Sister Mary Florence frowned over her shoulder. “Come along.”
I struggled against the prickling in my eyeballs. If I cried now, it would ruin the bravado I had conjured. And Isabella was gazing at me as if I were a fighter pilot about to board a jet. I swallowed to keep my voice steady. “My mom won’t be there.”
Sister Mary Florence raised an eyebrow. “She won’t?”
I shook my head. That the truth sounded like a lie made me feel even guiltier somehow. I pressed my nails harder into my palms.
“Fine. After lunch, please ask—” Then Sister Mary Florence stopped and focused on my face. “Ryan, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Bridget Ryan?”
I nodded again.
She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “Walk with me, Miss Ryan.” As we turned the corner I looked back at Isabella, who was staring after us. The door swung again and again on its hinges, revealing stutters of her astonished face.
“Tell me,” Sister Mary Florence said quietly. “How is your sister?”
“Rhona? She’s good,” I said, before recognizing the opportunity. “I mean, not good, but . . .” I trailed off.
Sister Mary Florence stopped in front of the staircase to the teachers’ lounge. “On this occasion, I’m willing to rescind your demerit, Miss Ryan.”
I held my breath.
“I understand at the moment you must have”—she coughed— “pressures at home.”
I tried to look suitably pressured.
“But you must still report for detention. Let it be a lesson to you.” She put her hand on the banister post and twisted it under her palm. “And one more word of advice, Miss Ryan,” she said. “Guard yourself against bad influences.”
When she continued to stare at me, I gave her a humble, slow nod. Only when she closed the door to the teachers’ lounge did I realize that by “bad influences,” she meant Isabella.
* * *
After detention I swung open the library doors with so much enthusiasm that the cafeteria windows bounced in their frames. I blinked into the afternoon, surprised by how improbably bright it was—I had almost convinced myself it would be nighttime. The bitter, sickly scent of dill pickles was leaching from a vent in the wall, and I took a deep breath, reveling in my new appreciation of liberty.
“Briddie,” Isabella said, leaping off the railing by the tennis courts.
“You waited?” My voice came out high and hoarse. “For me?”
She shrugged. “I finished early.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway”—Isabella snapped her gum, which wasn’t allowed on school property, although I didn’t say so—“you really didn’t have to cover,” she said. “They never woulda made me.”
“Oh.”
“But it was amazing, Briddie. You’re such a hero.”
“Thanks,” I said. My cheeks burned. I tried not to stare at her as we walked together past the tennis court where Miss Frobisher was yelling at Catherine McLoughlin.
“What’d she make you do? Lines?”
“Flagellation,” I said.
Isabella’s mouth hung open, gum and all. Then she smacked me hard on the arm. “Jeez, Briddie.”
I cleared my throat. “You don’t think they’ll count it against me, will they? For the academy applications?” Although I had tried to pass it off as a casual question, the two hours I’d spent copying out 1 Corinthians had given me plenty of time to picture in feverish detail the tribunal where Sister Mary Florence’s little book would be placed on a set of weighing scales, and my blackened name would be struck off the list of nominations.
Isabella blew a halfhearted bubble that deflated with a squeak. “Course not.”
“You’re sure?” I held my breath, willing to be persuaded.
“The academy isn’t going to reject you just because of one lousy detention.”
“OK.”
“Anyway.” Isabella spat out her gum and, with deft precision, poked it into a join in the railing. “Silent nuns would practically be pleased about our game. It’s practically a compliment.”
“Sure,” I said.
As we stopped at the crosswalk, Minty Walsh shouted, “Izzy!” from the tennis court.
Isabella turned and gave her a dainty little wave.
I straightened my posture. There I was, casually walking side by side with Isabella. Where other people would see! I checked my outfit. Was there any chalk dust on my kilt? I had Rhona’s silver acorn pin on my blazer and I took confidence from that, knowing Flora had coveted it since middle school.
We crossed the road and walked along the path that joined Main Street. I felt for the “emergency” dollar bill in the pocket of my kilt. “You want to go to the diner?”
“Not hungry,” Isabella said.
“OK.”
As we turned the corner onto Main Street, Isabella pointed to the fountain that was meant to commemorate John Everett Jr.’s faithful Labrador. With an exaggerated sigh, she slumped onto the edge of the fountain.
I sat next to her and rubbed my Abercrombies together until they squeaked.
“I’m so beat,” she said, throwing her arms behind her and leaning on them, rolling her head from side to side. It was a strangely adult gesture. I had seen my father stretching his neck in the same way. It made Isabella seem even older, more mature, than she had previously. My stomach scrunched. Isabella was so sophisticated; why would she ever want to be friends with me? Rhona’s pin seemed childish and stupid. I wished I could take it off and put it in my pocket without her noticing.
“It has been super hot lately,” I said, regretting the weak comment even before I finished saying it.
“Yeah. And I get beat so easily now, you know.” She tugged down on the skin under her eyes.
This was new. Isabella was not a whiner. If anything, she wore her endurance like a blue ribbon. I nodded sagely and pulled the compassionate lip twist people always adopted when they talked about Rhona.
Isabella looped a lock of hair around her finger. “So listen. It actually wasn’t a dress fitting.” A penny in the fountain was shining, and it threw a silver fleck onto her face. I watched it wobbling from her cheek to her lashes.
“I had a doctor’s appointment.”
I gave her as neutral a nod as I could manage. “OK.”