Free Me and Fat Glenda by Lila Perl

me.
    Madame Cecilia’s cornflower-blue walls had been painted a dead chalky white by Inez. But since there were big cracks and other uneven places in the plaster, Inez had hit on the ingenious idea of painting big fat squirming black arrows up the walls. Some of the arrows were thicker and wigglier than others. But they all pointed upward from the floor to the ceiling and ended with their tips touching the ceiling.
    Right now, Inez was painting the ceiling itself.
    â€œDo you really have to paint it that color?” I asked.
    â€œBlack’s not a color,” Inez said, without looking at me.
    It was true all right. Inez was painting the bedroom ceiling black. Jet black. At first I’d thought her whole idea of painting the room was fun. Now I wasn’t so sure.
    â€œI don’t think we made a very good impression on Mrs. Waite,” I commented.
    â€œI don’t think she made a very good impression on us,” Inez said, in an expressionless voice.
    â€œShe’d really think we were crazy if she could see this room.”
    Inez merely grunted.
    â€œWell, don’t you think it’s sort of creepy? I mean, those squirming black arrows all around and that solid black ceiling.”
    Inez turned and stared at me in some surprise. “Oh come on, Sara. Where is it written that all bedrooms must be painted cornflower-blue?”
    â€œWell, not cornflower-blue exactly. But isn’t there something else—something in between? Oh, you know what I mean.”
    â€œBlack’s just right for a bedroom ceiling,” Inez crooned softly as she slapped on another brushful of paint. “Couldn’t be more appropriate. ‘As black as a night without moon or stars; as black as a dreamless sleep.’ ”
    I gave up and went back downstairs. There was no point in trying to talk to Inez when she got into one of her poetic moods.
    Along about suppertime, Glenda phoned me. She sounded all excited.
    â€œListen, Sara, I had to wait until 4:30 to see my grade adviser. And I can’t get my program changed until next week. They have to find a different French classfor me. So I still can’t have lunch with you. Isn’t that disgusting!”
    I didn’t answer. Everything that had happened in the cafeteria came back in a rush.
    â€œThere is one good thing, though,” Glenda went on. “Mary Lou Blenheim was in the office when I was there. She was getting permission to go home for lunch for the rest of the term. At least now you won’t have to eat with her anymore.”
    â€œI guess you heard what happened to Mary Lou today,” I said.
    Glenda snickered. “Oh, sure. Everybody around school was talking about it.”
    â€œWell, I think it was awful, don’t you?”
    â€œOh, yes. Of course, I didn’t see it. But it must have been terrible when it happened. Those two raw chicken feet lying there on that slice of bread. Were you right next to her when she opened the sandwich?”
    â€œOf course. Glenda,” I said, slowly, “who do you think could have done it?” The suspicion that had come to my mind as I was leaving the cafeteria was really beginning to nag at me now.
    There was a pause at the other end.
    â€œWho knows? Anybody.” Glenda lowered her voice and quickly changed the subject. “By the way, Sara, my mother told me she was over at your place this afternoon. What happened?”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘what happened?’ She brought over some beef stew. It looks good. In fact, I’m going to have it for dinner.”
    â€œNo. Other things. About some things your Mom said.”
    â€œLike what?”
    Glenda was whispering. “It’s hard for me to talk right now.”
    â€œOh, well in that case I’d like to ask you about some things your Mom said.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike about the lamp that got broken over at your house on Friday,” I said, more than slightly