The Sacrificial Daughter (14 page)

Jesse walked down the hall in a daze.

She felt empty, as if she no longer owned a soul. She had fled from the library and she had fled from the tears that she had caused to rain down from Mrs. Castaneda's...Carla's face.

"Carla," she whispered to herself. "Not Mrs. Castaneda...it's Carla."

Mrs. Castaneda had a murdered daughter, and perhaps out of all the people who hated Jesse, she was probably the only one with a legitimate right to.

Carla was just a small, pretty lady who ran the school library. A place that Jesse didn't think that she would ever go back to.

The bell rang and Jesse spun in place as four-hundred students flooded the halls. She had to look up at the nearest classroom door just to know where she was. Then she had to dig in her pocket to find her class schedule in order to find out where she was supposed to be.

Just as she was pulling it out, someone smashed square into her and before she knew it, she was on her back, listening to laughter. The blow sent a spike of pain through her shoulder and made her head swim. Whoever had run into her had meant not only to hurt her, but to also break bones if they could. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust enough to see who it was that was responsible.

It was the boy from her art class, the poor one whose father had been recently fired. He may have been slim to the point of gaunt, but he was also tall and clearly stronger than Jesse. "You should watch where you're going, bitch," he said to add insult to Jesse's ringing head.

Jesse kept quiet. The boy wasn't alone. With him was another boy that could have been his brother, Amanda Jorgenson, and the blonde girl who once again looked like a boy in a dress. Wincing, Jesse struggled to her feet and as she did she slipped a pencil out of her bag. She had sharpened the pencil herself just that morning. In no way did she
want
to use it, however Jesse wasn't going to get her pretty face bashed in without a fight.

"You got something to say?" the boy demanded.

"I'm just waiting on an apology," Jesse said, not backing down.

The hall went quiet. "Then you'll be waiting a long time, bitch." Snorts of laughter accompanied this, though who could have found it funny Jesse didn't know.

Now Jesse was in a very tough position. She had fought boys before and had lost before, every time. This would be no different; she was too much of a realist to pretend otherwise. Therefore she had to keep from fighting him, but at the same time she couldn't exactly back down either. She had to hit a nice middle ground.

"You're being rude calling names like that," she said, controlling her voice well enough despite the quivering of her chest. "You sound like a child."

"Whatcha gonna do about it, bitch?" he asked advancing.

Jesse forced herself to appear outwardly calm. "Are you thinking about fighting me? A girl, really? You would fight a girl?" she asked, allowing mocking incredulity to enter her voice. "Do you think that would that make you tough? Tell me, do you fight little children also?"

Her tactic of introducing shame worked and the boy paused long enough for Amanda to drag him back.

"She's just a skank, Ronny," Amanda said loudly, walking away with her arm through the boy's. "She's not worth it."

With the fight seeming to be over, a mass milling took place and Jesse was jostled about some more. This time, no one was looking to hurt her and she made her way through the crowd. Her next class was a study hall, which she hoped would be stress free. It was down a long hall and unbelievably she found Amanda and her friends walking in front of her. With a sinking feeling accompanying each step, she watched in horror as they went right into the room marked on her schedule.

"Oh, mother-pus-bucket," she sighed. "Why me?" With another bigger sigh, she straightened her shoulders and strode in.

The period wasn't bad at all. She had feared that the study hall would be more like a rumpus room than a place to review class work or catch up on assignments. Instead, the room remained quiet throughout. The teacher, Mrs. Spiros ran a tight ship and what's more she didn't once harass Jesse.

Jesse was even able to sit alone off to herself. In the back of the room was one of those desks designated as Ky's. She went to it immediately.
ALONE
was again carved into this desk, but in much smaller lettering. This was probably due to Mrs. Spiros, who kept a sharp eye out. For Jesse, study hall was like a mini-vacation from her troubles and she spent the time putting the finishing touches on her essay that was due in history.

She has secretly cheered when Mr. Johnson had given her the assignment on Rosa Parks. Jesse had written a term paper on the civil rights heroine the year before and it was still sitting pretty as you please in a file marked, poetry, on her computer. It was hidden this way because her father thought that every assignment should be fresh and new, for how else could one learn? He also hated poetry to such an extent that it could not be measured with existing technology.

Before history however, Jesse had to deal with economics and with Mr. Irving; it didn't start out well. He greeted her with this: "Miss Clarke, do you have a note from the school nurse for your absence yesterday?"

Jesse would've bet a hundred dollars that he already knew the answer to the question. "No. I was sick...you know...vomiting? I thought it best not to make a mess on the floor, so I stayed in the bathroom."

"You could still go to her and get your absence excused," he suggested with a gleam in his eye.

Right
, thought Jesse. The high school was far too small for Mr. Irving not to know her issues with Mrs. Daly. "That's ok, my father is fully aware of my missing class, and..."

Just then Ky came into the room. He literally ghosted between them and Mr. Irving didn't bat an eye at his passing. Jesse, on the other hand was so startled that she lost her train of thought and ended up staring at the boy. This time, she stared not so much out of interest, rather instead out of disappointment. She had seen "his" desk sitting alone and had secretly claimed it as her own, not knowing he shared the same class. Now she would have to find another spot.

"Miss Clarke?"

She turned in embarrassment back to the teacher. "As I was saying, he...my father knows the situation. Were there any assignments due from yesterday?"

Mr. Irving, not the warmest individual to begin with, turned cold. "I don't accept late work. Find a seat."

In her chest, Jesse's heart sunk. If Mr. Irving was against her, then she could add economics to the list of classes she would likely fail that semester.

Jesse glanced around at the classroom. She recognized all of their faces from other classes that they shared and it perked her up a tiny bit to realize that none of the students in the room had yet to be overtly mean to her. It was a victory of sorts. There were three empty seats, two near Ky and one directly upfront.

The one in front was out of the question as far as Jesse was concerned and she started to the rear of the class, it was then that Mr. Irving stopped her.

"Not those seats," he said in a clipped, precise voice.

With the attention of the entire class on her, Jesse went to one in front. It was a bare two feet from the teacher's desk and she felt like butt-kissing schmuck sitting there. But what could she do? In the silence that followed, she busied herself pulling out her binder and pretending to search for a pen. For some reason the class remained quiet around her. It seemed as though Mr. Irving was waiting on her to begin.

"The first thing I want to do is go over current events," Mr. Irving stated. "Luckily we have a local expert on economics here with us today."

Jesse felt her heart stop. He wasn't talking about her, was he? Without turning her head, she shot her eyes to him and saw that he was indeed looking right at her. She looked back at her binder and froze. Even her skin seemed paralyzed, unable to even twitch.

"Miss Clarke, could you please stand up so I can introduce you?" Jesse stood, still with her face pointing down to her binder. "Class, this is Jesse Clarke, her father is the town manager. I hear from reliable sources that she can explain budgeting better than some adults." Other than a few people stirring in their seats, the class was utterly silent.

"Miss Clarke, could you face the class?"

Jesse turned and for the first time that day felt the smallest pain in her ankle. She had turned, but because of the traction of her jungle boots, her foot hadn't. It wasn't bad, just a reminder for Jesse to still take it easy.

"Thank you. Could we ask you some questions?" Mr. Irving asked.

"I'm n-not an ex-expert on anything," Jesse said.

"Really? Ms Weldon said you explained all about baseline budgeting the other night."

"I might have answered some questions." Jesse felt like she was on trial. Strangely, she also felt guilty of whatever it was that she was being accused of. Desperately she wanted to sit back down and bury her head back in her bag.

"Could you answer some questions about your father's proposed budget?" Mr. Irving asked still precise. He was like a lawyer on cross-examination, or a cop giving someone the third degree.

Jesse's face felt suddenly hot. "I don't know what his proposals are exactly, so...no I don't think I can."

Mr. Irving strode to the front of the classroom. "So you're supporting something you know nothing about?"

Jesse was absolutely mortified at her treatment. Her face felt hot.
No Tears!
a distant voice called out from the deep recess of her mind, but to no avail. She felt them coming and she began to blink quickly, forcing them back.

"I-I-It's the same as everyone else," she managed to spit out. "All the other k-kids are all p-protesting and they don't know his p-proposals either."

"Speak for yourself," a boy two seats to her right said. He was loud and his voice was brittle with emotion. Jesse refused to look at him. "I know your father canceled the city's contacts with Waste Management and my dad got canned. What more do I need to know?"

Jesse could have warned the boy that was going to happen. "My f-father always cancels contracts that are longer than two years. It fosters more competition and brings costs down," Jesse replied, straight from memory. "Long term contracts have a tendency to drive competitors out of business. And this makes monopolies out of a few businesses which can then charge what they want, hurting everyone."

When she had finished, Jesse took a long shaky breath. The answer she had given was sound and hearing herself speak had calmed her somewhat. It didn't in any way mollify the boy whose father had been laid off however. He only glared.

"One question, Miss Clarke?" Mr. Irving asked. "Where does your father get the right to cancel contracts that were negotiated,
in good faith,
between two other parties?"

In a small voice, Jesse replied honestly, "I...I don't know." She had no clue how he did it; she only knew that he did.

Mr. Irving sighed tiredly as if this was all a strain on him. "This is part of the reason behind our protest. Not only is your father employing voo-doo economics, he is also doing it in a way that seems more suited to Nazi- Germany than to Ashton, Michigan."

So her father was a Nazi. What did that make her? One of those kid-Nazis...the Hitler youth? She didn't know nor did she really care. Not right then. At the word Nazi, the shaking in her chest and the heat creeping up from her neck changed slightly. It was still there, and was perhaps worse, but now it was fueled by anger.

Jesse gave only a contemptuous shrug and a flip of her hand in response to the teacher, who grew angry at the gesture.

"You don't care?" he asked incredulously.

She wasn't interested in defending James Clarke, nor was she interested in saving Ashton. Earlier she had been, but just then with the glaring eyes of hatred upon her, she couldn't remember why.

"Not when you throw around words like Nazi and...and Voo-doo." Jesse had never heard the term Voo-doo economics before, but it sounded made up and childish in her ears.

"Would you prefer the terms dictatorial and Trickle-down?" the teacher asked.

Without asking, Jesse sat down in her chair. She was done with Mr. Irving's version of The Salem Witch Trials. Just like those witches she was damned either way, so she figured she might as well be comfortable in her torture.

"I'm not my father. I never claimed to be my father. If you have an issue with him, take it up with him."

Mr. Irving was unfazed by Jesse's response. "I hope that you understand my purpose here isn't to anger you. Confronting incorrect ideas is a part of teaching. As an example, there are still people who believe the world is flat, as a teacher it's part of my job to explain how they're wrong."

"And you do that by having me stand up here like I'm on trial. Like I'm some sort of murderer..." Too late Jesse realized 'murderer' was probably a bad choice of words. "Like some sort of criminal?"

"Actually, having you stand is sign of respect," Mr. Irving explained. "When we are both standing, facing each other, then we are equal. You see? When you are sitting, then I'm the teacher and you are the student, which means my statements automatically carry with them more authority than yours. I'm just trying to help you to debate."