Away for the Weekend (2 page)

But it isn’t any other voice that’s interrupting him. It’s the voice of Gabriela Menz. Which, compared to the whining, whingeing and carping of most of his students, is like the sound made by tiny, hand-blown glass bells ringing across the secret mountain pass that leads to a hidden kingdom on an impossibly beautiful day.

“What is it, Gabriela?” He turns round, and she is gazing at him with her usual warm, open smile – her face radiant with youth and cosmetics. And confidence. Gabriela is a girl who always expects to be indulged, and is rarely disappointed. She was one of those babies everyone fussed over, and now she is well on her way to being one of those women for whom doors automatically open and seats instantly empty. She lowers her arm and her nails flash in the sunlight as if someone let loose a flutter of hot-pink butterflies. There is something almost angelic about Gabriela Menz – something that makes it nigh on impossible to be annoyed with her, even when she’s actually being incredibly annoying. When, for example, she’s late for class because she had to touch up her eyeliner or change her socks. Or, as another example, when she won’t wait till class is over to talk to him because she wants to touch up her eyeliner or change her socks before she goes home.

Good Lord
, thinks Edward Sturgess.
Listen to me! What if it’s something important?
What if someone’s terminally ill… Or, God forbid, dead…

He frowns in concern. “I hope everything’s OK at home, Gabriela. If—”

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah.” More brilliant butterflies shimmer in the air around her. “It’s not anything
bad
, Mr Sturgess. It’s something really good.”

“Oh, right … something really good…” Well, that’s a relief.

“See, the thing is, I’m a finalist in this really major fashion competition?”

Of course. He might have guessed. Fashion. Well, it wouldn’t be chess.

There’s a congratulatory rattle of applause from the girls (except for Beth Beeby who stares blankly ahead with the constipated look on her face that means she’s worrying about something). The boys whistle and cheer, and someone shouts out, “Way to go, Gab.”

Gabriela beams, pushing back a wayward strand of hair, pleased yet modest. When the display of support dies down, she picks up where she left off. “You know, to discover the designers of the future?” Given the way he dresses, Gabriela isn’t sure that this is something Mr Sturgess can understand, but she gives him a hopeful smile. “So anyway, this weekend they announce the winners at a big presentation. In LA. They’re putting us up at this totally fabulous hotel, The Xanadu? And there’s going to be a real fashion show where they model our clothes, and we’re meeting designers and retailers and all kinds of professionals, and we’re visiting this hot studio.” She pauses, briefly, for air. “It’s going to be awesome.”

“Well, congratulations, Gabriela. That’s—”

“So you see, Mr Sturgess, I’m like not going to be able to do the homework for Monday. You know, because I’m going to be so busy?”

“I see.” Gabriela is far from stupid, but she is pretty much the poster child for lazy. Mr Sturgess doubts that she’s ever read one of the assigned books from cover to cover. (Assuming, that is, that she’s ever read more than the cover.) She looks up plots and critiques on the Internet, and watches the movies. And she is possibly the least motivated student he has ever taught. Gabriela has less interest in her academic subjects than a leopard has in playing the harpsichord, and the only reason she does as well as she does is because she gets everybody else to help her. Especially the boys. There was a time when it was the Three Rs that were important, but all that Gabriela cares about are the Three Cs – Cosmetics, Clothes and Celebrity. He suspects that if coming to classes didn’t give her the opportunity to wear a different outfit every day, she would never show up. In this, however, Edward Sturgess is being slightly unfair. He would be surprised to learn that while it’s true that Gabriela has never read an entire assigned novel, she has read over a dozen books on the history of fashion. The simple fact is that Gabriela doesn’t want to clutter her mind with unnecessary information. She thinks of her brain as being like a closet – a large walk-in, floor-to-ceiling closet, but a closet nonetheless. To pack it with things she’ll never have any use for (things, for example, like calculus, the string theory, the works of William Faulkner) would be like filling your closet with bathing suits, sandals and sundresses when you live in Alaska. “Well … I certainly don’t want to appear churlish…”

Churlish is not a word found in Gabriela’s closet, but it doesn’t sound good. “Oh please, Mr Sturgess…” She doesn’t actually clasp her hands in prayer but she somehow gives the impression that she does. “All my other teachers are letting me have an extension.”

Of course they are. Mr Sturgess isn’t the only one who finds it hard to use the “N” word around Gabriela Menz.

“Well, if all your other teachers are giving you extra time—” He breaks off as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees another hand – this one pale and unadorned, the fingernails resembling not exotic butterflies but a field attacked by locusts – tentatively raised just above head level. “Yes, Beth?” Beth Beeby is more or less the anti-Gabriela Menz. If motivation were money, Beth would be a billionaire. She is not just the best student in his class, but the best student in every class she has. Hardworking, conscientious, punctual and diligent. If she were a railroad, every train would always be on time. Beth is the girl most likely to succeed – and, he thinks, cynically if automatically, drop dead by thirty-five. “Don’t tell me you want an extension, too?”

That’ll be the day they turn hell into an ice rink.

Everybody’s laughing too much for Edward Sturgess to hear the sound of skates hastily being strapped on to cloven hooves.

Until now, it had never occurred to Beth to ask any of her teachers to let her hand her homework in late, even though, remarkably enough, she, too, is going away for an extremely busy and very important weekend. Beth doesn’t make excuses. Excuses, she believes, are for losers and underachievers. Beth always gets her work in on time no matter what – even if she’s ill, even if the electricity has been turned off again – and is used to staying up half the night, finally falling asleep still fully dressed with her head on her desk. Why should this weekend be any different? Every minute of it has been planned by the organizers – from the welcome dinner tonight to the presentation on Sunday – but that should still leave plenty of time for homework. According to the letter she received, the nights are free for socializing and relaxing, neither of which Beth does. Of course she has friends and they do things together (go to a museum, a play, a movie, a classical concert or a special exhibit), and last summer she went to a camp for gifted teens for a very long month – but that’s not what most people mean by socializing or relaxing. They mean parties and barbecues and ball games and things like that. Beth hasn’t been to a party since she was five (she threw up on one of the house plants because of the stress of playing musical chairs and had to be sent home). She doesn’t even relax when she’s asleep.

When Gabriela asked Mr Sturgess for a special dispensation just to go to a
fashion
weekend, Beth could hardly believe what she was hearing. A fashion weekend? Was she serious? Yes, apparently she was. And Gabriela doesn’t think a fashion weekend’s frivolous? Good grief, it practically defines frivolity! Though Beth is fairly certain that Gabriela does nothing but talk about clothes every day of her life, the idea of going all the way to Los Angeles to do that for an entire weekend is nothing short of ludicrous. With all the problems there are in the world, it makes fiddling while Rome turns to charcoal seem like responsible behaviour. People are starving, wars are raging and the planet is dying – but Gabriela Menz’s greatest ambition is to make sure we don’t run out of handbags or shoes. It was then that Beth started feeling worried. Should she ask for an extension, too? She’s already close to vibrating with anxiety about the weekend. In case it doesn’t go well. In case she doesn’t win. In case the other contestants are more sophisticated and knowledgeable about popular culture than she is – like last summer’s gifted campers. She can already feel a migraine simmering like a brew of newts’ eyes, frogs’ toes and adders’ forks in a cauldron behind her forehead. It couldn’t hurt to take some of the pressure off, could it? She can still take her book bag, but if it turns out that she doesn’t have time or she gets one of her attacks and has to go to bed, then at least she’ll know that she won’t be penalized if her homework’s incomplete. Beth has been known to cry inconsolably over an A-. Though at the moment what she feels is that she may be sick. It’s all the tension and anticipation. She won’t be able to wait until everyone leaves to ask Mr Sturgess privately, as she normally would. She has to get to the girls’ room. Quickly.

And so Beth cautiously raises her hand.

“Yes, Beth?” Mr Sturgess looks over. He smiles. Kindly. “Don’t tell me you want an extension, too?”

“Well… I… Uh…” She can feel the blood racing to her face. She probably looks like a tomato. A tomato with glasses. And a pimple on its chin. “I… Uh… I’m really sorry, but I—”

“Excuse me?” He leans towards her. Even though Beth always sits in the front row so people can’t turn around to look at her if she says something, she speaks so softly that it’s never easy to hear her if there’s anybody else breathing in the room. “What did you say?”

“I just… I’m sorry it’s late notice, but I—”

Mr Sturgess sits down on the edge of his desk so that he’s almost in front of her. “Excuse me?” She seems to be apologizing. So, no change there. “What are you apologizing for, Beth?”

“I’m not, I just…” Even if she can’t see them, she knows that the whole class is looking at her now. “I… I’m sorry but I…” She takes a deep breath and rushes on. “I would like an extension. Please. If that’s all right. I’m a finalist and I’m going away for the weekend, too.” And then, for some stupid reason and illustrating the truth of the statement that life is famous for its ironic coincidences, she adds, “To Los Angeles. To The Xanadu.”

“
You?
” Mr Sturgess’ smile starts to slide from his face. He used to think Beth had an older brother whose clothes were handed down to her. He can’t remember ever seeing her in a skirt, let alone anything with a must-have label. “You’re a finalist in the fashion competition?”

The laughter is good-natured but still she couldn’t get any redder if the Queen of Hearts had her painted. Her cheeks feel as if they may pop.

“No, no… I’m sorry… No, I’m not… No. Not fashion.” As the racket in the room increases, Beth’s voice decreases. “Writing,” she whispers. “It’s the Tomorrow’s Writers Today National Competition.” Beth has been shortlisted for fiction. “It’s this—”

Edward Sturgess waves a hand at the rest of the class. “Simmer down, guys… Simmer down!” He can tell this is something he should be interested in, but he can’t hear what it is. “Let’s show—”
Let’s show Beth a little respect here
, was what he was going to say, but the end-of-period bell and the ensuing noisy bolt for freedom cuts him off. When he turns back to Beth she is already out of her chair and moving fast. “Beth?” he calls. “Beth! Yeah, sure. Of course you can have extra time.” He watches her charge through the door. He has no idea if she heard him or not.

A solitary figure, dressed in jungle combat trousers and a souvenir T-shirt from a rock concert that happened over fifty years ago, sits on one end of the bank of sinks in the first-floor girls’ room (west wing). Unusually for someone at Jeremiah High, her hair is not only peacock blue but woven into dozens of tiny braids. It is also unusual for a Jeremiah student to have no reflection in the wall of mirrors on either side of the room, of course, but it is normal for an angel in invisible mode. Which Remedios is. She’s having a break, enjoying the silence and reading the local paper she picked up in the staffroom. The
Jeremiah Crier
is unlikely to take any interest from the Dead Sea Scrolls, that’s for sure. This issue contains a long article about the town budget. Another about raising money to restore the bandstand in the park. A recipe for low-fat cheesecake. Advice on fitting a new window. A photo collage of the elementary school’s fair. An interview with 101-year-old Mrs Celeste Rubins who remembers when the trolley car ran between Jeremiah and East Jeremiah. A piece entitled: Youngsters Plant Trees. Advertisements for classes in tennis, golf, yoga, Pilates, kung fu, t’ai chi, scrapbooking, weaving, salsa, jewellery-making, a diet club, a walking group, Alcoholics Anonymous, baking and cooking. A photograph of three small children dressed as polar bears for the Earth Day celebration. The scores for the bridge club. The results of the county bowling tournament. Three birth announcements, two obituaries and a book review. Remedios sighs. The town of Jeremiah may be as exciting as cold mush, but next to the world of the high school it’s a two-day royal banquet with minstrels.

Remedios yawns, and leans her head against the hand dryer. This is only the end of her third week here and although she’s still, as it were, finding her wings, she couldn’t be more bored if she were walking across mudflats on crutches. Not that the teenagers of Jeremiah don’t have problems – they do have problems (to hear them talk, they have more problems than Noah) – but they are no more than petty worries and everyday anguish and despair. They should try living through the sacking of Rome or the Blitzkrieg if they want a real problem.

The last bell of the day rings and Remedios lets loose another sigh.
Where
, she wonders,
are the innocent and lost souls who really need my help?

The door opens and Beth Beeby hurls herself into the girls’ room, miraculously managing to look both flushed and eerily green at the same time. Beth, of course, is no stranger to anxiety – it’s the most constant companion she has – but her nervousness about the weekend surpasses anything she’s experienced before. She desperately wants to win in the way that only a girl who is depressed by getting an A- rather than an A can; but at the same time winning means that she will have to do even better in the future – publish a novel before she’s twenty-five, be profiled in
The New York Times,
win the Pulitzer Prize. Great expectations, of course, open the door to great disappointments.