“Go ahead, Amanda,” Dagus said with a gentle smile. She was nervous and felt an invisible finger trace her spine, unsure of what it meant. She turned toward the piece of paper in her hand and began to read in a slow cadence, carefully inflecting every comma and line change.
The class was still. Then one of the students started a slow clap, as if he was in a bad teenage movie, and the rest of the class joined in. Amanda rolled her eyes, gave a “whatever” shrug and moved back to her chair.
“Well, Amanda,” Dagus began, clearly uncomfortable, “we might be able to fit that one in the Venture graduation edition. We’ll have to see.” He looked away as he spoke.
“Good poem, Amanda,” Brianna Simpson whispered in her ear. “You’re such a bitch. Who needs a dad anyway?” It was more of a statement than a question.
Amanda smiled.
“Mom helped me write it, so I can’t take all the credit,” she whispered back.
“Who cares? You’re getting published in the Venture. That’s, like, so cool.”
Amanda looked at Brianna and gave her a fake smile. The bell rang and she grabbed her pack as she hollered over her shoulder, “See you later, Bree. Party tomorrow night. Don’t be late.”
As she passed Dagus, she gave him a nonchalant wave and kept going. Once in the hall, she hooked a left toward the main entrance. Merging with the steady stream of bodies moving in all directions at all speeds, Amanda began checking off a mental list of things to do before everybody showed up tomorrow evening: get the ice, wrap the gag gifts, and get Gus to tap the keg. She was underage, but hey, this was graduation.
Exiting the school through the wide double doors, she spilled out onto the concrete apron that ran the length of the school. She stopped to readjust her book bag when she felt someone staring at her. Looking up, she saw Principal Rugsdale looking in her direction.
“Okay, Garrett, how you doing?” The retired Marine wore an aqua golf shirt with shark fins at all different angles and khaki pants. He was trim and muscular, looking every bit the Desert Storm veteran that he was. He had left active duty with the Marines shortly after that war and pursued his degree in educational administration. In his early forties, he was often mistaken for someone much younger. Generally speaking, the students admired him despite the universal incongruity of bearing affection for one’s principal.
“Hi, Mister Rugsdale,” Amanda said, smiling. “I’m fine. You?” she added, as she walked past him holding up a hand, which he high-fived.
“Great season, champ. Almost had it this year.”
“Horseshoes and hand grenades,” she called over her shoulder as she waved with one hand, wiggling her fingers. She continued walking past his new red Mustang convertible in the number one parking spot.
“Watch the car, Garrett!” Rugsdale smiled.
She tossed him a playful look and pretended to touch the car with a finger, removing it quickly as if the red paint had burned her. “You and your cars!”
Watching Amanda blend into the antlike swarm in the parking lot, he frowned. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was something. Her touch, maybe. Yes, that had been it. The simple slapping of the hand, he thought, had transmitted a signal to him. The way some people with arthritis can feel a low-pressure system coming, he had a sixth sense about him regarding danger.
“I know all about hand grenades,” he muttered out of her earshot. He had started out as a basic grunt in Desert Storm, wounded once in that war. In 2003 he had been recalled in the reserves and sent to Iraq to serve as a public affairs officer, of all things, in Operation Iraqi Freedom. Essentially he escorted the press around and wrote the occasional article for public consumption.
Standing in front of the school, watching his flock, he nodded to himself. Yes, he knew all about danger.
Amanda navigated her way through the parking lot, where she saw her mother’s Mercedes idling directly behind her car. As she approached she noticed the passenger side window silently lowered and stuck her head in.
“Hi, mom, what’s up?”
“Doctors appointment. Come on, jump in. I’ll give you a lift.” Her mother was wearing a white silk blouse atop a navy skirt. Amanda noticed the blue blazer was carefully hanging in the back behind the driver’s seat. Her mother’s Rolex watch hung loosely from her slender left wrist as she leaned over and rested her arm on the two o’clock position of the steering wheel.
“What doctors appointment? I don’t need to see the doctor.” She was really confused now, as she had to get home to make final preparations for tomorrow night’s party the party. “And what about prepping for tomorrow?”
“Just hop in. It’s a follow-up. Nina’s got the house about ready anyway.”
Amanda got in the car and turned her head to the right and laid it against the headrest as she closed her eyes. Maybe this doctors visit would be the one, she sighed. Maybe they would figure out what was wrong with her.
“So, did Gus get the keg?” Amanda asked, breaking the silence.
Her mother continued staring straight ahead. Her most recent boyfriend, Gustavson D. Randel III, was a writer for Charlotte Magazine. A bona fide Charlotte bachelor, Gus Randel was handsome and smooth. She didn’t particularly care for him, although he had sided with her when she had approached her mom about the party. Still, she wasn’t sure, but she always felt as though he was interested in something besides her mother.
“I don’t know anything about that, Amanda, remember?”
“Oh, right. That’s our deal. Gotta keep you clean,” she responded sarcastically. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Thirty minutes later they were at the doctor’s office, where she went through a series of blood tests, which she had just had performed six months ago. As she was gathering her backpack to leave, she saw her mother talking to the office assistant at the billing counter. The lady had a round face and whitish blonde hair that was starched in place with hairspray. She had to be over fifty, Amanda thought.
“Okay, now I need the total bill. I know insurance is going to pay for eighty percent of this, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, but we will take care of all of that. You don’t need the bill.”
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Melanie grimaced at the woman, losing patience.
“Well, I’ve been here a few months.”
“I keep very detailed records. Amanda’s father is pretty bad about, you know, keeping up with child support payments and insurance, so I need it all.”
The office assistant considered her comment and said, “I understand. I’ve had to deal with some of the same stuff.”
“We have to stick together, don’t we?” Melanie commented as the lady handed her the paperwork in an envelope.
On the ride back from the doctor, Amanda asked her mother, “What was that all about?”
Melanie, seemingly occupied with driving, said, “Hmmm? What was what all about?”