CHAPTER FIVE: Creepy Crawley and the Counsel of Mr. Grant

                                                    — Chapter Five —

 

       











   Creepy Crawley And The Counsel Of Mr.Grant

Tuesday was much better. It was a bit boring, but blissfully uneventful. Crescent’s arm was still very sore, but thankfully, it hadn’t been broken, though to her, it felt almost as though it had been. At the moment, she was sitting in Math with Mr. Tartas, whom she had had before. He was a frail-looking man, bald, with large sleepy eyes that were set deep on either side of a Cyrano De Bergerac-like nose.

   Under that prolific proboscis, he also had a thin little mouth and a pointed chin, which he stroked continuously.

   Outside of class, everyone complained about how tedious, overtechnical, and long his explanations of equations were and how he insisted the class keep quiet while he slowly droned on. Crescent thought he seemed just as bored of the students as they were of him, and the consensus was that it was his way of punishing everyone, but after Monday’s events, Crescent welcomed the silence and the solitude from the nagging of other students.

   After Math everything flip-flopped; she had Professor Yore for History, who, as it turned out, was completely the opposite of Mr. Tartas. She was happy and animated almost to the point of hyperactivity. She was a funny little woman, with short light brown flyaway hair, twinkling eyes, a tiny pointed nose, and large rosy cheeks.

   Professor Yore was short, squat, and wide, just slightly taller than her desk and almost as broad, and had a little trouble just getting in the doorway. She loved to talk and on occasion was even known to sing and invited questions galore about who did what, when and where throughout the history of England.  

   Then came a double Health period with Professor Doppler, her old Science teacher that had been traded in for a different, but related subject. As Crescent predicted, he wasn’t very happy about his new appointment and, during class, seemed distracted, even more so than was usual, which was quite a bit.

   And after that, at last, Tuesday was done.

   Still hurting from the day before, Crescent once again kept to herself and avoided any of Ferris’s gang whenever she could. When she was in sight of any of them, she shrank back and melded as best she could with the crowds until she was able to retire to the sanctity of her room.

    She looked at her schedule and saw she had P.E. again with Bickle first thing in the morning, and suddenly she felt the beginnings of a small headache in the center of her brain.

    Crescent closed her eyes and tried her best to get some sleep, but the next thing she knew, the light from the early morning had already broken into the room; Crescent couldn’t believe it. She felt as though the night had passed in the blink of an eye, and already she could feel the onslaught of dread set in. It was like that one gray cloud on a clear day that hung overhead and threatened to ruin all.

   Crescent went to the window, slid away the blinds, and looked out. It looked perfectly all right; in fact, it was a clear day, hardly a cloud in the sky. It was just the knowledge that she would soon be facing Sinestra, Ingrid, and the rest of Ferris’s gang again, not to mention Bickle. 

   Outside her room, Crescent could hear the rushing about and stomping of all the other girls up and down the corridor. Crescent decided to wait until after P.E. class to take her shower; she didn’t fancy running into Sinestra before she had to.

After breakfast, she headed down to her first lesson along with everyone else. Students scrambled into doorways as the bell sounded, and when Crescent came into the locker room, she looked all around.

   Like the previous day, everyone was busy zipping around and hopping about as if they were on pogo sticks all getting into their gym clothes. From behind her locker set, Crescent immediately spotted Sinestra, who was preening and crooning in front of everyone and was locked in conversation with Ingrid and the Frosts.

   She shrank back into the shadows, changed quickly, and took her place in line; she kept her eyes forward and avoided looking at Sinestra as much as was possible. Once again, Bickle inspected the students like a drill sergeant, walking up and down the line, correcting kids with her riding crop.

   When the inspection was over and they all marched out into the gym, Crescent saw that Bickle had devised a new torture for them today — rope climbing.

   Long thick yellow ropes hung from the ceiling. Crescent looked at them, and quickly decided that it was a long way up.

    “All right, queue up, everyone. CHOP, CHOP!” said Bickle, but Crescent hung back, trying her best not to be noticed.

    “All right then, I’ll show you how it’s done. As you can see, there are buckets of powder next to the bottom of each rope,” the instructor said as she bent down and smeared white powder on her hands, then clapped them together as white dust flew out all around.

    “When you have a good portion of it applied, you position yourself thusly and pull yourself upward onto the rope.”

    And as she was talking, she stood with the rope dangling down in front of her body; she placed herself around it, clasped it with her hands, and, with a grunt, pulled herself up. In the same movement she swung her legs around the bottom half and momentarily stopped while holding on to the rope.

    “See how I’ve pulled myself up and am using my hands and arms to support myself? Just pull yourself up with your arms, uh.” And as she did she said, “Then hang on with your legs, and much like a caterpillar, inch your way up the rope.”

    Crescent almost laughed. Bickle looked like a hippo hanging from a branch off of a cliff. Then Bickle did the same motion again, only backward, inching herself back down until she reached one of her large legs out and touched the floor, then righted herself.

    “N-now then,” she said, catching her breath. “Easy, see. Right, now it’s your turn,” she said and ushered everyone to divide into groups. Only Crescent noticed of course that Sinestra, Ingrid, Fiona, and Crystal were already all grouped together.

   Crescent walked over, rubbing her injured arm, and addressed the instructor and coughed to let her know she was there. “Uh, ma’am?” she said tentatively.

   Bickle swung round and looked down. “Yes, Miss Grey? What is it?” she said, her brow furrowing, but then she raised her eyebrows and turned her head sideways, curious as to why she was being approached so and looking at Crescent as if she were the oddest thing in the world. Crescent gulped, “Uh, I — I uh …”

   Bickle’s curiosity quickly turned to frustration. “Well, what is it? Out with it, whatever it is. I haven’t got all day!” she snapped. “Speak up, girl!”

   “M-my … uh, my arm. I-it still hurts from yesterday. I … I was hoping I could sit today out.”

   “Sit out what?” she said. “Sit out?” she repeated as if it was some foreign notion. “No no no no no. NO! Not in my class! Buck up young lady. I expect you to perform as well as anyone else. Hurt arm, indeed! Now go over and join the rest.”

   Crescent sighed; well, at least it was worth a shot, she thought, crestfallen. She walked over and joined the last group that happened to consist of three boys that she vaguely remembered seeing before.

   Two of the boys seemed to be mates and took turns trying to climb while the third was the plump boy with black hair from Monday’s lesson, who had bounced bum first on the trampoline. Crescent figured they wouldn’t mind if she went last, so she just stood there and tried flexing her hurt arm and hand, trying to prepare herself. As she did so, she watched Sinestra, Ingrid, and the Frosts across the gym trying to plan out how they were going to tackle their own rope.

   “H-hi, Crescent,” she heard someone say and turned around. Although he was the same height as Crescent, his shoulders were broad, and his arms rather thick, but he had none of the muscle or vicious demeanor to him that Eddie or Ingrid had.

   He had thick black eyebrows, black eyes, a round nose, and a wobbly chin.

   “Hi, uh,” Crescent said, trying to remember his name and to sound more cheerful than she felt.

   “It’s Henri,” he said smiling.

   “Hi, Henri,” she said absently because she was distracted, preoccupied with watching Sinestra, making sure she stayed on her side of the gym.

   Henri kept talking. “You know, I — I remember you from before Crescent. B-before you left I mean.”

   “Yeah, I’ve seen you around too,” she lied. Crescent had always kept to herself before and with good reason. She had never socialized much and didn’t want to appear on the radar of anyone from Ferris’s gang, but unfortunately, her worst fears had come true; after all the years of trying to avoid Ferris and Sinestra, she was now a prime target.

   Crescent was vaguely aware that while she was both watching and thinking about Sinestra, Henri had not stopped talking. “Nice to have y-you back C-Crescent. You know, there are a few n-new students and new teachers here as well now too.” He started counting them off on his fingers one by one. “There’s the new h-headmistress, of course, and Ms. Bickle, and also Ms. Brown. Then there’s Professor C-Crawley.” And Henri shivered; he brought his voice down to a whisper, “Someone started calling him Creepy Crawley, and the name stuck ‘cause he’s so weird. But no one would ever say it to his f-face. You have to watch out for him, he’s a rather nasty piece of work, he is. V-very strict.”

    “Uh-huh, Creepy,” Crescent said, absently parroting Henri while still staring at Sinestra.

    “You know, Crescent, I always liked you. Liked you loads. Y-you always seemed different than the other girls. More, uh … well, different. M-maybe we can be mates!” Henri said sounding cheerful and hopeful.

   Crescent turned around. “What?” she said, really looking at him for the first time.

   He was beaming. “Climbing mates, I uh, mean,” he said nervously. “Y-you can spot me, and I — I can spot you.”

    “Spot?”

   He pointed upward. “Uh, the rope,” he said and gulped.

   “Oh yeah, sure, whatever,” she said, looking over his shoulder; then Henri went over and sat down on the mat, crossed his legs, and watched as the others in their group took their turns going up.

   Occasionally, he would look over at Crescent, and when she returned his gaze, he became embarrassed; pink spots appeared on his cheeks, and he quickly looked away again. At the moment, Crystal or Fiona, whichever one of them it actually was, she didn’t know, was hesitantly climbing up their rope with Sinestra, Ingrid and the other twin looking on. She glanced over at Henri again, who smiled and said, “Cheers,” sounding hopeful again; Crescent shook her head.

   After both twins had gone up and come back down again, Ingrid was up. She pulled herself up the rope straightaway.

   Charlie Combs, one of the other two boys in their group, came over; he was breathing hard and said, “Y-your turn, Crescent.”

    “Me? Now?”

    “Yeah, everyone else has gone up ’cept you and Henri.”

    “All right,” she said, and sighed, before walking over to Henri and offering to help him up off the floor, “Come on, Henri.”

   He put his hands in the bucket, spreading the white powder over them, and grabbed hold of the rope. He screwed up his face and began pulling.

   Crescent watched, but just as she was about to go over and help him get a leg up, Bickle came striding over with her clipboard.

    “I see Mr. Combs and Mr. Edgeley have completed their assignment.” Bickle checked off something on her clipboard. Charlie and Jacob stood there, beaming at her.

    “Tsk, tsk. So it’s down to you two, is it?”

    Crescent didn’t say anything but looked over at Henri, who was trying his best to make it up the rope, but failing miserably; his face was purple and he hadn’t gotten more than a few knots up. Bickle prodded his behind with her riding crop. “Up, up, up!” she said, and he gave a cry and tried to shimmy up some more.

    Not even halfway up, Henri let himself ease down the rope; he came down wheezing and panting. Breathless and shaking his head, he said, “I— I … I c-can’t Miss. I just can’t.

    “All right, all right, you can come down you worthless —” Bickle grunted, then she turned on her heel and said, smiling, in a pointedly singsong voice, “Your turn, Miss Grey.”

   “G-go a-a-ahead, C-C-Crescent. I’ll watch you,” Henri said, still breathing heavily as he touched the floor and bent down with his hands on his knees. He stood up and smiled at Crescent, then his cheeks flushed red, and he looked quickly back down at the floor.

    “Okay, Henri, now it’s your job to watch and make sure I don’t fall, all right?” she said, and stole a glance over Sinestra’s way, who, at the moment, was trying to slither her way around her rope like a snake, but she was having a tough time of it; her skinny little toothpick-like arms were barely able to hold her up, and it looked like Ingrid was giving her a boost.

    Good, Crescent thought, and she dipped her hands in the powder bucket, then gripped the twisting rope. She put her hands between the knots and one foot on a rung and hoisted herself up. Crescent herself certainly was not the most athletic person in the room; she was petite and thin, but not nearly as emaciated as Sinestra. And Crescent took solace and confidence in that if Sinestra could climb all the way to the top, then so could she.

   Crescent figured she should be up and back down before Sinestra, but the only thing was, she still didn’t like heights, and also, her arm was still sore….

   Then midway up, Crescent stopped; she wiped her forehead, which was now dripping with sweat, and looked back down. Henri, Charlie and the rest were looking back up at her expectantly, but they weren’t the only ones — it looked as if the whole class had joined them; everyone was staring. Waiting for her to succeed or to fail? Perhaps waiting for a repeat of Monday’s performance, no doubt; and if she were to fall from up here, it would be spectacular, and this time there would be no trampoline to catch her.

    “Go on, Crescent!” shouted Henri, spurring her on, but just as he said it, Sinestra, Ingrid, Crystal, and Fiona walked up, and Sinestra had another wicked-looking smile on her face.

    “I’m coming back down!” cried Crescent.

    “Oh no, you’re not,” she heard Bickle shout. “If you expect to get the marks, you will finish the task.” The teacher stood with both hands on her hips, looking up at Crescent with disgust.

    “I don’t care about the marks! My arm hurts,” said Crescent, and she really didn’t care. She just wanted to live.

    “Just as I thought: a good-for-nothing!” Bickle lamented. “What a complete and utter failure you are,” she said, shaking her head.

   People started snickering audibly. Anger and a mixture of shame and defiance filled Crescent almost at once; she put her foot on another rung, then pulled herself up again. She then brought her knees up to her chest and pulled again; her arm blasted fresh waves of pain through her, and she stopped for a moment.

   Crescent closed her eyes, wincing at the pain, then looked down. Bickle was shaking her head, and that made her even more determined to finish it. She ignored the pain as best she could and brought herself up, repeating the motion again and again, until finally, when she reached the top, she heard Henri cheer, “YES! I knew you could do it!”

   Some people clapped. Sinestra gave a sour “Hmph!” and Bickle said, “Bravo, girl. Now come down from there.”

   Crescent complied, the crowd dispersed, and she eased her way back down.

   On her descent, after a few knots, she felt an odd vibration from the rope; it was wriggling, and then before she had a chance to even fix her thoughts on what it might be, the rope suddenly jerked wildly, and she had to struggle to hold on.

   “HEY!” she yelled out, wondering what in the bloody hell was going on!

   Tightening her grip, she looked down and wasn’t surprised to see, at the other end of all the wriggling, Ingrid was yanking on the rope! And she had another dumb smile plastered on her stupid face.

   Crescent had expected something like this, prepared for it, but she still couldn’t believe it was happening — and with Bickle standing right there!

   The P.E. instructor’s back was turned yet again, but this time, it was Sinestra who was distracting her, and Ingrid was jerking the rope back and forth in mad motions.

   Henri saw what was happening but was held fast by the Frosts (one of them had their hand over Henri’s mouth). Crescent yelled down, “Hey! HELP!”  

    It was enough. Bickle turned around but not fast enough to see Ingrid let go of the rope and step away. All she saw was Crescent flailing about, struggling to keep hold; the teacher shook her head and walked away, but those few moments were enough to give Crescent time to descend.

    Henri, who had escaped the Frosts, helped her down, but as she came down to the last knot, to her surprise, Sinestra, Ingrid, Crystal, and Fiona were still standing there. And just as the tip of her trainer touched back down on solid ground again, Crescent stepped away from the rope. Then she went right for Sinestra.

   “What are you playing at, you lunatic!”

   “Survived another day, did we?” Sinestra said slyly.

   “Yeah, no thanks to you!” Crescent shot back at her.

   Sinestra put one hand on her hip and pointed with the other, a long thin forefinger stretched out at Crescent.

   “Look, you little — you. Grey, you had better watch yourself from now on. No one flirts around with my Ferris and gets away with it!”

   “I’m not after your Ferris, all right!” Crescent yelled.

    Sinestra shrugged, “I know, you’re too wimpy and much too pathetic, Crescent, but we’re still going to have to make an example of you. Can’t have you making me look the fool, can I? Going to have to teach you a lesson, aren’t we, girls?” she said, looking over her shoulder for confirmation from Ingrid and the Frosts, who all nodded in unison.

   Ingrid was smiling evilly, flexing her muscles, but still looking as idiotic as ever. Crystal looked positively ecstatic, practically jumping up and down in place while Fiona merely rolled her eyes, as if she had seen Sinestra pull this same routine much too often.

   They were unbelievable, Crescent thought, and she was starting to have quite enough of it.

   “God, you’re so spoiled, Sinestra!”

   “Me? What about you? You think you’re so special, don’t you? Named after this stupid school! People going on about you left and right. Crescent this and Crescent that! Everyone always wondering why and how you came here, but I see you, you know. You’re always pretending to hide, not talking to anyone, trying to be mysterious, but I see right through all of that, I know what you’re up to because it just makes everyone talk about you all the more.

You know, I was relieved to see you go, but now you’re back. And here you are again. Why can’t you just be like the rest of us? Why can’t you just be normal? Why are you so weird?”  

   Crescent was taken aback; she knew that people whispered about her, the other kids talking about her story and the mysterious circumstances surrounding how she ended up in the orphanage, but she never asked for the attention, never wanted it, always thought of it as something negative.

   But here Sinestra was talking as if she, Crescent, was some sort of minor celebrity or something. She had never thought of it that way before. Was Sinestra in some small way jealous of the same fame that Crescent herself had never even wanted to begin with?

   “And what on earth did your parents do to you anyway?” Sinestra was saying. “Oh yeah, that’s right. You never had any parents, did you, Grey?”

    At that, Sinestra’s little troupe guffawed, and Ingrid laughed with a honking that made her sound like a goose. One thing you did not do in an orphanage was taunt someone about their parents, but Crescent was used to the other kids speculating about hers; she didn’t care and was ready for it anyway.

    “Oh please, maybe I am just a little bit pathetic, but you’re just foul and cruel, just like Ferris is. And whatever my parents might’ve been like, they most certainly had to be better than yours, and at least I have something to remind me of them, least I know my parents cared about me, but yours … what was it now? Oh yes, there was some scuttle all around the school when you first got here, wasn’t there, Sinestra? I’ve been here a very long time, and I remember when you first arrived, dropped off right in the doorway by your parents if I remember it right. You were — what — five at the time? Maybe six?

    “So what was it, then? Were you given up because your mum and dad did something so awful they had to give you up and leave the country? And they did it in a hurry too, didn’t they? Just walked straight in, didn’t even bother to take their coats off, did they, said, ‘Here ya go, here she is, our stupid rotten little brat,’ turned, and left.”

    Crescent lolled her head around, smiled, and raised one eyebrow, looking smug and happy that at last she’d one-upped Sinestra, and there was a jaunty spring in her step when she moved about and continued.

     “What was it then, ‘Sin’? They must have done something pretty bad to leave you here and take off. Were they traitors or terrorists or something, is that it, hmm? Or maybe it was you all along — maybe, just maybe, they couldn’t stand having you as a daughter. Maybe you drove them off! Maybe they just saw what a complete and utter nightmare you’d turn out to be!”

   The other girls gasped, and Sinestra’s smile slid off her face — Crescent had crossed a line too, and she knew it, but she didn’t care. They had been baiting her, and she could feel her cheeks flush and her temper rising.

    Sinestra’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward, almost right in front of Crescent’s face, and it took a great amount of will, but Crescent resisted the urge to flat out punch her.

   “Listen, Grey,” she said, pointing her bony finger into Crescent’s chest, and Crescent’s temper boiled. “You had better shut it. You don’t know anything about my family. And at least, we all had parents. You may know a small insignificant amount of info about mine, but I know you don’t even remember yours.”

   Sinestra smirked, then smiled again, that air of smug satisfaction returning.

   “Hey, Crescent, I guess they don’t have boys where you come from, huh, wherever that is — Mars or someplace, I expect. Seems you have to steal someone else’s!” Fiona put in.

   Sinestra folded her arms and nodded approvingly.

   “Maybe she came from a test tube,” Crystal offered callously.

   Some of the students had come back over again and were eagerly watching the battle of wits; some of them looked as if they were hoping for a fight. A few started yelling words of encouragement.

   Henri stood by, gulping, nervously looking from Crescent to Sinestra but knowing well enough to steer clear of getting in the middle of an argument between two girls. Crescent noticed Ingrid was slithering around behind Sinestra, her little piggy eyes squinting, her mouth set in a large grin, and Crescent could tell she was gleeful at the prospect of pounding someone.

   “Oh yes, a test tube. That’s a good one Crys, or maybe little Cwescent came out of a cow — that seems more like. Obviously, her parents, whoever they were, couldn’t even afford her a proper name,” she said scathingly to anyone who would listen then turned her attention back to Crescent and started talking as if to a baby.

   “If they woved you soooo much, why are you named after this stupid orphanage, then? Huh, how come? Awww, poor ickle Cwescent, does diddums want to play with the other childwen? Huh, does she? Awww, is Cwescent gonna cwy?

   “You think you’re so smart, parading around, acting like you know everything, but you don’t know a thing. You’re just some stupid little girl who thinks much more of herself than she should. But you’re nothing, and I feel so sorry for you.”

   Sinestra shook her head, then went on, “You know what Ferris said?”

   “No, enlighten me, would you?” said Crescent, stone-faced.

    Sinestra smiled again. “He said that you’re the worst kind of girl. You strut around, not talking to anyone, acting like you’re the authority on everything, and all the while getting all the boys all hot and bothered over nothing. You’re the kind of girl who always promises but never delivers. You’re a tease, admit it.

   “You always draw attention to yourself, you act like you don’t want any, but you do. You want everyone to accept you, all the girls to be your friends and all the boys to love you, but if it ever really happened, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. You wouldn’t be able to handle it, so you remain aloof, untouchable. And that’s what makes you a tease.”

   “Are you talking about me or yourself?” Crescent said, almost laughing.

   “I hate you,” said Sinestra. “I hate every inch of you, Grey, because you make people want to like you, but you don’t really care at all —”  

   “Even if that were true, at least I wouldn’t be a slag like you,” Crescent said.

   “Oh, come off it. Is that the best you can do? Everyone knows I’m deeply devoted to my darling Ferris, but you, no one wants you, not really, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought you really didn’t fancy boys at all, acting so coy all the time.”

   “Maybe she doesn’t,” Fiona said, jumping in again. “Maybe she likes girls, and she’s just trying to hide it.”

   Crescent turned on the spot and doubled up her fists. There was a crowd around them now, and everyone was looking between her and Fiona. Some had wild expressions, others, Crescent supposed, were thinking, Wow, this is getting good. Even Crystal was giving her sister a glare.

   Things were getting out of hand.

   “This is between you and me, Crescent,” said Sinestra, and Crescent turned about to face her again.

    “I think we hit a nerve,” she said and eyed Crescent up and down, much like Ferris had in the computer room, bit her lip, and said, “Fancy a kiss, Crescent?”

    Then for a second, Sinestra leaned forward, closed her eyes, and puckered her lips.

     Everyone laughed.

     She stood back up, bent her head back, and laughed a shrill wicked little laugh and made a wide flamboyant gesture with her arms as if expecting applause from presenting something so marvelous that she had created.  

   Crescent’s temper was reaching its limit, and she’d had just about enough of this lot.

    “Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you!” Crescent snapped, and at her sides her fists were shaking with cold fury.

    “Ooooo, ickle Crazy gonna try an do sometink about it!” Sinestra taunted insultingly. That was it — Crescent reacted and made to punch Sinestra straight in the gullet but was stopped short and painfully by the meaty slab that Ingrid called her right hand.

   Ingrid held Crescent’s right hand in her own and, like a vise, put enough pressure on it to crush.

   Crescent yelped, then faster than she would have guessed, Ingrid slid behind her and grabbed hold of her left arm, the already-sore one that Crescent had hurt on the trampoline.  

Ingrid twisted it around, and Crescent felt a fresh spike of pain shooting upward; she yelled out and fell to her knees.

   Bent over, Crescent doubled up the fist of her free hand, ready to punch Ingrid in her fat face to make her let go when Bickle ran forward and yanked them both apart. “That’s enough! No fighting!” Bickle was so immense she was able to hold Crescent under one whole arm while she also kept Ingrid at bay with the other.

   Crescent looked around at all the other students — they were still yelling. Some of them had looks of anger and outrage; still others had looks of disappointment setting in at the realization there wasn’t going to be a fight after all.

   She was relieved and surprised that Bickle was actually acting like a real teacher until she said, “If you are going to fight, then do it properly with gloves on! I already have the next few lessons planned, but before the term is over, we shall see who is the better man — er, woman. In the meantime, class is now OVER. Get yourselves cleaned up and out of my sight! CLASS, DISSS-MISSED!”          

   The crowd settled down and dispersed. Bickle dropped Crescent and let go of Ingrid, who immediately swung a fist at Crescent, who was able to dodge it this time.

   Bickle suddenly wheeled around and, for a woman of her weight, moved lightning fast. Though large, Bickle was more than twice Ingrid’s size; she grabbed Ingrid again and shook her violently.

   Crescent rubbed her hurt arm; she too was shaking but from the pain in her arm and listened as Bickle got right in Ingrid’s face.

   “YOU — LISTEN — TO — ME! MISS LOUP, I DO NOT TOLERATE ANY RUBBISH OR DISOBEDIENCE IN MY CLASSROOM! UNDERSTAND!”

   The rim around the P.E. teacher’s neck was bulging, her blood vessels fit for bursting, eyes glaring, nose flaring, her teeth bared and her face turned a grayish purple shade of color as she shouted.

   Ingrid looked stunned; like a deer trapped in headlights, her expression was one of dismay and befuddlement, not sure what to do. Bickle was scary, and it was evident that Ingrid thought so too. It was the first time that Crescent had actually seen Ingrid scared and was sure that Ingrid had never had a teacher lay hands on her before or yell at her in quite that way.

   And Crescent was sure that Ingrid was trying to work out whether she should just hit Bickle back or not. Ingrid quickly looked around, and Crescent knew she was lost without instructions from Sinestra, and then, as if it had all been rehearsed, Sinestra slid in, smoothing things over with a voice like liquid silk, but to Crescent, she was still a viper. 

   “Ms. Bickle, I’m sure Ingrid didn’t mean to disobey you,” Sinestra said in a voice like poisoned honey. “She was just incensed by that rotten Crescent, who is obviously a troublemaker and thinks herself much more important than she truly is.”

   Crescent shot her a dirty look, but Sinestra ignored her and continued to compliment the teacher, “You had such a good idea back there, Miss. Why not let them fight it out?” Bickle stared at her. “Uh, under controlled conditions of course,” added Sinestra, careful not to contradict the teacher and infuriate her further.

   Bickle opened one hand and let Ingrid go, straightened herself up, patted herself down and stroked her hair with her hands making sure everything was in place.

   “Y-yes,” she said. “You’re right, of course. Thank you, Miss Quip.” The teacher turned to Ingrid and Crescent. “I will let you know when you two will … have it out as they say, and then we will see who wins. But if it doesn’t end there, and there are any more unsanctioned fights between you two in my class, I will devise punishments that will have both of you wishing you hadn’t been born yet.” And she looked between Crescent and Ingrid to make sure that she was perfectly understood.

   Both Ingrid and Crescent slowly nodded but all the while eyed each other, neither one giving in to the other even during this slightest of gestures.

   “Splendid. Now off you go. Shoo.”

    Ingrid seemed utterly relieved, but the whole fiasco was just starting to sink in to Crescent, who was still kneeling on the floor and massaging her arm. She felt tricked somehow and just couldn’t believe that she was going to have to fight Ingrid after all and let out an audible “W-what?”

    Bickle strode over. Ingrid must have seen the surprised look on Crescent’s face too because a big smile spread across her own at once. Sinestra waved at Crescent, and Crescent understood it wasn’t as if she was being friendly; she was waving good-bye as if to say, “And that’s the end of you.”

   She gave Sinestra another look like daggers, but it didn’t seem to faze Sinestra in the least, who had an expression of “Aww, too bad” as she turned around and headed toward the girls’ lockers.

   Even Bickle seemed pleased by the prospect of a proper fight between Ingrid and Crescent. She was rubbing her hands together as she approached while Sinestra and Ingrid merrily went arm in arm together into the locker room.

    For one tiny instant, Crescent had thought that some inkling of sanity had reared its head, that Bickle had come to her senses and was acting like a real teacher ought to, but she realized she should have known better.

   Bickle was a Nazi, and being back at the orphanage was now worse than ever.

   As the last of the students left for the locker rooms, Bickle remained in the gym along with Crescent; she walked over and stood over Crescent with her hands on her hips, squeezing her riding crop. For a moment, Crescent thought she was going to whip her with it, but instead, she looked Crescent straight in the eye.

   “Yes, I think you’ll be well served with a detention. I think, Miss Grey, that that will teach you not to start trouble in my class. That and a good beating from Miss Loup.”

   “But —”

   “Tut-tut. Do not argue with me, or you will be the worse for it, understand?”

   “I didn’t —” 

 

   “When I am talking to you, you shut that little mouth of yours!” Bickle stared down at her, but Crescent stood up and stood her ground. She stared right back up at the teacher and clenched her fists.

   She dared not try and actually make a move against her, or else she’d be in even worse trouble, and Crescent had a nasty suspicion that Bickle could make things very bad for her if she wanted to. But still she stood there in silent defiance, and the two stared each other down; for a moment, Bickle was also silent while they measured each other up.

   Almost laughing, at first Bickle shook her head, and Crescent looked right into the blackness of her eye, and just for an instant, Bickle faltered, her mouth opened slightly, and she, this enormous bull-like woman took a half a step back.

   She didn’t know what happened — their eyes had locked, and for just a sliver of an instant. Crescent felt the oddest sensation … and felt for the first time that she had seen who Beatrice Bickle really was. The person that lay beyond the tough exterior, and, even more disturbingly for Crescent, she felt that at the same time, Beatrice Bickle had also truly seen her.

   It was as if a sort of outer veil had been removed or pushed aside, and in that moment of clarity, the instructor had hesitated, as if seeing something that unnerved her.

   Crescent allowed herself the very slightest of smiles, and yet, she had caught a glimpse of … something … but did not know what.

   An instant later, the instructor had composed herself again, but this time did not look directly into Crescent’s eyes.

   It seemed a victory of sorts, or so Crescent thought at the time. She had made Bickle back down, but Bickle shook it off and dismissed what had happened almost immediately.

   “When I say so, and not before, you will get to know the intimacies of a fair fight,” Bickle said, and for another minute, Crescent continued to stare at her and then looked down, but the teacher didn’t say anything this time.

   This was the most unfair thing Crescent had ever heard of, and of course, somehow Sinestra had fixed it so all the blame had fallen onto her, Crescent’s, shoulders. Now, not only did she still have to face Ingrid, but she was marked by Bickle in the worst way — as the worst sort of troublemaker — when the opposite was true and that it was Sinestra and Ingrid who were the ones causing all the problems.

   Crescent started to walk away, but Bickle held her fast with a grip on her shoulder like iron. “Oww!” Crescent yelped; she was being squeezed on her already-pain-riddled side.

    Bickle turned Crescent around to face her, exacerbating the pain and causing Crescent to wince.

   “Don’t mess with me, young lady, or you will find out who is boss here very quickly. Shall I report this to the headmistress?”

   Crescent shook her head.

   “No. I thought not. After your last period today, come to my office, and I will give you your detention assignment.”

   “Yes ma’am,” Crescent said in a small voice.

   Bickle let her go and walked off toward the far end of the gym where her office was, while Crescent was left standing there alone in the empty gymnasium.

   Great, she thought. Now on top of Ingrid trying to pound her and Sinestra trying to do her in, she had detention with the teacher as well. She was angry at Bickle for being so unfair and angry at herself for being so careless with Ingrid.

   Crescent knew she didn’t stand a chance fighting Ingrid and, momentarily forgetting her injury, punched at the air in frustration, then said “Ow!” again and flexed her right hand, which now hurt just as badly as her left arm.

   She waited a few more moments before going into the locker room; there was a little time before the bell was set to ring for the next class, but she didn’t want to go into the ladies’ lockers and face Ingrid and Sinestra again or take a shower with everyone else looking at her.

   When she was sure the coast was clear, she went into the locker room, stuffed her gym clothes away in a bag, and stepped into one of the shower stalls.

   Standing there in the shower, Crescent absently let the water fall over her. Holding her shoulders, she closed her eyes and tilted her face up into the spray, enjoying what little warmth there was in the water as it flooded down. As the water ran over her, she tried to forget everything that had occurred during class, shaking it off as droplets flew out from her hair. But it wasn’t the encounter with Sinestra, or even Ingrid, that really bothered her, but rather, that last bit with Bickle.

    She shivered; the water had turned ice cold, but she wondered if it was really the water that unnerved her so much, or if it was something else….  

Crescent ran to her next class — the bell had rung while she was still dressing, and she hadn’t yet met this other new teacher. She was irritated about everything that had just occurred in the gym but determined that it would go well with this new professor. She had heard the teacher was strict, but still, she wanted to make a good first impression.

   She flew down the corridor, her schoolbag in her wake, hair disheveled, uniform untucked and out of place; she stopped dead in front of the door to the classroom and quickly tried to arrange herself.

   When she walked into the new Science teacher’s class, she was greeted by an unnervingly horrible screech, which made her immediately drop her bag and put her hands over her ears. About to yell at whoever was making the racket, she glared over and saw what was the source of all the discord and was surprised to see it was the teacher. Like a thin shadow, the professor stood writing on a large blackboard that stretched across the wall on one whole side of the room.

   Crescent realized she had seen the figure before barreling down the hall on her first day back. Though he was the resident Science teacher, his attire and demeanor made him look much more like someone right out of the history books, and he reminded Crescent strongly of Abraham Lincoln, or someone who might have easily fit into one of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories.

   The whole class had turned to look at her as she stood there in the doorway, and she thought to herself that she was making too much of a habit of being noticed lately. Had the veil of invisibility, which had protected her all these years, finally worn off?

   “Ah, another student — oh goody, I thought there was an empty desk over there for a reason. Good of you to join us,” he said slowly and sarcastically; clearly and curtly as if he were speaking to a very young child and her presence there were an intrusion. He had a strange accent and said all this without turning, only stopping his writing to speak, but then quickly resuming and ignoring her as he began it again.

   Wincing at the continued disdain of the shrieking of chalk against the blackboard, the last thing Crescent needed was to cross another teacher, so instead of complaining, she walked across the room, wading through the sea of other students at their desks, and tried her best to ignore them as they whispered and pointed and stared in her direction. She saw a few faces from the previous class and was sure by now that the standoff between Ingrid and herself and their future fight would soon become common knowledge.

   Crescent found an empty chair and desk exactly where she did not want to be, near the front of the room, adjacent to the teacher’s desk.

   Everyone’s eyes were on her as she made her way toward the empty chair; she walked past Sinestra and the rest of the gang, who sniggered and whispered amongst themselves.

   Ferris was there; he smirked and eyed Crescent as she lowered her head and passed by. In the back of the class, she saw Camden and Terrin, who were watching.

   Henri was there too; he smiled and waved. Crescent returned it and gave him a slight wave back and a halfhearted crooked little smile.

   Trying to be inconspicuous as much as possible, she sat down, adjusted herself, and placed her utensils and notebooks where she felt comfortable. She fumbled for the proper course book and, though as impossible as it would be, tried as best she could to fade into the background. But for all of it, Crescent couldn’t help stealing glances at the bold figure that hovered over the room like some stringent solitary shadow. She looked at the sheen of slick silver-white hair; it flowed from the top of his forehead back behind his ears to the bottom of his collar.

   She was surprised to see his hair was longer than the style most teachers seemed to fancy, or even were allowed.

   Hawthorne must like him, she thought, otherwise, she’d be after him with a pair of scissors, and although the hair was long, she could tell he was meticulous in nature for not one strand was out of place, and he was the most smartly dressed man she had ever seen. He was elegant and deliberate in his movements. Dressed entirely in black from collar to cuff, his black boots had an unnaturally bright shine to them, and although the style was outdated, they looked as if they had been purchased only yesterday.

   His manner of dress reminded Crescent of a vicar; he wore a plain black coat, the tails of which stopped squarely below the knee, like something out of a hundred years ago. He didn’t quite fit in the present, but then it occurred to her, that even though all of his clothes looked brand-new, he looked so much like something out of the past and the orphanage itself being so old that maybe he did fit in here.

   A bit too much, she thought, here in this ancient building with its large stone walls, dusty paintings, and antiquated furniture. After all, the orphanage was one of those many structures in London that belonged more to the past than to the present, and this new teacher looked very much a part of it as well.  

    Paying attention to all these details, she now turned her gaze from him to the rest of the room, looking all around. The desks, the chairs, the pictures of historical scientific figures that adorned the wall — everything had its place, and again, although aged, everything had been polished clean. This was the tidiest room in the orphanage Crescent had ever seen — and that was saying something, since no matter how much Mrs. Collins endeavored to keep the old place sparkling, it hardly ever seemed to actually get any better.

   Looking at the blackboard, even his handwriting seemed obsessively neat, every letter exactly like the one before, the same long scrawl; they were the same height, same width. Every i dotted and every t crossed exactly the same. And his writing matched his attire; he wrote in a sort of old style script, which, though neatly done, was hard to decipher.

    It was too orderly, she thought, too perfect, and, as he continued to write on the blackboard with that slow irritating screech, it was all too disturbing as well.

   When at last he was finished, he took a moment, then turned and walked briskly over to his desk, and when she saw what he looked like, she gasped. She had seen him before in the hall on her first day back, but not so clearly; now he was merely a yard away, and she saw that there was a cold countenance to his face.

   He had harsh features, a gaunt angular face with high cheekbones, a long straight pointed nose with high nostrils, and thin lips. Like Hawthorne, he had a long crease in the center of his brow that went straight up and looked like it came from too many hours of long concentration. The other lines he possessed seemed to be engraved on his face like a wood carving, almost as if he had been born with them; but it was his eyes that most intrigued Crescent, and despite herself, she was startled when she saw them again. And it must have registered on her face because some of the students turned to look at her, and Crescent quickly made like she was preoccupied with her school things, but she couldn’t help looking; when all heads had turned back around, she continued to watch him.

    Like her own eyes, his were unique — unlike anything else she had ever seen; only they weren’t a brilliant shade of violet as hers were. With eyes deeply set under a prominent brow, his dark eyebrows and severe features gave him an eagle-like appearance, but though sharp, his eyes were not dark, but hauntingly white. Like crystal they shone in the light, so stark that both the iris and pupils were almost nonexistent and, at first glance, seemed almost to be invisible. What had Henri said they called him, Creepy Crawley? That was it. Creepy, indeed, thought Crescent.  

   When he reached the front of the room, instead of taking a seat, he stood beside his desk. Crescent couldn’t help but think he was purposely being dramatic, trying to give an impression of being imposing, but whatever he was doing, it was working.

   All the students sat bolt upright, paying attention; all eyes were on him. He had an enigmatic presence like a black hole siphoning all the light and warmth from the room.

   With one hand, he caressed the side of the desk, which was a bit shabby and made from very old wood, and Crescent felt a kind of static energy radiating from him.

   Then he spoke again, and though his voice was smooth, his words were harsh and intentional. He had a brusque manner about him that bristled; Crescent could easily see how he could have earned his nickname.

   Like Hawthorne herself, he seemed much too strict to be allowed; then he spoke, and that odd accent came out again in waves of silkiness.

   “For any of you new students …” And as he said this, his eyes swept the room and, for a brief moment, landed squarely upon Crescent, and she gulped. He glared at her threateningly, and for the first time in her life, Crescent felt as if she were on the other end of the stick. When he looked at her, it unnerved her, and she found she couldn’t look at him for very long, and she thought, Wow, so that’s what that feels like.  

   “I am Professor Crawley, and you will show me the proper respect due a teacher. I do not tolerate cheek of any kind in my classroom. Take your handbooks out, turn to page nine, and start reading until the end of the chapter,” he said while he drew out a pocket watch from his coat and checked the time. “When you are finished, close your book to signify you are done. Do not sleep. Copy down the notes I have written on the blackboard.” He indicated with a wave of his hand; everyone’s heads turned to see his scratchy scrawl of white chalk. “In precisely half of one hour, we will review.” He then put the watch back in his coat, spread out the tails, sat down behind his desk, and coolly and calmly watched the class.

   With a lot of rustling, banging, and reaching into bags, everyone took out their course books, flipped to the proper page, and started reading, but although Crescent wanted to work, as the hour ticked by, she found that she could not take her eyes off him. 

   He was very strange and seemed so otherworldly; she’d never seen anyone quite like him before, and yet he also seemed uncomfortably familiar….  

   She finished reading the chapter, then closed her book and took out a notebook and a pencil and looked at the blackboard, but it was very difficult to decipher. His handwriting was long and jagged. Crescent squinted, but it didn’t help, and it was impossible for her to copy down what was written there.

   She looked around and noticed it seemed she wasn’t the only one having trouble seeing what was written, and a few students were hastily still reading their books, but the rest were trying just as bad as Crescent (unsuccessfully) to copy down the notes. Many had their faces screwed up in consternation, and she saw that Eddie was literally scratching his head.

   A few minutes later, the professor got up from his desk, clasped his hands behind his back and strolled casually up and down the aisles between the desks.

   “Has everyone copied down my notes from the blackboard?” asked the professor haughtily.

   “Sir?” said a brave shaggy-haired, long-faced boy, raising a shaking hand.

   “What is it, Peterson?”

   “Well, uh, sir, I can’t see the blackboard well enough from back here,” he said, looking quite distressed.

   Crawley snapped his fingers and pointed at a girl with dirty blonde hair and pretty features sitting next to Peterson. “Brisby, share your notes with Peterson.”

   “Uh, sir, I can’t see the blackboard either.” Then she added another, “Sir.” He shook his head. “It never ceases to amaze me. Can anyone read my notes?” No one moved or spoke.

   “Well?”

   Slowly everyone started shaking their heads, and many said, “No sir,” sounding utterly ashamed.

   The professor walked around the room, then suddenly stopped in front of Crescent’s desk, and snapped his fingers again. “You there, Miss Grey, come up here and read the notes aloud to the class so they can copy them down.” Caught off her guard and before she could stop herself, Crescent replied, “Yes, Creepy —”

    Realizing what she’d done, Crescent’s eyes became big, and she clamped her hands over her mouth, but the damage had already been done.

    Everyone was staring at her, astonished; Camden and Terrin didn’t know what to do and just looked at each other.

    Even the members of the Ferris Gang were surprised, but a look of jubilation slowly crossed Sinestra’s face, and Fiona (or was it Crystal?) looked positively ecstatic at the possibility of Crescent getting into trouble yet again.

   One boy, who looked half asleep, slid off his desk along with his pencil, which seemed to be taking an awfully long time to hit the floor. Crawley himself stood frozen — all around, the students had looks of incredulity on their faces; some had let out gasps, others had expressions of shock, their eyebrows raised and mouths agape, and one or two even said, “No” in hushed whispers. And to make matters worse, Crescent could swear she even heard a boy in the back of the class snigger. All of this happened in the blink of an eye; then the other shoe dropped, and the pencil clattered to the floor, and the noise seemed vociferous in the vast stillness.

   But the professor’s expression remained blank, impossible to read. Then Crescent saw one eyebrow quiver, then slowly he turned; like watching the beginnings of a volcano erupt, his whole cool demeanor began to fade, and the lines on his forehead hardened.

   He walked over, and with each strident step, the anger in his expression mounted, and the look was almost that of one who had suddenly gone insane. He put both hands down, gripping Crescent’s desk as if he was going to uproot it on the spot and tear it from the floor with her still in it.

   Leaning forward, he looked right into her eyes. It seemed like he was peering into the very depths of her soul; she gulped and shrank down in her seat.

   “WHAT — DID — YOU — SAY!” he snarled, losing much of his self-control.

   Crescent let out a little squeak; then the professor narrowed his eyes and leaned in like a hunter about to

devour his prey. Merely inches from Crescent’s face, he said very calmly and coldly through gritted teeth, “Repeat — what — you — just — said!”

  Up close, he was scary and looked quite mad; his right eye was bulging out of its socket spasmodically, and she could hear the strain in his voice as he unconvincingly tried to suppress his rage.

   “I — I — I —” she stammered. It was all she could get out and a streak of fear ran through her a mile wide. She swallowed, but she had also had enough of being beaten up by teachers and students alike lately.

   In all honesty, this new teacher scared the living daylights out of her, but she knew if she let him walk all over her too, then there would be no end to it.

   Everyone in the class was watching them closely, and after her confrontations with Bickle and Sinestra, Crescent knew if she gave in, then the news of it would be all over the orphanage like wildfire by dinnertime. Everyone would know she was the weak little nothing that Bickle seemed to enjoy shouting about so much.

   Crescent couldn’t let that happen — no matter how much she was in the wrong or intimidated by Crawley, she couldn’t put herself in the position of being thought of as prey; otherwise, she’d end up spending every moment outside of class hiding in her room, and she just couldn’t let that happen.

   Crescent sat up, leaned forward, and looked Crawley directly in the eye. He backed off only slightly, and for a while, they glared at each other, neither one saying a word. Then after a moment, Crawley eased off and stood up but didn’t take his eyes away from Crescent, as if she was a dangerous criminal or a wild beast that would attack him the first chance she got.

  “Don’t — don’t you — don’t you dare —” he said, still grinding his teeth, but the words seemed to fail him and he stood back up and in rapid succession craned his neck back and forth as if he had a kink in it and cleared his throat. 

   “You have the audacity to question my authority?”

   He swung about, his coat sweeping like a cape, walked directly over to his desk, and, once again, parted the tails of it as he sat down.

   “Here!” he snapped, his right eye still quivering. “Come here, now,” he said sternly. He took a slip of paper and pencil out from his desk and quickly scrawled something on it, and then, with a wide swiping motion, signed it and dotted it with such force Crescent was sure the pencil would break into two halves.

   Obediently she stood up; not daring to look around, she went over to his desk. She didn’t want to see the faces of the other students or the arrogant look that she knew must be on Sinestra’s face.

  “Here, take this,” he said, folding it briskly and perfectly evenly before handing it to Crescent.

   “But … I —” she began, but he cut her off with a look.

   “It’s for the counselor! Take it to him, but don’t look at it. Now, get out of my sight. I’m sure he would very much love to be burdened by your pathetic ramblings. There’s certainly no room for them in my classroom.” Then everyone began to snigger at her as Crescent took the paper. She went back to her desk and collected her things, picked up her books, shoved them into her bag, and hurried out of the classroom just as her eyes began to well up with tears.

   When she had shut the door, for a few minutes, she leaned back against it and wiped the tears away, swallowed, then rushed up to the counselor’s office.

   Were all the new teachers mad? They seemed just as vile and twisted as the old orphanage was itself, like Bickle and Hawthorne, Crawley seemed put off by the very idea of being around students — or was it just her? Crescent couldn’t tell. She couldn’t imagine the professor had ever been a child himself, not with the way he treated the students, like he had such loathing, such utter disdain for them. It was like he couldn’t abide them, and if that was it, then why on earth had he chosen to become a teacher at all?

   Maybe he was unsuccessful at his chosen profession, whatever that might have been, so now he was forced to work here where all the lowest of the low came, both student and teacher alike. Serves him right for having such a bad attitude.

   She felt both sorry and angry. She tried to tell him it had all been an accident, that she didn’t mean to say it, but he didn’t give her the chance. It wasn’t her fault!

   Crescent’s temper was at a boiling point after what happened with Sinestra and Bickle, and on top of it all, she now had to contend with yet another new teacher who seemed set against her.

   Walking down the hall in a huff, she hefted her bag over her shoulder and looked down at the note in her hand.

    Defiant to the last, she had half a mind to tear it up right then, but she knew she would be the worse for it if she did, so instead, though she was told not to, she unfolded the paper and read it. It was barely legible, in that same thin scrawl, but she did the best she could to make it out:

      Grant —

           I am sending you the pupil Crescent Grey. She’s in desperate need of

       your services. As I understand it, you have had dealings with her in the past.

She needs discipline, and it would serve her well to know her place in the scheme of things.

    I have already heard from the headmistress that she is an A-list troublemaker, and she just proved it by being tardy for class and rude beyond repair. She is an insolent child, and I am not sure what her deficiency is, but I leave it to you to either cure her or instruct her in how to give her betters the proper respect.

   Inform her as of this moment that she has detention with me tonight after her classes have ended, and I expect her to be on time.

     At the bottom he had signed it:

            Professor C. Crawley

   She folded the paper back on itself, put it in her pocket, and proceeded down the hall. Passing the front desk, she saw Colonel Fusspot asleep in his chair. No need to give him the paper; otherwise, he would have questioned why she was out and about during class hours. He was wheezing and snoring loudly, his head back and his silver mustache moving in and out with each exhalation. Dressed in his uniform, his shirt undone, he slept there, arms at his side.

   Crescent smiled, shaking her head, then turned and went up the grand staircase to the second floor, walking lithely down the hall. Her arm outstretched, she ran her fingertips along the wall.

   She didn’t really want to cross Crawley but in a way, it was worth it getting a break from class and having the chance to talk with the counselor, Mr. Grant. She hadn’t yet had a chance to visit him since she’d gotten back, and Mr. Grant was actually the only person Crescent felt comfortable confiding in, and though she knew she shouldn’t be, she felt a little guilty, but was also glad she had an excuse to go and speak with him.

   There were many things that set him apart from the other members of the staff, even the ones that had been there before Crescent had been adopted.

   One was that he actually listened to the students when no one else did, and the other was that he shared Crescent’s penchant for reading and collecting interesting books. She could already feel her temper melting away at the prospect of seeing him again; he was the one good thing about the place besides the library and her room, their conversations her only other form of solace.  

   She remembered when Mr. Grant had first joined the staff; it was only a few years ago, but she was surprised to find that he had brought a bunch of books with him, and they weren’t all just associated with his profession.

   Crescent had always been a very voracious reader, and a good number of the books that Mr. Grant owned had been adventure stories, and those had always been her favorite sort, so she had been taken with him almost right away.

   Mrs. Collins had been kind to Crescent from the start, and she was like a friend, but the housekeeper’s duties had always kept her so busy and from the outset, Crescent had, for the most part, kept to herself. But through no fault of her own, she often found herself falling into trouble, her curiosity often getting the better of her.

   So when she was old enough, she had found the school library — the one good thing left over from the mysterious Grey family who had owned the place long before it was an orphanage.

   Crescent had found bliss in the library and spent most of her time there — thankfully, very few of the other orphans ever wandered in. 

    She spent time discovering books and found that books of  adventure suited her best. She read all sorts of stories as long as they were intriguing and held her interest. Peter Pan, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Secret Garden, Charlotte’s Web, The Jungle Books, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Never-Ending Story and Anne of Green Gables were among some of her favorites. But when she had met Mr. Grant and found they shared a common interest, he had begun to introduce her to books such as Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, Jane Austen’s Emma, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Memoirs, Adventures, and Return of Sherlock Holmes.

   And as her mind grew, he stimulated her imagination further by introducing her to the likes of Alexandre Dumas, George Orwell, Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, Jonathan Swift, and J. R. R. Tolkien. Whatever she couldn’t find in the school library (which was vast and ancient), it seemed that Mr. Grant had either in his office or was able to bring from home, stirring stories of intrigue and adventure. Of course, he also had all sorts of books on psychology, art, and anatomy and often suggested she read them as well. But she wasn’t interested in those sorts of books, and when she declined he merely looked at her and said, “It’s nice to read about fantasy, Crescent, but the real world also needs to be paid attention to. Someday you’ll have to go out into it and get away from all this, so you should be prepared for it.” But even when they disagreed about something he never treated her near as badly as most of the other members of the staff did. Crescent supposed that it was his job after all, though, to be sympathetic toward the students, but it wasn’t necessarily his job to be kind.

   Certainly Hawthorne and Bickle and Crawley didn’t see things that way, and Crescent highly doubted if they even cared.

   Mr. Grant’s office was located on the second floor, along with the entrance to the library, the entertainment room, and the nurse’s office, and the doors at either end leading to the dormitories.

   There were many great wooden doors on the floor that stretched down the corridor. Two offices had been set aside for counselors (one for the boys and one for the girls), but as long as Crescent had been there, only one office had ever been occupied.

   Arriving at the door to Mr. Grant’s office, Crescent rapped lightly and waited until she heard a voice say, “Come in.”

   She put her hand on the brass doorknob, turned it, and gently pushed the door open. As with many of the floorboards and doors at Crescent Grey Orphanage, it made a slight creaking sound. Slowly she peered around to see if she was disturbing him, or if she was interrupting a conference with another student, but she saw that he was alone, and so delighted, she entered.

   It was a tiny office but made even more uncomfortably so because it was overrun and stuffed from end to end by papers, notes, binders, and books, which were piled high like towering heaps that looked like they might fall over at any moment. There were more books in the office than in any other room in the orphanage, except for the library.

Papers littered the desk and poked out among the various volumes, inhabiting the tall shelves that rose up in a semicircle along the opposite wall.

   Mr. Grant sat there in the center of it all, surrounded by books behind a marked-up old wooden desk that barely fit.

   One leg of the desk had been broken so yet another stack of books had been placed underneath that end to prop it up, making that corner even with its brothers.

    Leaning back in his chair, the counselor had his legs up on the desk, one across the other, and Crescent could see the scuff marks on the bottom of his brown leather shoes. His argyle socks were uneven, his thin square glasses (which he only wore for reading) sat halfway down the bridge of his nose, and the black tie on his white shirt was as loose as his collar. Mr. Grant was a bookish man, tall and lean and fit but a little rough around the edges. Most of the girls in the school were in agreement that he was charming and handsome, and he had a casual, confident way about him, but he was as poor as anyone with a job could be. He was as disheveled in his appearance as she was and had dark brown hair, which was graying at the temples, and messy fringe that covered one side of his forehead. He had a straight nose, a square chin, and wise gray-blue eyes. Crescent knew him as the quiet sort, reserved and compassionate, who kept to himself and for the most part stayed in his office, giving advice to the troubled youth of the orphanage.

    More often than not, he seemed to always be wearing the same old dog-eared tweed suit and waistcoat; every weekday he came and went with a well-traveled and very worn-out leather satchel cradled underneath one of his arms. The scuttle about the school was that he might have been a very successful psychologist if it hadn’t been for his reclusive personality and for the fact that maybe there was something incriminating in his past.

   Some thought that maybe he had decided long ago to take the low road and become a school counselor rather than a renowned psychologist, so the orphanage was where he had ended up. But none of it made any difference to Crescent, who had never had any money to speak of herself, and along with his gentle manner and keen love for adventure stories and ability to listen he had soon won her over. 

   Whenever Crescent had visited Mr. Grant’s office, she was always amazed at how many volumes of books he actually did own; he had so many that the students often asked to borrow editions from him rather than venture into the library, and since he knew, somehow, where every book was, it was much easier than exploring the library where the books were thick with dust and you could barely make out the titles.

   Yet as much as Crescent herself appreciated borrowing books from Mr. Grant, she also loved the solitude that the library offered and loved exploring, so she had spent many hours searching for that as-yet-undiscovered gem.

   As messy as it was, Mr. Grant’s office was inviting and warm and rather cozy, which was why, Crescent reckoned, the students didn’t seem to mind it when they had to go in for evaluations concerning their emotional and psychological standing.

   “Hey,” she said, smiling.

   “Hey,” he said, smiling back.

    She handed him the note Crawley had given her. He unfolded it and started to read, and, while favoring her injured arm, Crescent plopped herself down into the chair opposite the desk and let her body slump and hang as if it was so much jelly.

   She looked at his desk, cluttered with piles of paper stacked and scattered; the In and Out trays were filled, and there were many pieces of papers but no hint of pictures of a wife or family. She supposed he must be a bit lonely, which was why he spent so much time at work, cooped up in this office. She didn’t know anyone else who was smart, good-looking, and nice, and she thought she’d rather be like Mr. Grant than Sinestra or Ferris any day.

   If Ferris was considered the height of cool, then she would rather remain the misfit everyone thought she was. 

   “Well?” she said inquisitively.

    He twirled the pencil in his hand. “Okay,” he said. “Just came back and in trouble again already, are we?”

   “Yeah … well.…” Crescent huffed, but she let it trail off without an answer.  

   “So what do you think?” he asked her, trying another tack.

   “What do I think about what?”

   “What Professor Crawley wrote, of course.”  

   “Oh that.” Then suddenly she sat up. “Waitaminute, hang on. How did you know I read the paper?”

   “Oh, I have my ways,” he said slyly.

   “Come on!” Crescent looked at him and tilted her head, trying to figure him out.

   “You know.”

   “No, really, tell me how you knew.” She folded her arms over her chest, gave him an expectant look, and waited.

   “Come on, Crescent, anyone who’s read Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes should know Holmes’s method of deductive reasoning. Look here,” he said, laying the paper flat on the desk so both of them could see.

   She leaned forward.

   “Crawley makes crisp, sharp, even folds along the paper. I’ve seen notes from him before, they are always perfectly even, folded directly over upon themselves.” Then he spread the paper out further with his hands, framing it, pressing it down onto the desk.

   “There, you can see the professor’s original deep fold lines, but when you handed it to me the folds weren’t along those lines, and the edges of the paper were bent a little. Obviously, it was opened up between the time the professor handed it to you and you handed it to me.”

   “But what if I had handed it to someone else like Colonel Fusspot and he refolded it and handed it back to me?” asked Crescent.

   Again he smiled, leaning back in his chair.

   “But you didn’t. I heard you coming up the steps and walking down the hall, and then you stopped right at my office door. You didn’t have time to hand it to anyone. And even if Fusspot had stopped you, he wouldn’t have opened it. You would have just told him that it was meant for me, and he would have waved you on. His eyesight isn’t any better than his hearing, and he avoids being embarrassed about it as much as he can.”

   “Okay, you’re right. So …”

   “So, have you forgotten everything that I’ve taught you while you’ve been away, Crescent?”

   “Sure. I — I mean, no. No, of course not, but —”

   “Okay then, so what’s going on? You’re already on Crawley’s bad side. I thought you knew better than that.”

    “Oh, it’s all just so infuriating!” she said in exasperation while pounding her fist on the armrest of the chair.

    “Temper, temper, carrot top. Your anger has always been one of your biggest downfalls, Crescent.”

    “Yeah, well … it’s not like there’s much I can do about it anyway. The other students think I’m too weird to be allowed, and all the teachers think all I am is just a stupid girl who’s more trouble than she’s worth!”

    Mr. Grant’s smile disappeared; he looked up over Crescent’s head. She knew that look — she’d seen it before. He always seemed to be looking through the wall, beyond all the books and beyond the school itself to somewhere more pleasant. Then he got up and said, “Why don’t we go for a drive, eh?”

   “What — now? Can we do that?”

   “Sure, I’m the counselor, remember? I can do anything, come on.” And the smile returned. He held out his hand and waited; Crescent took it and got up from the big chair. Then he ushered her out, turned around, took a very old-looking key out of his pocket, and locked the door.

   Crescent followed his lead, and together they walked down the steps. Crescent kept glancing at him through the corridor, wondering where on earth they were going. He walked up to the security desk.

   Fusspot was awake and reading a newspaper; only Crescent noticed it was upside down.

   “Hallo, Gov, aft’ noon. An you, little Miss,” said Colonel Fusspot, tilting his beret to Crescent.

   “I’m taking this student out for an hour or two. I think she needs some time to clear her head a bit, if that’s all right with you?” said the counselor.

   “Oh, fine by me, Gov’nor. Just have to do the ole ‘sign in, sign out’, you know.” The colonel pushed the sign-in book forward, which, Crescent noticed, was also upside down, and she suppressed a laugh.

   “Right,” Mr. Grant offered, turning the book round the right way, and Crescent saw him signing his own name, and then hers on the same line. Then he checked his watch and scribbled down the time.

   “Right-O, Gov. Best of luck, and all that, eh. Cheerio, cheerio!” said Colonel Fusspot; suddenly he stood up straight and stiff, puffed his chest out, and gave a salute as his monocle popped off his eye and hung down swinging back and forth.

   Mr. Grant held one of the giant oak doors open for Crescent, and she stepped through onto the wide stone steps, but before he had completely closed it, she caught a glimpse of the colonel bending and grabbing hold of his back again. She imagined it was his lumbago. He certainly did exert himself a lot. Pride, no doubt. No one liked to admit they were getting older, she supposed, and she knew it was bad of her, but still, she allowed herself a slight smile.

   When the counselor closed the door, they stood on the top step for a moment. Mr. Grant closed his eyes and breathed in the air.

   Crescent winced and raised her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes. It was a bright and sunny afternoon, a stark contrast to the gloom of the orphanage.

   “You know,” she said, “I’m surprised Colonel Fusspot is still here. I mean, considering Hawthorne taking over and everything. He’s practically blind and so hard of hearing.”

    “Well … you know he’s retired. And basically, he works for free. Besides, you’ve only been back a few days. And the headmistress is, well … shall we say.…”

    “You mean to say she’s cheap.”

    “That’s another way of saying it, I suppose. Yes.” 

    “Still, she doesn’t seem to fancy people who aren’t up to her standards, does she?”

    The counselor turned and looked at her, his brow knitted, his tone suddenly serious.

    “Don’t underestimate Fusspot, Crescent. That’s another lesson you need to learn. People are capable of far more than they might appear. Don’t judge a book by its cover. You of all people should understand that.” 

    “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” It was funny hearing her own thoughts tossed back at her like that; Crescent had always thought of herself similarly but hadn’t really considered others the same way.  

    “Of course, I am,” he said simply. “Now let’s go.”

    They walked down the stone steps, through the black wrought-iron gate, and across the street, where Mr. Grant led her to a little red auto. As he unlocked the driver’s side door, she looked at the car; it was dented up in more places than one. The car looked as poor and beat-up as he did.

   She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

   “Come in, we’re going for a drive.”

   “Where are we going?” she asked matter-of-factly and folded her arms.

   “You’ll see,” he said, nearly laughing.

   “O-kayyy,” she said and, smiling, gave him a sardonic look.

   “Come on, get in, you brat,” he said, motioning with his head. Then Mr. Grant smiled, ducked down, and got in. Inside the vehicle, he bent over and unlocked the door on her side and then started up the engine. 

    The little car shook and sputtered and, after some moments of stubborn protesting, rumbled to life.

   Crescent shook her head, opened her door, and got in. She stretched the seat belt across her chest, then the car lurched forward, and they were on their way.

Down the road a ways, Crescent rolled down the window and enjoyed the summer breeze. After a while, they came to a quiet section of London that seemed to be at a higher altitude. They passed houses and shops along hilly roads that twisted this way and that. Mr. Grant followed a particularly narrow route, then after passing a few more streets, he stopped the car near a cross-street section and pulled over. He got out and started walking downward on a sidewalk on a hill lined with more houses. Crescent followed and asked, “So, where are we going?”

   “You’ll see,” he said again in an irritatingly singsong voice. Then he chuckled to himself and walked on. Annoyed, Crescent folded her arms again, but still followed him, walking down the pavement to the bottom of the incline. Then when they came to the end of the little street, they halted.

   They had come to the edge of a neighborhood; the roads connected in the shape of a T. They could go either right or left, but on the other side of the road, directly in front of them was a large brick wall that snaked along the edge of the street. It was almost as tall as the wall around the orphanage and much, much longer, but the bricks were much smaller and more patchy-looking and rusty in color.  

   The wall was easily just as ancient as the one around the orphanage, but this one was in much worse shape. It appeared dilapidated and ruined, and in many places, there were gaps, and beyond it, she could see the tops of many trees that seemed to stretch on for miles.

   Mr. Grant looked both ways, then crossed the street and walked right up to the wall.

   “Hey! Where are you going?” Crescent said, but still followed.

   As they got nearer, Crescent noticed there was sort of an optical illusion at work; there was a large, jagged gap right in front of them. Mr. Grant walked through the gap, and again Crescent followed. They walked round an inner wall, and Crescent wondered where they could be going until Mr. Grant came to an abrupt halt, and she finally saw.

   They were standing in the middle of a bunch of ruins — high up, Crescent looked around and saw they were on a podium-like veranda, and spread wide out before them was an immense park with hills and trees.

   Mr. Grant glanced back at her and smiled, then held his arms out in a wide arc and said, “Welcome to Richmond Park.”

   Crescent thought it was beautiful.

   She stood there and stared out over the edge, taking in the sight. She saw a river running through the center with luxurious grass and countless trees surrounding it. It was a wonderful day, made all the more picturesque by the scenic park with its lush green landscape and gray-blue water, and overhead a bright blue forget-me-not sky with puffs of wispy white cotton candy clouds.

   The counselor walked down a steep winding path from the side of the veranda. Crescent followed, holding on to a crumbling brickwork rail as she went. When they had cleared it, she looked back and saw it was some kind of structure, used for what she had no idea, but it was clear it had long since seen its day.

   They stood at the top of a large grassy knoll that rolled downward at a slightly steep angle, and along the sides, there were little dirt and stone pathways that extended from the ruin structure at the top down into the main part of the park.  

   It was a fair walk down the hill; they passed a woman taking advantage of the angle, lying on her stomach sunbathing while wearing a white bikini, skirt, sunglasses, and reading a paperback novel.

   Farther down, they passed another woman wearing a wide yellow hat and a matching sundress, and a few yards away from her was a couple sitting on the grass with their legs stretched out, holding hands and kissing. Crescent smiled.

   Then at last they came to the bottom of the hill and to a little paved road, which Crescent could tell had not been meant for motorcars. It stretched out a long way and curved around the river; Crescent could see on her end it went on for miles. Around the bend, the pavement stopped, and it turned into a bike path. People were walking back and forth along it, kids playing with a Frisbee and running about. Some people had dogs, mothers were pushing babies in prams, pedestrians jogged listening to music on their headsets that no one else but they could hear, and still others sat on benches chatting away with friends or quietly reading.

   As they walked past all the passersby and bicyclers, they commented on what a wonderful day it was. Crescent did most of the talking; she told him about the books she had read while being away, talking fast and making gestures with her hands as she did whenever she was excited about something.

   At the end of telling him about one particular story Crescent noticed that Mr. Grant had become peculiarly quiet and walked with his hands in his trouser pockets. She stopped talking as well and mimicked him by putting her hands in her pockets too. And as they walked through the park Crescent realized for the first time that at this moment she was relaxed and felt very happy. It was the best she had felt since before her birthday.

   They passed two mothers in casual conversation and a man with gloves wheeling a pushcart full of plants. He tipped his hat and smiled at a pair of attractive female joggers; Crescent noticed he pursed his lips and looked back at them as they passed. Crescent looked down at her shoes and smiled to herself.

   Walking along the river’s edge, they passed a large boathouse where a man was cleaning a red canoe supported on a wood balustrade, and Crescent wondered what it would be like to take a canoe alone out on the water. She imagined it must be very peaceful.

   Farther up on the river, she could see people in canoes or in their long Oxford-style boats rowing. It looked like fun. Someday … she thought.

   They came up to a little outdoor café, a German place called Stein’s. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get something to drink.” Mr. Grant bought them each a chocolate milkshake and dropped a coin in the tip cup, which surprised Crescent, and then he led her over to a nearby table, where they sat down. She noticed that, like the tables, the chairs were all steel and wood — not very comfortable, but made to match the overall look of the café which was quite stylish. Then again, she reckoned, they were most likely designed that way to discourage people from staying long because there weren’t that many places for people to rest to begin with.

   Finally, Mr. Grant spoke again, starting up a conversation that Crescent knew was the real reason why they were there. “You know Crescent, you ought to be careful.”

   “What, you mean Crawley and Hawthorne?”

   “Yes,” he said emphatically. “Professor Crawley and the headmistress, Crescent, are not to be taken lightly. Much has changed since you’ve been gone. With a new headmistress, everything changes. It’s she who dictates the rules and decides the tone by which the orphanage is now run.”

    “You know, I never even had a class with him before,” she said, “but Crawley, he was just so intense, so awful. And her — what gives them the right to be so mean?”

    “It’s his class, Crescent. You’re in his bailiwick now, and he has every right to expect the students to respect him in his classroom. He’s in charge and the only person that can overrule him is the headmistress, and unfortunately, that’s just the way she is. And besides, you’ve been here long enough, and you ought to know better.”

    “I just wish Headmaster Wilkes was still here,” she said, stirring her milkshake with a straw. “He might have been a bit of a blunderer, but at least he hadn’t been so keen on being such a dictator.”  

    “You’re not the only one who’s had trouble with them, so don’t think that you’re all alone here.” And he said it with such an air of irritation that Crescent couldn’t help but get the idea that he was referring to a personal experience, and she said so.

    “What sort of trouble have they given you?” she asked, her head tilted.

    “Never you mind, it’s not my place to start ugly rumors about the staff within the student body. There’s enough of that going around as it is.”

    He moved his shoulders, as if to rid himself of an unpleasant thought, and sat up straight, taking on a more serious demeanor. Crescent knew him well enough to know what he was doing. He was going into “professional mode” now, and no sooner than the thought flickered in her mind did he clear his throat and start in.

    “So now then, now that we’re here, what’s really bothering you?” he said, deliberately changing the subject.

    “Well …” she said, thinking this was the part where she play-acted being the patient with all the problems. “Professor Crawley and the headmistress are only a small part of it. That Ms. Bickle woman is awful. Mr. Grant, she’s a menace — simply horrible, maybe even the worst one.”

   He sighed heavily. “Don’t tell me you’re having problems with her too?” he said, touching his hand to his forehead as if he had suddenly gotten a headache. Crescent just nodded and gave him a guilty little half smile as if to say, “Yep.”  

    “What am I going to do with you?” he said.

    She shrugged, letting her body talk for her, and gave him a look that said, “I don’t know.” Then she sipped her drink sheepishly, trying to at least look innocent.

   Underneath it all, she knew all these problems she’d been having with these particular members of the staff, she couldn’t be to blame — could she? Of course, she hadn’t been in a very good mood lately; how could she be, being dumped like that by her foster parents? But it didn’t mean that it was all her fault, no. These teachers were crazy.

   She shook her head, trying to cleanse these thoughts from her mind, and looked at Mr. Grant, who was staring at her questioningly.

    “What about the rest of the students, any problems with them?” he asked, creasing his brow. Crescent looked around, avoiding his gaze, then slowly nodded. “You know Ferris, of course. Well, just as soon as I got back, he started teasing me. I purposely avoided him as much as I could, but … but he was in my first class, my first day back, and started acting so smug, and I —”  

    “And what? You reacted?” he said, cutting her off.

    “Well, uh, yeah, but — but he was being such a prat — him and his gang. Anyway, Sinestra got wind of the whole thing, thought I was messing about with her precious boyfriend, and started in on me in gym, and to top it all off, now I think she’s trying to kill me,” she said seriously, then quickly sucked in a large portion of her shake and almost immediately felt her brain freeze and winced.

    “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, waving his hand as if throwing the very notion aside. “She’s not trying to kill you, Crescent — embarrass you, maybe….”

    Recovering from the spike of pain in her head, Crescent took a deep breath.

    In exasperation, she blew a group of hairs up that had been bothering her hanging down in front of her face. But he didn’t know. He was a good counselor, an even better friend, and a nice bloke, but that was the problem — he never saw any of the other orphans the way she saw some of them.

   Maybe it was because of his outlook, or because it was his job to help everyone solve their problems, but he would never believe that there were just some apples that were rotten to the core, and Ferris and Sinestra were at the top of the heap.

   No matter how great they were, like Mr. Grant, but there was always something about adults that never seemed to let them truly see what went on between kids. Sinestra and Ferris weren’t just mean — they were cruel and dangerous, and if he couldn’t see that, then in some ways, he was just like all the rest of the adults.…  

   Crescent felt sad. There always seemed to be this invisible barrier between the goings-on of kids and adults; grownups just never seemed to get it.

   They thought their lives were so much more complicated, but they weren’t, not really, just complicated in a different way.

   She looked up at him. He was rubbing his eyes again as if another, sharper, headache had suddenly sprung from behind them.

   “Oh, Crescent, what am I going to do with you?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Is there anything else?” he added, leaning back and sighing again. He bent his neck, trying to work a kink out, then slumped back in his chair casually, and, clasping his hands, he rested his arms on his waistcoat. But the last had not been so casual a question to Crescent.

   She looked down and started fiddling with her fingers nervously.

   She didn’t want to tell him — couldn’t tell him. He was practically the only person on her side, and once more, she was afraid to tell him. Afraid that they would send her to an asylum, afraid that Sinestra was right, and that she, Crescent, really was crazy. But if she couldn’t trust her friend Mr. Grant, who had always been kind to her, then who could she trust? But she had to tell someone or she felt that she would go insane.

   She made up her mind.

   “Well, you’re going to think I — I’m crazy, but … there is something else.…” She trailed off in a low voice. Crescent swallowed and started talking. The words came out, but it was hard, and she spoke in barely a whisper. “When I was with the Bakers, something strange happened — something I’ve been trying not to think about. It was why they sent me back.”

   “What do you mean? What?” he asked, suddenly interested. He sat back up and leaned forward.

   She looked at him without blinking, looked at him longer than she had dared look at almost anyone since the day it had happened. She bit her lower lip and looked down, but Mr. Grant just sat there, waiting patiently for her to continue.

    Crescent didn’t want to go there. She really didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to say any of it. She’d hardly even allowed herself to think about it since it had happened; it scared her too much.

    She took another deep breath, as if about to plunge into a deep ocean, and at last she said, “H-h-have you ever had a nightmare when you weren’t asleep?”

    He looked back at her, and his brow furrowed again, and he looked more worried than anything. “Don’t worry, Crescent,” he said. “You can tell me anything, and it will stay just between us.” This came as a great relief because she felt that if he thought she was mad, then surely she really would be alone.

   “What do you mean?” he said again, sounding concerned.

    She shivered and looked up. A cloud had passed in front of the sun, darkening the sky, but Crescent somehow didn’t think that the chill she felt was from the weather or the milkshake.

She began to tell him what had happened to her on the day of her birthday, how everything had been fine the day before, and even that morning, how Mrs. Baker had suddenly screamed and fainted and how she had gone running into the woods. And as she spoke, in a flash she was back in that awful moment; a collage of images flooded her memory: Walking down the steps yawning — breakfast, then lunch, and later, her surprise at a birthday cake — the Bakers smiling at her — a brand-new gleaming silver bicycle — blowing out the candles — everything spinning — cold strange eyes staring at her like twin glowing crystal balls filled with smoke — someone laughing — a blue flame suddenly erupting out of inky blackness — a woman she did not know screaming — a door being flung open — daylight pouring in, blinding her — then trees blurring by — heavy breathing in the woods, and then, at last, darkness.

   A second later, she was back in the outdoor café with Mr. Grant and realized she had been talking the whole time, as if her body had been on autopilot while she was away.

   She finished talking and felt out of breath. She was sweating and breathing in rapid succession, as if she had just finished running a marathon.

   Mr. Grant didn’t say anything. He had been quiet the whole time, listening intently. His hands were clasped together with his elbows on the table.

   “I — I don’t know, it just happened once,” she continued. “And I would’ve thought it was just a dream, but I was awake when it happened, and … and it was real.

Mrs. Baker, the lady I was staying with, she —” Crescent stopped herself, then started again, “She felt it too. It’s the reason I’m back. They took me to loads of doctors but none of them found anything wrong. In the end they decided that maybe the orphanage was the best place for me.”

    Almost the whole time she had been talking, she was staring down at the table. Now she looked up and saw that the counselor was deep in thought. She knew she had his attention, but still, even though she had told the worst of it, she kept the part where she was in the woods and had sensed someone watching her to herself.

    “I don’t know,” he said. “But if the doctors couldn’t figure it out, I’m sure there’s not much that I or anyone else could do.”

    “I just hope I’m not going crazy,” she said, half-laughing, her voice almost choking up, and when she looked at him, he must have seen the pleading in her eyes because she saw there was a great amount of sympathy in his.

    He smiled at her, and she smiled back, then moved slightly as if hesitating, then relaxed again, and Crescent understood. If he could have, he would have reached out and grasped her hand to show support, but he maintained his professionalism even here.

   They had been good friends since the day he had stepped foot in the orphanage, and Crescent had to admit to herself if she was older, she might have even allowed herself a crush. She’d heard some of the other girls going on about him, but besides being so much older, she considered him simply her friend.

   He was saying, “Look, I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about. It was probably just a one-time thing. Your imagination running wild, or … or a loss of equilibrium or something. Too many stories, eh? And don’t worry about the new teachers, or Ferris and his lot. I’ll keep an eye on them for you, all right?”

   “All right, cheers,” she said, feeling a little more confident again. She wiped her eyes just realizing that she had been crying and felt the redness; they were very sore. “You always make me feel better, you know that?”

   “That’s why I’m here.”

   “Yeah, but I bet you don’t take all the students out to the park, do you?” she said, grinning.

   He smiled. “Only the very special ones, Crescent. Only ones like you.”

   Then he cleared the glasses from the table and returned them to the attendees at the counter. Crescent watched him. Even if the whole world was against her, at least she still had someone she could count on; at least she still had him.

   When he came back to the table, he said, “Shall we?” And they both headed back the way they had come. This time it was he who commented on the weather and talked animatedly about this and that. As he continued talking, Crescent noticed a funny thing out by the edge of the water … where a family of ducks was acting very peculiar. There was a white duck that seemed to be craning its head in their direction, intent on listening in on their conversation. If Crescent didn’t know better, she would have thought it was doing it on purpose.

   When Crescent kept looking at it, it suddenly turned away and started casually picking at the ground, as if it knew it was being watched.

   Then smaller baby ducks came waddling up, intent on cuddling up to the larger one, but the big one kept moving away and avoiding them, as if completely irritated by their presence.

   Funny little duck, she thought. Well, Crescent supposed, even mother ducks get annoyed by their young once in awhile. When Crescent looked back again, she saw the ducks waddling away; now there were two of the adults. One was leading the small ones toward the water, and the other was heading off in the direction of the wood.

   They had been out for hours walking and talking.

   She’d missed half the school day and didn’t really care in the least, but now it was time to get back. The sun was shining at its zenith, and Crescent again had to put her hand over her brow to keep the rays from getting into her eyes.

   When they had climbed the hill and stood on the ruins of the veranda once again, Crescent looked back out over the park.

   She promised herself she’d come back to this park again when she had time and when she could figure out the bus route.

   In a few hours the sun would be setting, and by the time they got back, school would already be out, and it would most likely be dinnertime back at the orphanage; but for some reason, she wasn’t really all that hungry anyway.

   When she got back, she would go straight up to her room, change, then head right back down to do her detentions. She didn’t want to spoil the day with a run-in with Sinestra, or anyone else for that matter. But that was the only thought she gave it. For now she just wanted to enjoy the moment.

   They found the car where they had left it, and Crescent let herself breathe freely as she got in and strapped the seat belt around herself.

   On their way back, Mr. Grant didn’t say a word, and nor did Crescent. Instead, as before, she rolled the window down and closed her eyes, leaned out, and felt the oncoming rush of fresh air ripple through her hair and around her face. She wanted to enjoy this short journey and make the moment last as long as it could before they were back at the orphanage, where she knew she still had two detentions to serve.

   She’d also unintentionally skived off her first class with another new teacher.

   She hoped the new English teacher wouldn’t be quite as bad as Bickle or Crawley; trouble with yet another new teacher was the last thing that Crescent needed.