Free In Zanesville by Jo Ann Beard Page B

And even stranger is the fact that once I conjured him up, R. Feldsquaw wouldn’t leave.
     Blurry and unspecific, he lounged around the edges of my daydreams, admiring me.
    Unlike Rodney Feldsquaw, Mr. Prentiss at least has the sense to not pay any attention to me. All he’s ever offered me is the
     back of his head, which, the more I look at it, the more I realize how attractive it is. The silky brown hair that kinks sideways
     in one spot, the way he puts it behind his ears before talking and then shakes it loose again when he’s finished. The army
     jacket with a ballpoint design on the back, possibly made with a Spirograph, the flannel-shirted shoulders, the sneakers mended
     with duct tape.
    “He looks at you,” Felicia insists. “When you walk by, he swivels around and watches you.”
    “It’s the gargoyle effect,” I say.
    Meanwhile, we were only given five days of detention and we’re down to the end, unless I can think of a way to get more.
    “I actually don’t want more,” Felicia says.
    Her closet door has a mirror on it and there’s another mirror above her dresser, so if I stand on a chair I can see what I
     look like from behind. A knock on the door. Felicia flattens herself against the wall.
    “Who is it?” I say.
    “Stephanie,” Stephanie says through the door, and then sniffs, a loud, loose sound that makes me feel like going home.
    “What?”
    “You guys are supposed to help, my mom said.”
    “I’m busy,” I tell her, staring into the mirror. I feel a surge of affection for the back of me, trim and unsuspecting in
     its pink sweater and corduroy pants.
    “Doing what?” Stephanie asks.
    “Lookin’ at me arse,” I reply.
    “I’m telling,” she says automatically. And then, because she can’t help herself: “Where’s Flea?”
    Felicia throws the door open and yanks her inside. She resists, just for the sake of it, and is pulled across the carpet,
     stiff and grimacing.
    “Did I hear you say Step On Me?” Felicia asks her.
    “No,” Stephanie says primly, shaking herself loose. Before we know what’s happening, she whirls and starts kicking wildly,
     which is her new thing. The whole younger generation is suddenly into kung fu fighting, inspired by a TV show.
    “Get out of here, you little skrizz,” Felicia says, stepping back.
    “Ha!” Stephanie cries, kicking inefficiently in all directions. “Now you’re scared of
me!
”
    “I’m scared that you’re an idiot,” Felicia answers, closing the door behind her.
    The back of Mr. Prentiss and the back of me seem like a perfect couple. If relationships were that easy, we’d have it made;
     instead, I have to somehow get a padded bra.
    “That’s what books are for!” Felicia insists. “You walk in holding your books across your chest. You look at him. You smile.
     You say hi.”
    She stares at herself in the mirror and then smiles, to demonstrate. “Can you do that?”
    “I can do the books-across-my-chest part,” I tell her.
    Just at that moment there’s a commotion, yelling and the sound of a clattering bucket. Her mother has had it. Even my name
     is being taken in vain: if I’m not willing to help clean up this house, which I was more than willing to help destroy, then
     maybe it’s time for me to go home. She bangs open the door.
    “I’ll take the bathroom,” I say quickly.
    I love cleaning; it gives you time to think. There’s nothing better than thinking. Thinking about detention mostly, how romantic
     it is: The rustling sound of note passing, the way the monitor periodically lifts her knitting high in the air to loosen another
     length of yarn from the skein, the clock jumping along, the science smell of sulfur and dissected worms. Mr. Prentiss’s foot
     in its sneaker, hooked around the bottom of his chair.
    What if he just spontaneously started talking to me and I just started talking back? What if I talked to him first and he
     started talking back? What if he said something to me and I went