of gossip, half waved and scurried away as Sadie passed by. Mr. Solomon also ignored her, offering a mumbled hello but clearly reticent to look her in the eye. This was an enormous shift. She had known most of the teachers since she was a child. She also had the highest grade point average in school, with Jimmy behind her by a fraction of a percentage point. She had always been greeted with enthusiasm and respect. Simply put, Sadie was not treated the way other adolescents were treated. I’m one of them now? she wondered. The regular young. Or maybe worse.
SADIE WAS IN the accelerated academic program, a group of well-regarded students who, barring a stint in the eating disorder wing or a trip to rehab for Adderall addiction, were all heading to prestigious universities. They operated as a separate microcosm within the school’s structure, mostly taking classes in their own wing on the west side of the building. They ate lunch in the student government lounge, because naturally they were the student government. There was an adjoining library, funded by her grandparents and now several corporate donors, with gold-rimmed antiquarian books and a long oak table. There was a small room with a rich red velvet couch and imposing desk, a room of unknown purpose when the school was built in the 1800s as a private college. This was their quiet contemplation room that they could book with Dorothy in order to have complete privacy while writing essays. Most of the time, though, they used it as the make-out room. No one knew this because it was assumed that the nerdish spent their time preoccupied only with cerebral issues. It was possible, while on the third floor of the west wing, to be in complete ignorance of the activities occurring throughout the rest of the school, and out of the watchful disciplinary eyes of authority.
Most of the accelerated students in the upper grades were students of George Woodbury. He taught applied physics, chemistry levels one and two, and one ninth grade science class in the regular stream. Sadie was able to take an independent study for physics, because it would have been too peculiar to be his student.
She nodded as Dorothy, who was peeling back a container of yogurt, pointed Sadie towards the open door of the principal’s office. Sadie poked her head inside.
“Hi, I need a note to get back to class and I was told I had to come see you?”
“Have a seat, Sadie,” he said, and motioned towards the blue leather chair where students sat when they were getting disciplined or told bad news about a dead relative.
He had wispy greying-blond hair that fell below his ears and a face with subtle acne scars along his jaw. He was thin in a way that one assumed was his genetic destiny but still made his bones appear out of place. It occurred to Sadie that she had never really looked at him in the face for very long before. They regarded one another for a few seconds. He had several empty coffee cups on his otherwise empty desk.
“I’m worried about the stress you’re under, because of what has happened,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“And how is your mother getting along?”
She shrugged.
“I think you should see Mrs. Caribou,” he said, reaching for a permission slip that he tore from a pink stack on his desk. Mrs. Caribou was the flaky guidance counsellor, whom her father
She said hello to Susan Taylor, who was standing at her locker applying hot-pink gloss in a tiny square of mirror. Susan, who normally greeted Sadie with a warm hug and a slug of gossip, half waved and scurried away as Sadie passed by. Mr. Solomon also ignored her, offering a mumbled hello but clearly reticent to look her in the eye. This was an enormous shift. She had known most of the teachers since she was a child. She also had the highest grade point average in school, with Jimmy behind her by a fraction of a percentage point. She had always been greeted with enthusiasm and respect. Simply put, Sadie was not treated the way other adolescents were treated. I’m one of them now? she wondered. The regular young. Or maybe worse.
SADIE WAS IN the accelerated academic program, a group of well-regarded students who, barring a stint in the eating disorder wing or a trip to rehab for Adderall addiction, were all heading to prestigious universities. They operated as a separate microcosm within the school’s structure, mostly taking classes in their own wing on the west side of the building. They ate lunch in the student government lounge, because naturally they were the student government. There was an adjoining library, funded by her grandparents and now several corporate donors, with gold-rimmed antiquarian books and a long oak table. There was a small room with a rich red velvet couch and imposing desk, a room of unknown purpose when the school was built in the 1800s as a private college. This was their quiet contemplation room that they could book with Dorothy in order to have complete privacy while writing essays. Most of the time, though, they used it as the make-out room. No one knew this because it was assumed that the nerdish spent their time preoccupied only with cerebral issues. It was possible, while on the third floor of the west wing, to be in complete ignorance of the activities occurring throughout the rest of the school, and out of the watchful disciplinary eyes of authority.
Most of the accelerated students in the upper grades were students of George Woodbury. He taught applied physics, chemistry levels one and two, and one ninth grade science class in the regular stream. Sadie was able to take an independent study for physics, because it would have been too peculiar to be his student.
She nodded as Dorothy, who was peeling back a container of yogurt, pointed Sadie towards the open door of the principal’s office. Sadie poked her head inside.
“Hi, I need a note to get back to class and I was told I had to come see you?”
“Have a seat, Sadie,” he said, and motioned towards the blue leather chair where students sat when they were getting disciplined or told bad news about a dead relative.
He had wispy greying-blond hair that fell below his ears and a face with subtle acne scars along his jaw. He was thin in a way that one assumed was his genetic destiny but still made his bones appear out of place. It occurred to Sadie that she had never really looked at him in the face for very long before. They regarded one another for a few seconds. He had several empty coffee cups on his otherwise empty desk.
“I’m worried about the stress you’re under, because of what has happened,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“And how is your mother getting along?”
She shrugged.
“I think you should see Mrs. Caribou,” he said, reaching for a permission slip that he tore from a pink stack on his desk. Mrs. Caribou was the flaky guidance counsellor, whom her father
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