Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,25
In her hand she carries a long baton with a gold knob at the top, which makes sense only because she’s the faculty advisor of the color guard that practices during lunch.
“Take my seat,” Ambrosia offers with too much politeness. “I was just leaving.”
Only that said, she doesn’t get up. First she licks two fingertips and smooths the sides of her hair into place, even though it’s already perfect. Then, very slowly and deliberately, she separates trash from things that can be recycled, returns the book to her backpack, arranges and rearranges the contents. She pulls out her iPod, debates between several songs, and slips the speaker buds into her ears. She takes her time doing all of this, while Ms. Pallas is forced to stand and wait.
“All yours,” Ambrosia finally says, and way too loudly. I have the definite sense that the music’s not blaring and that she is shouting on purpose to be rude. To the rest of us, Ambrosia mimes talking into a phone, thumb at her ear, pinky at her mouth. Her lips move, pomegranate red, and I read them: I’ll call you.
When Ambrosia is out of earshot, Ms. Pallas sits and says, “We have openings in the color guard. The three of you would be—”
Alix practically spews out her milk. “Me? Marching? Tasseled boots?”
Stephanie hands Alix a napkin. “Sorry, Ms. Pallas. No disrespect intended, but I definitely move to a different drummer.”
Our teacher turns to me, the color of her eyes so unsettling I can’t look away. She asked me to join the guard yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. At first I was kind of flattered and told her that I’d think about it. But she’s gotten so pushy. Why does she keep asking? Can’t she take a hint? What am I, her personal mission? Why doesn’t she back off?
The bell rings and I’m glad. Saved again.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and hurry off. “Guess I’m not much of a joiner.”
* * *
Ambrosia texts each of us about when to meet (right after school) and where (at the cliff with the statue overlooking the famous surf spot). I’m first to get there, so I lean over the rail. My thoughts, as I sort through all that’s been happening, feel as churned up as the ocean below. I’m hoping that Ambrosia will clear things up. Obviously she knows a lot more that any of us do. I wonder if there’s some simple, logical explanation for everything that’s been happening. Somehow I don’t think there is. I have a feeling that what Ambrosia will tell us is more complicated than I can imagine.
I hear something that makes me turn away from the surf. My name, deep as a foghorn.
“Meg!”
A little down the path, someone waves. My name again, and out of the gray the figure comes toward me, walking and then jogging a little. It’s Stephanie and her mouth is moving. I assume she’s already talking about Ambrosia and Ms. Pallas and He-Cat, everything that’s been happening. How could she be thinking about anything else? Only when she reaches me, she points an accusing finger to where a thick metal pipe juts out of the cliff, like the cigar in the Monopoly tycoon’s mouth. A stream of gunk-colored water spews out of it and into the ocean. “The color of that ocean foam! Can you believe it? That’s not from any natural causes.”
When a wave hits the beach, it leaves behind a jagged line of foamy crud. Stephanie keeps talking, too outraged to take a breath. “Runoff. All kinds of crap—cigarette butts, dog shit, lawn fertilizer—washes right into the gutters and directly into the ocean. An otter can’t shower off. Can you imagine the germ count right now? You have to be a nut to be in the water.”
We turn together to watch the nut, suddenly visible in the haze, paddling hard through what I now imagine to be a wave of skin-eating bacteria that look like jaw-snapping Pac-Men. Of course, the surfer is Alix. She must have cut her last class to get here early. Her arm shoots into the air and we wave back, and soon she’s washed onto shore, climbing the cliff, and standing next to us. I’m freezing just looking at her, but she doesn’t seem to mind the weather.
“Think she’ll show up?” she asks, and when Stephanie doesn’t answer immediately, Alix turns on her. “Well, do you?”
“Do what?” Stephanie’s eyes keep returning to the pipe that’s coughing out