Lost at Running Brook Trail
Read Lost at Running Brook Trail Online
Authors: Sheryl A. Keen
Lost at Running Brook Trail
Sheryl A. Keen
Lost at Running Brook Trail
Copyright
© 2012 Sheryl A. Keen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0477-6 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0478-3 (e)
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0479-0 (hc)
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911501
Abbott Press rev. date: 07/26/2012
Contents
When Susan was sent to the principal’s office, she wasn’t surprised. This was the sixth or seventh time this school year she’d been sent. It had become a habit that she had no inclination to break. This time it was Miss Carter who had sent her for her failure to do her English homework. Apparently, it was imperative to her future that she write pages and pages about justice in
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Susan walked slowly, prolonging the inevitable; she could only imagine what Mrs. Hamilton would say to her this time. She knocked on the door and heard “Come in” from the other side.
“Have a seat, Miss Scotti,” Mrs. Hamilton said, pushing her glasses further up her nose.
Susan sat and smoothed her grey pleated skirt in place. She fixed her tie, not sure what to do with her hands.
“What brings you to my office this time?” Mrs. Hamilton wore a sly smile that seemed to say that she knew exactly why Susan was there.
“Like, I don’t—”
The principal held up an open palm that indicated Susan should stop talking. “In this office, at this school, and hopefully outside of here, we never start a sentence with
like.
It makes absolutely no sense
.
We use full sentences that are grammatically correct. I know it’s probably
cool
to you to talk that way, but it really isn’t. Let us start again. Why are you here?”
“Mrs. Carter sent me.” Susan felt like biting her tongue. In fact, she simulated the motion in her mouth. She had been reprimanded in this very office before for using the word
like
at the beginning of a sentence. There were other words and slang terms too that students were not allowed to use or misuse. Mrs. Hamilton loved to say that
some words are legitimate, but how they are used is illegitimate
. These illegitimate words and uses were against school rules. But those were soft rules, because everybody used them in their cliques and their groups, so it was hard to keep language separate, depending on the audience.
“Yes, I know who sent you, but I want to know
why
she sent you.” Mrs. Hamilton leaned back in her high-back leather chair with her fingers clasped across her ample bosom. The office was vast, and the desk the principal was sitting behind was huge. Books and paper piles were neatly stacked up, and a tidy path had been cleared between where Mrs. Hamilton sat and the chair directly in front of her, where Susan now sat.
“I forgot to do my homework.” Susan squirmed as she said the words, just as she had said them on several occasions before this one. Plus, Susan was lying. She hadn’t forgotten; she just didn’t have the energy to write a paper about justice or anything else.
“Maybe,” said Mrs. Hamilton, leaning forward and looking straight at Susan, “you have a memory problem. Maybe we need to have your brain checked out, since you have the recurring problem of forgetting to do what you’re supposed to. What do you think?” She leaned back again, her green-grey eyes piercing behind the black-rimmed spectacles.
“I don’t know.” Susan felt cold. The office was air-conditioned to the max. She wished she had brought the school-issued grey sweater, stamped with its emblem of stars. The blouse she was wearing wasn’t enough to ward off the frigid air.
“You don’t know. You never disappoint me with your answers because you always take the easy way out. Weasel! Well, here’s what I know for sure.” Mrs. Hamilton leaned forward again, picked up a pen and pressed the top every time she made a point. “You don’t have a memory problem.”
Click! Click!
“You’re in my office every other week.”
Click! Click!
“You’re one of those students who just does enough to get by.”
Click! Click!
“I take that back; you don’t even do enough to get by.”
Click! Click!
“It’s pathetic, really, because you can do so much better. You’re here because you lack diligence.”
Click! Click!
Susan watched, as if mesmerized, Mrs. Hamilton’s thumb pressing down on the pen.
“Maybe I, like you, lack the diligence to get the job done.” Mrs. Hamilton threw down the clicking pen onto the desk. Susan couldn’t avoid the grey-green eyes that continued to change colour in the shifting light.
“Why else would you be almost a permanent fixture in my office?” Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes shifted to the large window, as if she could find the answers out there. “Well, since you don’t know and I should know, I’m going to suggest an experiment. It’s a fast-moving world out there, and it needs attentive people to move with it. Your failure will not be on my watch, not if I have anything to do with it.”
Mrs. Hamilton pulled out a desk drawer. “You’re almost at the end of grade ten. We have a reputation for excellence at this school, and I have no intention of allowing you or anyone else to damage this image, so fall in line. This kind of lackadaisical behaviour will not do for the future.”
A white envelope emerged. Mrs. Hamilton pushed the drawer shut with a thud that felt final.
“Give this to your parents.” She handed the envelope to Susan.
Susan dreaded the contents. Could it be? No, it couldn’t. But there was one way to find out. She would have to open it before it reached the judging hands of her parents.
Recess at Anne Beaumont Private High was a sea of grey and white, a cacophony of shrieks and laughter, and perhaps, on this particular day, a twinge of dread. Susan sat in the late June sunshine against a wall that separated the school from the adjoining property and ripped open the envelope. School envelopes were easy to come by, so she would just replace this one. She unfolded the letter. The white paper was glaring in the sunshine, but the black words were clear. It was what she had dreaded—the Alberta trip!
“So you got one too.”
Susan looked up to see Kimberly Carter, her blonde hair golden in the sunshine. It reminded her of straw or hay, which they would surely see where they were going.
“Yes, what are you in for?” Susan knew Kimberly from most of her classes and also knew Kimberly liked to catch her reflection in a mirror every minute of the day.
“It’s really hard to say. I was caught in the bathroom during class time, checking my makeup. So they say I’m not serious enough about school and too taken with myself—self-involved, they say, or some crap like that. And since this has happened over and over, I guess I’ve pissed off teachers who want me to reach for the stars.” Kimberly rolled her eyes in disgust and hiked up the sleeves of her white school blouse, trying to give them style, Susan imagined.
“You would think I was beating up someone in there, when I was just checking my face.” Kimberly’s five-foot-eight-inch frame was blocking out the sun. She was not only tall, but also as slender as a blade of grass that could be blown with the slightest bit of wind.
“Have you ever heard of this place in Alberta?” Susan asked.
“Rumours, that’s all. This Running Brook place is in some backwoods, and it’s supposed to be brutal.” Kimberly dropped her backpack and sat beside Susan.
“So what are we supposed to do there?” Susan didn’t like the sound of these backwoods. She was beginning to regret all the times she’d watched TV instead of doing her homework.
“Hiking and camping!” Kimberly spat on the ground with revulsion. The white suds of her spit fizzed and then disappeared in the June sun.
“That really blows.” Susan knew that the legendary trips to Alberta involved some kinds of outdoor activities, but hiking was just not her. She could just imagine what her father would say to all this: “The walking will do you good.” This would be in reference to her weight, of course. Susan knew she was of average height and a bit stodgy, quite the opposite of the lanky Kimberly.
“I don’t care for this kind of stuff. The only time a prospective supermodel should be among wildlife is for a photo shoot of some kind.” Kimberly combed her fingers through her hair and took a mirror from her bag. Susan was envious of her straight hair, her long limbs, and the high prospects she had for herself. Susan didn’t bother to look at her own curly black hair once in the day, not even when she was heading home.
