Free Drenched in Light by Lisa Wingate Page A

for Mrs. Morris’s house of linguistic horrors. An idea struck me as I rounded the corner of my desk. “Dell, what would you think if I set up some daily tutoring sessions for you?”
    “With you?” she asked hopefully, and I found myself nodding, even though what I’d actually intended was to find her a tutor—maybe a high school student. The National Honor Society kids were required to do school service hours, and tutoring would fit the bill.
    Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she surveyed the office with a pained look. “Would I have to come here? Because everyone would see.” She ducked her head, seeming worried that she’d said the wrong thing. “Y’know?”
    “I’ll work something out.” Though I couldn’t imagine how, exactly. I couldn’t start tutoring every academically challenged kid in Harrington middle school.
    “ ’Kay,” she replied doubtfully, then hovered in the doorway, looking toward Mrs. Morris’s room like a prisoner heading down death row. Pausing, she vacillated in place, as if there were something more she wanted to say but was uncertain.
    “Anything else?”
    She turned halfway toward the door. “We’ve got Jumpkids after school near here,” she mumbled, pulling a slim brown foot out of her clogs, curling her toes, then slipping them back in. “You said I should . . . I don’t know . . . tell you when we did. On Fridays we’re at Simmons-Haley Elementary. We feed the kids a snack, and do singing and dance class with them until five, and then they get dinner at the school cafeteria before they go home.” She pointed vaguely toward the window. “It’s over that way a few blocks by that big old Catholic church with the tall bell thing.”
    I was momentarily blindsided by the invitation. I had no idea she’d remember, much less care, that I’d expressed interest in her foster mother’s after-school arts program. “Sounds great.” I felt an unexpected rush of warmth for the shy teenager in the doorway. “What time?”
    “Three thirty. Right after school.”
    “Hmmm,” I mused out loud. “I’m on duty until four thirty.”
    Dell’s shoulders went up, then slumped. “It’s OK,” she muttered, surrendering like a kid who was accustomed to being brushed off. Stepping backward into the hallway, she turned toward her English class. “See ya later.”
    “Well . . . wait.” I followed her into the corridor. “What if I come by after four thirty? Will I be interrupting anything?”
    Walking backward into the fray of students, she grinned, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. “No, that’d be cool.” An eighth grader brushed past her, knocking her off balance with his backpack, and reminding her that she was in the hallway, where other kids might see her making nice with the counselor. Holding her hand near her waist, she gave a quick, covert wave, then hurried away.
    I went back to my desk and made notes to myself. Tutoring—find location, get copy of sixth-grade textbooks, check out The Grapes of Wrath from library. . . .
    Research drug education programs. . . .
    When I looked up, the principal was hovering in my doorway. “Got that matching-funds app for the new PAC ready yet?” he asked, snapping his fingers and holding his hand palm out, as if I could make the thirty-page grant application materialize by magic.
    Write enormous grant application for fancy new performing arts center. . . .
    “Not yet,” I said, pulling the application booklet from under the stack of attendance papers that had coagulated on my desk.
    Finish checking daily attendance records. . . .
    Suddenly, the job that had seemed boring and pointless yesterday was crammed full of demands and activities. Some of which actually mattered.
    “I’ll get right on it.” Opening the booklet, I folded my elbows on my desk and waited for him to move on, but he didn’t. “Anything else?”
    Tapping his pen against the wooden door frame, he gazed at the trim board, following the