Rain again. Mrs. Defoe gives Flor a C minus on her book report and writes SEE ME AFTER SCHOOL in red.
At indoor recess, Mary Long corners Flor and describes how she was up all night coughing and wheezing. Her mother played cards over at Betty Magruder’s house and must’ve brought home some of Flossie’s cat dander. Mary is allergic to everything in the universe, and if there is another universe, she’s allergic to everything there too. She’s just getting warmed up, describing what happens if she eats raspberries, when Jocelyn grabs Flor’s hand.
“Come with me!” She drags Flor across the gym, past the ladies in embarrassing workout clothes doing embarrassing Jazzercise—the school gym is also the island rec center—and over into the equipment closet, where Joe is unpacking boxes of new jump ropes. Jocelyn gets busy hooking a neon-pink one through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Guess what,” he says. “My father’s going to ask the village council about the clock.”
“Really? That’s good! That’s so good.”
“He’s sure they’ll say no.” Joe’s shoulders begin to rise, but a look from Flor freezes him midshrug. “At least he said he’d try. That’s something, right?”
“If only he had somebody to stand up for him,” says Flor. “You know, vouch for him. Besides you, I mean.”
“Defoe would be the one,” says Joe. “Considering she’s in charge of the school and even grown men are scared of her. But forget that. That’s never happening.”
“Giddyup, Powder-Pink Cloud!” Jocelyn shakes the jump-rope reins. “Fly me up to the sparkle sky!”
Joe gallops around the equipment closet. He tosses his head and paws the floor with his high-tops. Jocelyn’s in heaven. Sparkle-sky heaven. Joe’s long, thick curls glint in the overhead light, toss like a dark mane. The most surprising boy on the island. The hypothesis is supported.
Mrs. Defoe’s personal dictionary does not include the word sympathy. After school, she tells Flor she knows things are difficult at home. She’s sorry about that. That lasts half a second, and then she’s laying into Flor, saying her report was unworthy of her. Did Flor actually read the book? Does Flor know the difference between three hundred and six hundred words? Why is this section smeared? If there’s one thing Mrs. Defoe won’t abide, it’s a promising student wasting her talents. She won’t abide it any day, and twice on Sunday!
On and on she drones, saying things she must have said to so many students so many times how can she even stand it, and all the while Flor watches a trapped bumblebee throw itself against the window. The rain has let up, and the sky has a pearly sheen. She’s dying to get up and let the poor bee out but prefers not getting her head bitten off. Mrs. Defoe raps her desk.
“Maybe you could tell me what you think the book’s theme is. Since you failed to include that, among other things, in your report.”
Flor sits up straighter. She can do this.
“It’s about . . . about how beautiful the world is. Anne’s in love with it. All of it! Wildflowers and cows and rain and fairy tales and even cranky, crabby old people. She wants everyone else to be in love with the world too.”
Mrs. Defoe’s eyes narrow. She rests the arms of her bog-colored blouse on her desk. “Go on.”
“And she thinks the best way to do that is be a teacher. Her friends are going to be teachers too, and they warn her she has to be strict and give out punishments. But Anne says no. She won’t yell or be mean. She wants to be the kind of teacher who wins her students’ hearts.”
Flor pauses. The trapped bee thuds against the shut window.
“Continue.” Mrs. Defoe’s tone is what Anne Shirley would call perilously ominous.
“Well, it turns out one boy’s so bad and disrespectful she does punish him, but afterward, she feels like a tragic failure. And so she and Anthony—that’s the boy—become friends, and he starts to work harder and discover he’s smarter than he thought, and it just goes to prove what Anne believes, that there’s good hiding in every person, if you only look for it.”
Flor flops back in her chair. Mrs. Defoe taps the book.
“Kindly show me that passage, Flor O’Dell.”
Flor takes the book and pages through. But before she can find it, she comes to where someone wrote HERMOSA in the margin. HERMOSA, in that neat, pointy handwriting. For a moment, the world spins. Cecilia never writes in books, Cecilia never breaks the rules, but this one time, even she couldn’t resist. She loved this part too much. When she was eleven, her heart, her heart too, sped up at the part where Anne says how big, how beautiful our world is.
When Cecilia was Flor’s age, she loved the same book. So did Mrs. Defoe. How can that be? How can people so absolutely different have this in common? A mystery. A mystery Flor almost feels she could solve—if only Mrs. Defoe wasn’t eyeballing her, if only that poor bee wasn’t having a nervous breakdown. Flor can’t bear it another second. She jumps up and opens the window. The bee zooms out into the fresh, rain-washed air. Sitting back down, she finds the section she was describing and hands it over to Mrs. Defoe.
Mrs. Defoe reads. Behind her glasses, her eyes take on a distant, almost dreamy look. A look so un-Defoe it’s embarrassing, but also fascinating. Outside, somebody is raking. The scritch scratch is the only sound. Mrs. Defoe strokes the corner of her dried-drool-encrusted mouth. She cocks a penciled-on eyebrow, regards Flor over the top of the book, then gets up and walks to the window.
“I once knew this book nearly by heart.” She gazes out at whoever’s raking. Mr. Hawkins, probably. “I’ll confess something, Flor O’Dell. I haven’t reread it in decades. I assumed I knew it through and through. But the remarkable thing about good books is, they stay new. Reread this book when you’re my age, and I guarantee you’ll see Anne Shirley with different eyes.”
Flor is absolutely sure that’s impossible, and likewise sure it’s no time to argue.
“For years I’ve remembered Anne as a shining crusader against the dark forces of ignorance. But maybe she was more like a treasure hunter. Each of her students was a treasure chest, full of riches for her to uncover.” Mrs. Defoe touches a hand to her throat. “I may also have forgotten how easily she laughed.”
Mrs. Defoe opens the book and reads some more. Flor sits still, afraid to move. Is she off the hook? Still in trouble? Scritch scratch goes the rake. After several centuries, Mrs. Defoe raises her eyes and looks surprised Flor’s still there.
“There’s no avoiding the fact that you wrote a truly reprehensible report, Flor O’Dell. However, you do know the book.” Which she does not hand back. “You are dismissed.”
Flor gathers her things and pulls on her jacket. Slipping out the door, she glances back to see Mrs. Defoe, deep into the book, lift her hand to her mouth. It doesn’t cover her smile.
It’s Joe raking leaves. He’s got a big soggy pile.
“Are you really Flor? Or did she murder you, and you’re Zombie Flor?”
“She’s not so bad.”
Joe takes her head in his hands and examines it.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Checking for brainwashing.”
He’s an efficient raker, and it’s a pleasure to watch him, even in this drizzle. If the clock worked, Flor could tell how long she stands there before the behavior of the graveyard lilac gets her attention. She crosses the road.
“Come out,” she tells it. “I’ll introduce you.”
“I can’t. My father needs me at the quarry.”
“Your father won’t mind. He wants you to make friends.”
Clank clank. She must be wearing her tool belt.
“Joe’s nice,” Flor says.
“I already know that. My observations show—”
“Did you ever think that maybe you overdo the observing?”
Clank. A hiking boot pokes out, draws back.
“Watching other people is a protective mechanism I developed early in life. When I went to school, the other kids . . . I hate when people stare at me. Or make a big point of not staring. Or . . . worse. I learned to be alert.”
“Otherwise known as hiding.”
The bush grows very quiet.
“Sorry,” says Flor. “I’m not trying to be mean.”
“You are not a mean person.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I am.”
“And sometimes . . . sometimes I’m a coward.”
This is Jasper-speak for “sometimes I’m a coward.” Because Jasper always says what she means. No matter how hard or unpleasant that may be. Being named after a rock truly suits her.
“Joe won’t tease you about your arm. I promise. Come on. Please?”
After a moment, “All right,” whispers the bush.
Joe’s putting the rake away in the shed. His gaze arrows straight to Jasper’s belt.
“Whoa,” he says. “Some serious tools.”
He quizzes her on what each is for. The two of them are members of the same species. The Species of Tool Worshippers. Rain drips off Flor’s nose. Pleasure fountains up inside her. As Jasper explains about the trilobites, Joe absently picks up a rock and chucks it at the clock tower. Jasper looks surprised, but then, as if she thinks this must be some kind of initiation ceremony, she picks up a rock too. Winds up and lets fly. The stone vanishes in the mist, then descends in slow motion to settle neatly into the old bird’s nest behind the hour hand. Joe gives a low whistle. He regards Jasper with such admiration, Flor possibly feels jealous.
“My right arm is very strong,” Jasper says. “It compensates for my left.”
“Something’s wrong with it,” he says. “Right? I mean, left?”
Jasper darts Flor an anxious look. Flor nods encouragingly. Quick, like she’s afraid she’ll change her mind, Jasper pushes up her sleeve. Joe takes a look, shrugs. For once Flor loves that shrug.
“My uncle in Kentucky, his arm got chewed off by a combine. He got a really cool mechanical one.”
“I might get one someday. The correct term is prosthesis.”
Joe picks up another rock. But a voice that makes grown men’s blood freeze in their veins shakes the air.
“Joseph Hawkins Junior!” Mrs. Defoe’s head juts out the window. Her hand, still holding Anne, shoots out. “What do you think you’re doing, young man?”
“Umm. I don’t know?”
“Just as I thought. Come inside this instant.”
So much for any possibility of Mrs. Defoe morphing into Anne Shirley. So much for change. Still 11:16, taunts the stubborn, triumphant clock. Na na the boo boo!