Other Shepards by Adele Griffin Read Free Book Online Page A

eighth grade doors. Let her go.
    In homeroom, I add to my list in the back of my notebook under the heading: More Facts About L. L.
    24. Swears
    25. Possib. house music?
    26. Brown eyes (not black, like you thought!) with small goldeny dots around pupils
    27. Younger brother
    28. Catholic
    29. Litters
    30. Gold hoop earring
    31. Breakfast/vendor @ 8:05–8:10 A.M. !!!
    At the sound of the attendance bell I bat my book shut and swipe it into my desk, banging the top down, but it is more difficult for me to put away my thoughts. The Louis I bumped into this morning was a more earnest, less detached guy than the one I met in the Sam Flax. I will have to readjust my daydreams, give him a softer approach when we have imaginary conversations or when he asks me out on pretend dates.
    I spread my fingers over the desk’s surface and pretend that I am touching Louis Littlebird’s face. My fingertips are damp against his skin, the hollows beneath his eyes, the raised notch of his throat. The top of my desk feels warm, as if my notebook is heating its surface from the inside like a rising, bubbling dessert.
    “Mrs. Garcia, will you please send Holland Shepard to the front desk,” the secretary’s voice burrs through the intercom. Geneva.
    “Uh-oh, Holland’s gonna get it.”
    “Hollandaise is in trou-ble.”
    “Go girl, go girl.”
    “Betcha it’s bad baby sis again.”
    I stand up and look at Mrs. Garcia, who dismisses me with her hand. I cannot resist grabbing my notebook, dangerous with its unprotected secrets.
    Habit sends me strolling past the front desk and the principal’s office and straight to the nurse’s station. Geneva lies coiled on a high iron cot. She has ripped off a corner of the sterile, germ-catching paper strip that covers the pillow and is twisting it in her hands. Her pale legs are blue and goose-bumped in the uncovered space between her knee socks and her kilt. Mrs. Just, the school nurse, smiles at me but she looks irritated.
    “Here’s a pickle,” she says. “Can you do anything, or should I give her one of her pills? I sure did not count on this today, no sirree.”
    “Geneva, what is it?” I whisper in her ear. “What’s freaking you out now?” I smooth her hair away from her face and try to press one of her hands into mine so that she will stop her paper twisting. “You’re being very dramatic,” I say. “How can I help you without knowing what’s bothering you?”
    “When I said for you to drown yourself.”
    “Who? Who?” Mrs. Just hoots. “Who’s drowning?” Geneva’s two front teeth clamp to lock over her bottom lip.
    “I know you didn’t mean it, silly.” I talk in our secret voice. “People always say things they don’t mean when they’re angry.”
    “I closed my eyes and I saw you drowned like in the story of Joseph of Canaan, who got pushed down the well by his mean brothers. I called down the well but there was no answer. You were drowned, and it was all my fault.”
    “That’s very horrible.” I sigh. Mrs. Just wrinkles her nose.
    “As I recall, Joseph didn’t drown in the well,” she says with a sniff. “To my memory, Juda pulled him out, and he and his brothers sold Joseph to merchants for twenty pieces of silver.”
    “I would never sell you to merchants, Holland,” Geneva vows.
    “Geneva, get hold of yourself.” I pat her arm. “You’re working yourself up over nothing.”
    “I hate this day. I want a new day.” She squeezes herself into a tighter knot and pulls her hair over her face. All I see is an island of nose. “I want to go home.”
    “Home?” Mrs. Just looks at me. “Home? There’s no need for that. I can call one of your parents to see if she can take a calm-down pill from her prescription. I’m telling you if she’s got one of her pills, then she can rest here through the morning and won’t miss afternoon classes.”
    “Sure,” I agree.
    “This day is wrecked,” Geneva whines. “I’m going home. I want another