Part 6 (2/2)

A deep cut on her arm, bleeding.

Click.

Her eyes, vacant.

Click.

The word ugly ugly carved into her hip. carved into her hip.

Click.

”The tree in this image is not the focal point. Instead, the shadow is emphasized.”

The lights flash on.

Ingrid disappears.

I need to scream, to smash something. I grip the side of my desk so hard that my hand feels like it's about to split open. Ms. Delani stands in front of the room in expensive-looking pin-striped pants and a crisp, b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt. Her hair is smooth and perfect; her skin is perfect; her red gla.s.ses frame her eyes perfectly. She walks to the blackboard and starts to write something, but I interrupt her.

”Um . . .” My voice is shaky, loud. I don't know what I want to say, but I know I have to talk. Everything is blurry. ”Did you get permission to use those pictures?” I sound crazy, the words come out so loud.

Ms. Delani pauses and lowers the chalk she's holding.

”Which pictures?” she asks.

”All of them,” I say. ”All of the pictures by students that you showed without even giving them any credit, without even saying their names names.”

No one will look at me. For once, Ms. Delani seems unsure of what to say next. I'm probably spraining my hand, but I can't stop squeezing the desk. Some girls giggle nervously and then Ms. Delani smiles. She scans the cla.s.s with bright eyes and says, ”Caitlin has made an interesting point. In the future, I will consider asking students for permission to use their work as examples.”

Then she pivots toward the board and begins to write.

25.

Next period, a freshman comes into cla.s.s with a yellow slip. My history teacher peers at it.

”Caitlin.” He extends his arm, dangling the paper from his fingers like it smells bad. I get up.

”Take your things,” he says, and the blood rushes to my face.

I follow the directions on the paper and go to the office. The secretary doesn't look up when I stand at her desk.

”I got this?” I say, and hand her the paper.

She glances at it. ”Ms. Haas's office is down the hall,” she says.

I trudge down the hall to the office, but the door is closed and I can hear voices inside. My heart starts pounding-did Ms. Delani call my parents? I can picture them in there, sitting next to each other, Mom dabbing her eyes with a tissue, Dad patting her hand and looking worried. The door swings open, and out walks Melanie.

”Oh hey, what's up.”

We stand face-to-face in the doorway.

”Nice hair,” I blurt, and instantly regret it. For one thing, it isn't true. Mixed in with the brown and blond and orange are now a few strands of blue. I don't think nice nice is what she's going for. is what she's going for.

But she ignores me, points her head toward Ms. Haas, and mouths, Good luck Good luck. Then she slips soundlessly down the hall.

I wait in the doorway for Ms. Haas to notice me. She's pretty old and kind of heavy, but not in a bad way. Her gray hair is pulled back in a bun and she's wearing purple feathers as earrings.

She sees me and says, ”You must be Caitlin. Come in.”

Ms. Haas is the school therapist. Although I have been invited many times, this is the first time I've been in her office. It's small and decorated in a way that's a little too inviting. The floor is covered with a bright yellow s.h.a.g rug, and all the chairs are big and soft. Trees and sunsets and other nonthreatening images hang on the walls. I swear one of the pictures is by Ansel Adams-below a tall, strong-looking tree, the caption reads: Sky's the limit Sky's the limit. Disgusting. I choose the chair farthest away from Ms. Haas's desk and try not to sink too far into it.

She introduces herself and talks about all the ”wonderful services” she's here to provide. I try to tune her out. When she's finished, she asks me, ”Do you know why you're here?”

”Yeah,” I say.

She beams. ”Great. Why?”

”Because Ms. Delani doesn't know how to deal with anything or even communicate at all, at all, so she feels the need to hand me over to you,” I say. so she feels the need to hand me over to you,” I say.

Ms. Haas leans back in her chair and clasps her hands together. I move my shoe across the s.h.a.g rug, make the yellow darker, then lighter, then darker again. I wait for Ms. Haas to respond.

Then, finally, she says, ”I hear that you and Ingrid Bauer were close friends.”

My stomach clenches up. I stop moving my foot and shrug.

”Maybe you would like to spend some time talking with me about her.”

She waits, and when I don't say anything she says, ”Maybe you would like to tell me how you felt when you were with her? What was special about your friends.h.i.+p?”

I try to sit up a little more in the chair, but it's too soft. I say, ”I don't understand your question. I don't know what you want me to tell you.”

”Okay,” she says, her voice full of patience. ”I'll tell you where I'm going with this. I'd like to help you voice any feelings of guilt or anger or depression that you might be feeling and to work with you to overcome those feelings. Now”-she leans toward me-”tell me what you you would like.” would like.”

I look up from the rug to her face. She's smiling in the nicest way.

”What I would like,” I say, ”is to go back to cla.s.s.”

26.

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