John Brandon - Citrus County

Before basketball practice, Mr. Hibma rushed over to the common area in the main building of the school and approached the carnation booth. It was manned by a younger girl, not an eighth-grader, a tiny thing wearing a suit. Her pumps were like a doll’s shoes. She was probably a replica of her mother. Her mother had dressed her this way and pulled her hair back like that because her daughter was going to be in the public eye, a saleswoman. Or the girl’s mother was a slob and the girl was rebelling.

“Where is the money going?” Mr. Hibma asked her.

“A field trip,” she said. “Washington D.C.”

“That’s a lot of carnations.”

The girl’s back was straight and her hands rested on the tabletop. “I’ve already got Publix to match our funds, and we’re going to get a big discount from Amtrak. We have a quarter of what we need. We project to hit our mark by the end of the semester, then go on the trip this summer.”

“Do you want to be a politician one day?” Mr. Hibma asked.

“No, I want to work for a politician.”

One of the girl’s eyes was off, aimed slightly to the side. It made the rest of her look that much more put-together.

“My name is Gina Lampley,” she said. “You’re Mr. Hibma.” She shot her hand out toward him. “I can’t wait to take your class. I’ve heard you get to do a lot of presentations. I don’t get nervous talking in front of people.”

“I look forward to having you.” Mr. Hibma had to grow comfortable with the kissing of his ass. It was one of his problems, he knew. The other teachers enjoyed kiss-asses and he didn’t. He had to start valuing each student for what they were. Some kids were just kiss-asses and they couldn’t help it, no more than one can help being Samoan or allergic to celery.

“I like your shoes,” the girl said. “An old teacher would never wear those shoes.”

Mr. Hibma looked at the girl, kindly he hoped. He knew she had completed all the necessary paperwork allowing her to be out of class this period. She’d chosen this spot for her booth because of the heavy foot traffic. She’d stenciled a flower on each order form, stacks of them. She was going to grow up and thrive in the world of red tape, fine print, licenses, sales, arts and crafts — the world everyone was forced to live in.

“Can I specify which color?” Mr. Hibma asked.

The girl nodded pertly. “Red or white.”

“Better go with white.”

“How many should I put you down for?”

“One will do the job.”

The girl got an order form and started filling it out herself. She asked if the tag on the flower should say who it was from, and Mr. Hibma said it should. The carnation was to go to Mrs. Conner, room 142. Mr. Hibma reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He gave the girl three of them.

“Oh,” she said, like an honest mistake had been made. She held the limp, gray money in her fingers. “Do you have any crisper ones? I like them to lay flat in the envelopes, then I can fit the same amount in each.”

“Crisper bills?”

“If you don’t, that’s okay.”

Mr. Hibma looked around the common room. This girl was only being herself, like everyone had a right to.

During a pop quiz in American History, Toby was called to guidance. He left his quiz paper face-down on his desk and walked to the office, where he presented himself to the kiss-ass who manned the reception desk. He was directed down a hallway, to the sixth door on the left. Toby had never been called to guidance. He knew this was not supposed to mean one was in trouble. Maybe the counselor was curious about Toby’s plans for the summer, or which classes he wanted to take next year in high school.

The door was open. The counselor, behind her desk, looked up at Toby, almost smiling. Toby recognized her. She used to be the resource officer, the school cop. She nodded at the chair in front of Toby and he sat. The counselor looked odd wearing a blouse with a scarf around the collar instead of her blue uniform.

“The old counselor wrote a book,” she said.

Toby felt like he was wearing a blown disguise. He didn’t know why. No one was going to find out about Kaley. Those FBI agents had never contacted Toby after that day in the parking lot. If they couldn’t sniff anything on him, this lady sure couldn’t.

“I have to call you kids out of class,” the counselor said. “You never come down on your own.”

Toby had to piss. He’d had to piss during his pop quiz and had forgotten to stop at the bathroom on his way to guidance.

“I take the files home on weekends and browse — see who might could use a nudge in the right direction.”

“You think I could?” Toby said.

“You were on a watch list coming out of grammar school.” The counselor leaned forward, pressing her shapeless front against her desk.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” Toby asked.

“Do you happen to know how many detentions you’ve compiled here at Citrus Middle?”

“None,” Toby said. “My record is clean.”

The counselor chuckled archly. “You’ve had twenty-nine. And that’s without all the undocumented detentions from Mr. Hibma.”

“How do you know about those?”

“I believe you met Cara, the receptionist. This place is full of spies.”

“I’ve never been expelled,” Toby said. “That’s something to hang my hat on.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Toby was sweating. It wasn’t nerves. He really had to pee and it was hot in the office. He hoped this woman wasn’t going to start asking questions about his uncle, about his home life.

“I’m thinking of a flag. I’m thinking of a church. I’m thinking of a mild-mannered, straight-A student, a lovely girl, who now runs around with a scowl on her face.”

Toby tried to look out the window but it was covered over with newspaper comics, with dogs and cats thinking human thoughts.

“I had nothing to do with the flag,” he said.

“I know that. What I’m wondering is whether Shelby’s behavior is a result of her sister going missing — I don’t think it is, entirely — or a result of her being bored because she’s too smart for this place — I doubt that, too — or whether she’s under a good, old-fashioned bad influence. I’m wondering if someone’s taking advantage of her while she’s going through a tough time.”

“Everyone gets taken advantage of,” Toby said.

The counselor closed her eyes a moment. “I don’t claim to be great at this job, but part of the description is looking out for the well-being of the students, and that’s what I’m doing. Shelby’s well-being, not yours.”

At that moment, the bell rang, startling Toby and also startling the counselor. Toby could leave now and piss.

The counselor took a look toward the hallway. “Don’t think you’re slick,” she said. “Don’t for a second think you’re slick.”

That evening Toby had a meet. It was a home meet, at Spider Field. Shelby attended, sitting herself neatly in the bleachers like a seasoned girlfriend, her hands wrapped around a big cup of soda. Toby still hadn’t figured out what he needed from Shelby. Since the old folks’ trolley, Toby had felt in debt, like he owed Shelby something, and he didn’t like owing anybody. Someone doing something generous for Toby, showing affection — he didn’t understand that. He didn’t understand the math of it. He felt queasy when he thought about what had happened on the old folks’ trolley. It was childish — people running around trying to touch each other and suck each other and everything else. Toby was as bad as anyone. He looked up into the scattered crowd and there was Shelby, straw between her lips, waving.