whispered.
“I can’t believe she wears that beret even in public,” I said. “Does she ever take it off?”
“I bet it smells like cheese. And I bet you a dollar she’s gonna go to Ann Taylor Loft and not even buy anything.”
“Sucker’s bet,” I said. “No deal.”
Francie swung onto the black rubber escalator railing and vaulted herself across the metal plate onto marble tiles, landing with a triumphant thwack. “Come on,” she said. “We can’t lose her.”
We were in no danger of losing her. If you want to make sure you never get lost in a crowd, a purple beret is really the way to go. Ms. Tinker had just moved from one store to the next; she was outside Crate&Barrel, contemplating a display of flatware.
“Look inconspicuous,” Francie said. So we both became our most inconspicuous selves and made our way across the mall to near where our teacher was standing. We lingered behind a ficus, peering through the leaves. Ms. Tinker didn’t notice us. She stepped away from the window and started wandering again. Francie took my hand and we moved with her.
It was a little sad seeing our teacher outside of school. She was dressed as if for class, in her PHYSICS IS PHUN! T-shirt, her gym whistle dangling familiarly from the lanyard around her neck, the SAVE THE WHALES totebag at her side. But here at the mall, shuffling along, Ms. Tinker was different. She had no power over anything at all. She was pathetic, really.
“God, I hate her,” Francie said. “She made me and Sandycome in for a so-called conference last semester—those tardies I told you about. It was a complete joke. She kept calling me Fanny.”
I giggled. “It suits you,” I said.
“Whatever,” Francie snorted. “Like it matters if I miss the first ten minutes of Physics? All she’s doing is telling us how to label our dividers!”
“She used to teach Special Ed,” I told her. “She told us that on the first day, before you showed up. That’s why she’s so into dividers.”
Francie gave me a head shake and otherwise ignored my defense.
Meanwhile, Ms. Tinker was winding her way through the mall, moving with quick and deliberate steps but no clear destination. She was circling and spiraling. Not once did she look over her shoulder. When we passed Crate&Barrel for the third time, Ms. Tinker stopped again to peruse the window display, and Francie turned to me with wide eyes. “This is crazy,” she said.
“I know,” I said. We could both see what Ms. Tinker was doing, but didn’t quite believe it. “She knows the angles.”
Francie breathed a low and nearly silent whistle.
And then, just as Francie had predicted, we were at Ann Taylor Loft. Ten paces ahead of us, Ms. Tinker paused at the entranceway, glanced up and down, and adjusted her beret to a suitably jaunty angle. Francie nudged me I told you so, but didn’t say anything. We just followed her and saw herstanding at a rack of white blouses that tied in a ribbon at the collar. We watched her from ten feet away, pretending to be searching for a size at a table of slacks.
“Watch,” hissed Francie. “Look! Now!” Just as she said it, Ms. Tinker went blurry for a second; she became somehow indistinct. For a second it was hard to tell what I was looking at, but when I focused—I mean, really focused—I saw our teacher take a can opener from the pocket of her skirt, and then she was stuffing one of the shirts she’d been looking at into her totebag.
Francie and I were both staring, and as Ms. Tinker shuffled past us, she made brief but unmistakable eye contact. She still didn’t seem to have any idea that either of us was her student, but it was obvious we’d seen what she had done. And what happened next was truly astonishing. She paused at the doorway and turned around and looked straight at us. She tugged at one ear, then the other. She smiled, wiggled her nose, and paused with a friendly, expectant raise of her brow. She was waiting for a response.
I
“I can’t believe she wears that beret even in public,” I said. “Does she ever take it off?”
“I bet it smells like cheese. And I bet you a dollar she’s gonna go to Ann Taylor Loft and not even buy anything.”
“Sucker’s bet,” I said. “No deal.”
Francie swung onto the black rubber escalator railing and vaulted herself across the metal plate onto marble tiles, landing with a triumphant thwack. “Come on,” she said. “We can’t lose her.”
We were in no danger of losing her. If you want to make sure you never get lost in a crowd, a purple beret is really the way to go. Ms. Tinker had just moved from one store to the next; she was outside Crate&Barrel, contemplating a display of flatware.
“Look inconspicuous,” Francie said. So we both became our most inconspicuous selves and made our way across the mall to near where our teacher was standing. We lingered behind a ficus, peering through the leaves. Ms. Tinker didn’t notice us. She stepped away from the window and started wandering again. Francie took my hand and we moved with her.
It was a little sad seeing our teacher outside of school. She was dressed as if for class, in her PHYSICS IS PHUN! T-shirt, her gym whistle dangling familiarly from the lanyard around her neck, the SAVE THE WHALES totebag at her side. But here at the mall, shuffling along, Ms. Tinker was different. She had no power over anything at all. She was pathetic, really.
“God, I hate her,” Francie said. “She made me and Sandycome in for a so-called conference last semester—those tardies I told you about. It was a complete joke. She kept calling me Fanny.”
I giggled. “It suits you,” I said.
“Whatever,” Francie snorted. “Like it matters if I miss the first ten minutes of Physics? All she’s doing is telling us how to label our dividers!”
“She used to teach Special Ed,” I told her. “She told us that on the first day, before you showed up. That’s why she’s so into dividers.”
Francie gave me a head shake and otherwise ignored my defense.
Meanwhile, Ms. Tinker was winding her way through the mall, moving with quick and deliberate steps but no clear destination. She was circling and spiraling. Not once did she look over her shoulder. When we passed Crate&Barrel for the third time, Ms. Tinker stopped again to peruse the window display, and Francie turned to me with wide eyes. “This is crazy,” she said.
“I know,” I said. We could both see what Ms. Tinker was doing, but didn’t quite believe it. “She knows the angles.”
Francie breathed a low and nearly silent whistle.
And then, just as Francie had predicted, we were at Ann Taylor Loft. Ten paces ahead of us, Ms. Tinker paused at the entranceway, glanced up and down, and adjusted her beret to a suitably jaunty angle. Francie nudged me I told you so, but didn’t say anything. We just followed her and saw herstanding at a rack of white blouses that tied in a ribbon at the collar. We watched her from ten feet away, pretending to be searching for a size at a table of slacks.
“Watch,” hissed Francie. “Look! Now!” Just as she said it, Ms. Tinker went blurry for a second; she became somehow indistinct. For a second it was hard to tell what I was looking at, but when I focused—I mean, really focused—I saw our teacher take a can opener from the pocket of her skirt, and then she was stuffing one of the shirts she’d been looking at into her totebag.
Francie and I were both staring, and as Ms. Tinker shuffled past us, she made brief but unmistakable eye contact. She still didn’t seem to have any idea that either of us was her student, but it was obvious we’d seen what she had done. And what happened next was truly astonishing. She paused at the doorway and turned around and looked straight at us. She tugged at one ear, then the other. She smiled, wiggled her nose, and paused with a friendly, expectant raise of her brow. She was waiting for a response.
I
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