The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,33

due for a placement exam, I understand,” Constance says to me. “Because of your lack of traditional schooling.”

Here it comes.

“I don’t know, it felt pretty traditional,” I say. “I mean, we read Shakespeare. And Bob Dylan’s autobiography. There was a breadth to our learning that I might not have had in a more traditional environment.”

Constance raises one eyebrow. “Then I’m sure this exam will be a breeze for you. You’ll take it in my homeroom.”

I follow her into the dreadful hallway, keeping my head down. She leads me to a classroom and closes the door. Someone’s gone crazy with a bunch of bright turquoise-blue paint, and the walls are lined with huge National Geographic –worthy photos of families all over the world—Australian bush people, what look like Eskimos on the tundra, Tibetans in traditional dress.

“Did you take all of these yourself?” I ask.

“I did,” she says. “When I’m not teaching, I travel.”

“Cool.”

I look around some more. There’s a quote painted in black near the ceiling:

I confess I do not believe in time.

—Vladimir Nabokov

“He wrote Lolita, right?” I ask. She nods. “That’s a pretty creepy book.”

“Particularly for a teenage girl,” she says, handing me my test. “So, you’ve read Lolita? That’s either a good sign or a bad one—I’m not sure which.”

I nod. And then shake my head. I have no idea why it would be a bad sign.

She looks at me curiously. “You came here from California?”

“Yeah. I came to Savannah because my mother died. I live with my grandmother.”

“Oh,” she says, frowning. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She looks down at my file, and her face tightens. “Your grandmother is Dorothy Lee?”

“Yes.”

“So your mother was—”

“Louisa,” I say. “Louisa Lee.”

Constance looks stricken. “I knew your mother,” she says finally. “I knew her in high school. I wasn’t aware that…”

“Car accident,” I say quickly, to get us off the topic.

“I see,” she says again, recovering her composure. “Are you ready for the test, then?”

I sit down and fill out answers. It’s not too bad, and I must do okay, because the next thing I know it’s third period, and I’m being shuttled to junior history.

“This is Mr. Roberts’s class,” she says before opening the door. “If you do well, he’ll let you take the AP exam.”

“Cool,” I say, wondering what the hell an AP exam is. “Thanks, Constance.”

She hesitates, looking at me strangely. “We’re pretty formal here at the River School. Let’s stick to Miss Taylor, okay?”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

She opens the door. Inside, class is already under way. I spot Madison near the back of the room.

Mr. Roberts, an extremely square-looking teacher with a salt-and-pepper bowl cut and a short-sleeved yellow button-down shirt stained with sweat around the armpits, looks over, obviously annoyed by the interruption.

“Hello,” Constance—I mean, Miss Taylor—says. “This is Alex Lee. She’ll be joining class this year. I’m sure you’ll all make her welcome.”

Everyone stares. I feel like I’m in a zoo.

“There’s an empty desk next to me,” Madison says.

I scuttle over and plop down. Maybe I’m wrong after all. Maybe she’s actually pretty cool.

Um… not so cool, though? This class. Mr. Roberts drones on and on about the syllabus—mainly reading out of a heinous-looking textbook. I’m so bored that finally I raise my hand.

“Yes?” he says tersely. The other kids turn and stare.

“Will we be reading Lincoln’s letters?” I ask. “Like, when we get to the Civil War?”

“Is the syllabus not sufficient for you, Miss Lee?”

I look around at the increasingly hostile room. “No, I just thought… well, if we’re learning about that time, we’d want to… uh… read what he wrote about it. I mean, that’s what we did where I used to—”

“Primary sources?” Mr. Roberts barks. “Is that your suggestion?”

“This girl’s a runaway truck,” Jason—Hayes’s boyfriend—blurts. The class bursts out laughing.

“I guess…”

“Then I’ll add that to the reading list.”

From my new peers, a collective groan.

“By Monday, I want everyone to have read the first eighty pages of The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln. Volume Two. I’ll put copies on reserve in the library. And while you’re reading, I encourage you to think hard about Miss Lee and her hunger for knowledge.”

No one looks at me for the rest of the class. But when the bell rings, a hand reaches out and slides my papers and books onto the floor.

“Way to go, hippie,” Gilroy, the boy from the party, mutters.

Jason gives my shoulder a reassuring, pitying pat as he passes.

“Gilroy,” Madison says smoothly, putting her hand on his arm, “leave Alex alone, please. She’s one