The stone, impenetrable towers of Magnolia Academy for Girls stab the downtown sky; I can see them through the trees as Mom drives over the brick roads. My teeth rattle in my head, but I don’t think the bricks are doing it. “Is this good on the van?” I ask as if it’s the van I’m thinking about.
“Don’t worry, honey, this van is a tank.” She gives me a reassuring smile as if I actually want to get to Magnolia. “Green light,” she says. We move with the other cars like a string of beads being pulled forward.
When you’re eager to get somewhere, say someone’s birthday party or an ice cream place, it takes forever. When you don’t want to get somewhere, green lights smile their permission to fly through intersections. There are no trucks to get stuck behind, no squirrels to hit the brakes for, and even Libby falls into a cozy sleep.
I pull a finger around the stiff collar of my white top, part of my uniform for Magnolia Academy for Girls, which we got at JC Penney, along with the blue skirt and blue shorts. Kind of expensive, aren’t they? I asked when I showed Mom the price tags at the store. The principal said three of each, I reminded her as we searched for my size through the clothing racks, three times each price tag. I squished my round feet into pointy black shoes. These hurt, I said. My feet don’t end in a point.
Quit whining, Mom said.
As the van passes my favorite house, the yellow one with white pillars, a woman dressed like she could never be someone’s mom steps out from the front door; it’s the tennis lady, with a girl right behind her. Blue skirt, white blouse. My heart flips a beat. Could this girl be going to my school? I sink down in my seat so she can’t see me, but I can see her. Tan legs move like a gazelle’s as she prances down the steps. She’s not wearing knee socks like I have to—she must be an eighth grader. They’re required to wear stockings. Her mom, if she is her mom, says something to the girl, but the girl doesn’t like it because she rolls her eyes, jerks her head, and saunters back into the house.
She doesn’t want to go, either!
I bet the teachers are mean and hit kids with rulers. Bars slam down over the classroom windows when the bell rings—no one can escape—and when the teacher asks a question, the girls answer in one voice like androids. At lunch, they file in robotically and sit on hard benches, staring forward while the headmistress watches, her boots clomping ominously as she paces in front of them. Mom didn’t mention any of this, but that’s because they probably put on a big act when visitors are there.
The woman who doesn’t look like a mom gets out of her shiny car and crosses her arms. If I were an owl, I would turn my head backward and keep watching, but Mom has cleared the stop sign and we’re creeping forward. Suddenly, I ram my door open, tear around the corner, and run full speed ahead to Palm Middle, my butt hitting the seat just as the tardy bell rings. That’s what I wish I could do anyway, and maybe I would if I had my sneakers on because I’m faster than light with those on my feet. But what I’ve got on now—these black flats—pinch my toes and have slippery soles.
“This sure is a long drive,” I say.
“I don’t mind,” Mom says. “I kind of miss my morning drives.”
Does she have to be so cheerful about it? It’s easy for her—she’s not the one facing a world of strangers. Not only did she wear her best dress when she went on the tour, she also wore makeup. Blackened eyelashes, creamy foundation, pink pearly lips—she’d done more for Magnolia than she does for God every Sunday. I even smelled her perfume.
The Lake Eola fountain shimmers in the morning sunlight. Little kids swirl down the curly slides of the playground. I wish I could join them. Tall buildings flank us as we come up to the corner. People in business clothes walk quickly on the sidewalks, wearing earpieces and talking into the air. Mom turns, and then the downtown Orange County Public Library is on our left. The best library ever. It’s probably as big as the Library of Congress and has just as many books. Plus, it has elevators, a snack bar, and a basement, which is rare in Florida.
Mom frowns at the library. “I don’t remember passing that before.”
“Are we lost?” Because if we are, just park so I can run past the scary people who hang outside the library and dash to the children’s section for the latest Margaret Peterson Haddix book.
“No, we’re not lost. I have to figure out the side streets.” She pulls up to a metered space and unfolds a map. By the way she squints at it, I can tell the words are playing musical chairs with her eyes. Leaning over, I spot the street we’re on and the address she’s got circled.
“Just go straight,” I say, “then go right, right, left.”
“Right, right, left.”
“Right,” I answer.
“I thought you said left.”
“No, I—”
She breaks into a smile. “Just kidding. Right, right, left.”
“Har, har,” I say. Normally, I would think of something funny to say back, but my stomach’s upset and my fingers feel twitchy.
We’re heading into the heart of downtown. We pass houses with wraparound porches and second-story balconies. Antique tea roses sit in groups, pale pink and cream, like old ladies at church. They bow their heads as a light breeze snuffles over them.
As Mom makes the turns, I see the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the grounds of Magnolia. My heart starts beating for real. Only a few short minutes separate me from my fate.
A huge magnolia tree anchors one corner of the lawn. Under it, a girl about my age sits prettily with a set of paints and a sketchbook. The breeze flutters her paper, then tickles the top of the grass, leaving the velvety green tips to settle in an entirely different direction than before.
Mom glances through my window. “She might be one of your classmates.”
True. I consider the girl, so entranced in her work that she takes no notice of our van as we pass. Two more girls come out from the side door of a nearby building, and the three of them twitter like birds, their wings fluttering as they arrange themselves in a circle on the grass. They don’t look like they’re in school; they look like they’re having a picnic. I almost think, They’re so lucky, before I remember I hate Magnolia.
“Should they be out here by themselves, Mom? It doesn’t seem safe,” I comment innocently.
“They’re okay—they’re fenced in. Besides, the building’s right there.”
We’re here. Drums beat in my chest and echo in my arms and head. Heat flashes in my face. Sweat pops out of my skin even though the rest of me feels cold. Mom pulls up to the main entrance gate. All my brain cells scream, NO! NO! NO!
The Bible says there’s a season and a time for everything, including a time to weep and mourn. Casting my eyes upon Magnolia Academy, my heart decides it’s time to weep and mourn. My cheery red maple has lost its leaves. It will grow new ones, but they’ll be plain and green and look like every other tree. When I glance through my bedroom window, I’ll see something ordinary, and soon it will be hard to remember the exact watermelon hue of the leaves. No matter what happens today, I will never forget Palm Hill Middle School.
The man at Magnolia’s security gate can’t find our name. Maybe God has intervened, erased us from this list, and Mom will have to drive me straight to my real middle school.
Tears bubble up for the end of the maple. Why does it have to change? Why? Why? Why? I liked it the way it was—happy and energetic—the shock of those red leaves against the starkness of the white trunk. If it has to wear green leaves, it’ll lose its mapleness. Tears spew from my eyes. Why can’t things ever stay the same?
Mom hands over her ID. The security guard inspects it, studies Mom’s face, then talks into a headpiece.
My eyes are thunderclouds swollen with tears. My mouth sucks in the last few breaths of freedom. My throat lumps up as I choke down my destiny.
“Hailee?”
I try to say “What?” but it comes out all gurgled, more like, “Wharg?”
“Hailee!” Mom brushes my hair off my forehead and that’s all it takes. Tears wash down my face, drip off the edges, and soak into my white Magnolia Academy for Girls blouse.
“Ma’am?” The security guy hands Mom a clipboard.
Taking it, she says to me, “I’m sorry, honey,” and then she works on a form while I silently cry.
I pull down the visor and check myself in the mirror.
Yes, I am miserable. Look how red my eyes are, my cheeks. Everything is wet or running, and strands of hair stick to the sides of my face. I watch myself sob, which makes me cry even harder because I see how forlorn I am.
I wonder how the Magnolia girls will see me.
I stop all the weeping, wipe my face, and stare at my reflection. My mouth pulls into a frown, but I force those muscles to relax because frowning’s the ugliest part of crying. My eyebrows squinch, giving off just the right degree of despair. Tears sparkle in my eyes and glide down my face in crystal drops. I could be a girl in a movie who was taken by robbers but escaped and now must find her way back home through a huge black city with skyscrapers and dark alleys. I look at this girl in the mirror. She doesn’t let tears stop her from getting home. She is noble and strong. I watch as another tear slides down her cheek. This is how I will cry from now on.
“Here we go,” Mom says after collecting her ID from the guard. She fishes a used tissue from her purse, but the new me waves it away. Bravely, I fix my face forward, watching Magnolia appear before me as Mom pulls the van up the drive and parks in a visitor’s spot.
I’m no longer in my body as it steps out of the van and hoists the official school backpack onto burdened shoulders. Another magnolia tree stands in front of the office building. The sweet scent of a goblet-sized blossom rides on a gentle breeze that encircles me, but I breathe out of my mouth to show that tree I’m not having any of it.
The office is in a small, yellow, steepled building. There’s no cross on it, but it used to be a church when Orlando was nothing but orange groves; that’s what it says in the brochure Mom brought home. She tugs the handle on one of the arched, honey-colored wooden doors, but it doesn’t budge. “Oh, that’s right,” she says and presses an intercom button on the side. She squishes me in a side hug.
A disembodied voice asks if it can help us.
“I’m Kristen Richardson?” she tells it. “My daughter is starting school today?”
I wish she wouldn’t talk in question marks—it makes her sound nervous. The voice tells her how wonderful it is that we’re here and to open the door when we hear the buzzer.
I would like to tell you that the buzzer sounds like a chain saw going through green wood or the dentist’s drill breaking your teeth, but I can’t. The buzzer sounds like an electric organ holding a note.
Mom heaves the old door open with a big whoosh as the inside air gets sucked into the outside air and for a moment I think we could still change our minds because our feet have not yet crossed the threshold.
Mom presses her hand against the small of my back and pushes me toward my future.