to be wearing that suit—but Duncan Carpenter, the guy who used to teach juggling classes barefoot because you had to “massage the earth” to “get your rhythm”?
Impossible.
I blinked a couple of times, like that might help it all make sense.
I couldn’t read his expression. I hoped like hell that when he drew in his next breath to say something, it would be, “Samantha Casey? From Andrews Prep?” And then, heck—as long as I was writing dialogue for him, he might as well also say, “You look amazing! I never realized how stunning and fabulous you were!” And then maybe—why not?—he’d relax into a big smile and stretch his arms out wide for a hug, and announce to the room, “I regret all my life choices!”
I wouldn’t have said no to a moment like that.
Instead, he looked at me and—just like he might have to any other total stranger in the room who had just slammed into him, broken his laptop, rubbed his belly, and then weirdly caressed his collarbone—he said: “Have a seat, please. It’s past time to get started.”
* * *
As he turned and walked off toward the stage, cradling his broken laptop, I accepted several truths at once. One: Duncan Carpenter was really here, in my school, about to become the guy in charge. Two: I was not immune to the sight of him in any microscopic way. And three: he had no idea who I was.
That last one smarted, I’m not going to lie.
Not even a flash of recognition. Not even a tiny frown of déjà vu. Nothing.
I knew I’d changed a lot. Almost everything about me was different now. The bangs, the glasses, the lipstick—the colors. I’d expected he might not place me at first.
But I’d been so looking forward to the big reveal—when I’d get to say, “It’s Samantha Casey! From Andrews! Except I’m fabulous now!”—and watch all the recognition click into place.
In truth, I didn’t even realize how hungry I’d been to experience that moment until it didn’t happen. I hadn’t been an ugly duckling before, exactly … but maybe more like a mousy mouseling. What would it have been like to see his face when he realized that the mouse had been transformed into a … a … a really stylish librarian in a polka-dot scarf?
There’s nothing better than a before-and-after.
But he didn’t remember the before. So that pretty much killed the after.
It was deflating, to say the least. It was also a moment I could have processed straight through until dinnertime with Alice if there had been time to drag her off to the ladies’ room.
But there wasn’t.
In seconds, Duncan was up at the podium and I was seated meekly in the last empty chair—right in the front row, next to Alice, who was wearing a navy blue T-shirt that said: EAT. SLEEP. MATH. REPEAT.
Alice was a front-row kind of person, and so was I.
Though maybe less so today.
I snuck a look at Duncan, now looking down at the red lipstick blotch on his shirt.
He rubbed at it himself for a second. Then he gave up.
He turned to the room, and my eyes felt magnetized to him.
He looked even bigger on the stage, and so wrong in that plain, dull, gray suit—but also—okay—undeniably handsome. To me, at least.
“Hello,” he said at last, into the microphone, even though there were only about forty faculty and staff there. He didn’t exactly need it. “My name is Duncan Carpenter, but you can call me—”
And here, I fully anticipated one of his old nicknames from Andrews: Duncan Do-Nuts, Big D, Dunker, Dig-Dug, or just plain D, before remembering that he was in administration now and revising my expectation to maybe just his plain-old first name.
That’s when he finished with, “Principal Carpenter.”
I let out a funny little squeak.
Duncan ignored it. “I am your new head of school.”
Where was the comedy? Where was the mirth? I waited for something fun to happen—anything. A balloon drop, maybe. A karaoke moment. Maybe that suit would turn out to be a rip-away.
But nothing.
“The Kempner School,” Duncan went on, in a dull, serious voice, “is a paragon. Its national reputation for nurturing creativity and diversity is unparalleled. For thirty years, this institution has been innovating, uplifting, and leading with its child-centered models for growth and learning. You’ve inspired a whole generation of educators, and it’s a great honor for me to be here, stepping humbly into Principal Kempner’s oxfords.”
Okay. All right. Fair enough. This was a serious occasion. I could give him