Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I hear every word, yet it takes a few seconds for what she’s saying to register in my brain. “Oh. Yes,” I lie. “I was trying to figure out if this is still the high school.”
The woman smiles like she’s proud she just solved a riddle. “Yes, ma’am. You’ve reached the right place.” She fans her face. “Lordy, it’s hotter than a blister bug in a pepper patch today, isn’t it?”
Now, that’s a phrase I haven’t heard too often since moving to New York.
“What can I do you for?” she asks.
“I, um . . . I lost my high school diploma and was wondering if I can order a new one. I need to prove I took some advanced classes and graduated.” I force a smile. “I’m going back to college at my age.”
She returns the smile. “We’re never too old to learn. I can print you an official transcript. It’ll note all your classes on it. Would that do?”
“I think so, yes.”
She waves me toward her. “Come on inside.”
I look up at the second floor, the third window from the left, and swallow. I hadn’t planned on going in. I’m not even sure why I’m here, but my pulse speeds up at the thought of getting closer. “Great. Thanks.”
In the office, my eyes rove over the tall counter that separates the staff from the visitors, the frosted door to my left with Principal on it in thick black letters, the rows of mailbox slots to my right labeled with teachers’ names. I scan them one by one, left to right, until it’s clear they’re in alphabetical order. Then my eyes drop down to read the last row—Mr. Parker, Mrs. Pearlman, Miss Rojas, Mr. Santoro, Mr. Tambar. I’m relieved one name is missing, even though of course it would be.
The woman settles at her desk on the other side of the counter. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Davis.”
“Last four digits of your social?”
“Five, four, six, four.”
Her nails clack against the keyboard as she types.
She smiles. “Here you are. But just to be sure, what’s your address?”
“I don’t live here anymore, but it was 21 Julep Road.”
“Davis on Julep Road? Your momma wouldn’t happen to be Theresa Davis, would she?”
I purse my lips. The pastime in this small town is hearing a name and playing six degrees of separation. If someone doesn’t know you, they know someone you’re related to, or their sister or brother does. “Yes, it is.”
The secretary’s face falls. “I go to Saint Matthew’s Church. I’m sorry about her illness. Her spirit is so strong, though.”
Why am I surprised that strangers knew before me? I shouldn’t be. That’s how my mother operates—put on your Sunday best and gossip with all the other good Christians. Save the ugly for at home.
“Thank you.”
“Do you live nearby?” the woman asks. “I don’t remember seeing you at Saint Matthew’s with your momma.”
I shake my head. “I live in New York.”
“Well, she must be happy you’re here now.” The woman returns her attention to her computer screen, clacks a few more keys, and the printer spits out a few sheets of paper. “Here you go.” She slides two pages across the counter and points to a box at the top right corner. “Your graduation is noted right here. If that’s not good enough, I can order you a new diploma, but usually this is more than sufficient.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
An earsplitting bell rings. Seconds later, a teacher comes into the office with a student, and then two more people file in. The secretary, whose name I still don’t know, sighs.
“Do you mind showing yourself out, Ms. Davis?”
“Of course not. Thank you very much for your help.”
Apparently, security hasn’t changed much in Minton Parish. Who lets a virtual stranger loose in a high school these days? The hallway outside the main office is a sea of teenagers. They walk in clusters, gossiping, or by themselves, staring down at their cell phones. I might as well be invisible. Which gives me an idea . . . I turn right out of the office—walking the way I came in—but when I reach the entrance, I head in the opposite direction to the main staircase, blending into a crowd of students. Once I reach the second floor, I glance down the hall. Teachers are standing in front of their classrooms as students enter. They won’t be as oblivious to a stranger wandering the building. So I duck back into the stairwell, turn my back to the students rushing to get where they need to be, and pretend I’m scrolling on my phone. Minutes later, another bell rings, and the few stragglers still coming up the stairs pick up their pace and jog the rest of the way to their destinations. If I remember correctly, there’s another bell—the late bell—so I wait. Sure enough, it rings through the hallway speakers, and then there’s the sound of doors closing, and the second floor goes quiet.