The Book of Miranda | gxg | ✔︎

(13) The Other Kind Of Dating

I waste no time vacating our classroom the moment the last bell rings. Mathematics is one of the few subjects we have that is not taught by Mrs. Hardwork. I didn't think there was ever a teacher who could make me miss that woman, but Mr. Worsley is one such rare bird. He possesses a singular and near-inhuman enthusiasm for the subject matter that could convince you God herself inhabited the Cartesian coordinate system if you parsed it hard enough. Suffice to say, I'd rather count matches in a pyromaniac's tinderbox.

I only lose the urge to run when I cross the crossroads and find myself back amongst the student dorms. By some miracle, my room key survived whatever fate befell my suitcase one; I can still unlock my own door. Clarice is not inside. I shut myself in and retrieve the Miranda Bible from underneath my mattress. Holding it now, the driving force behind my bet with Exie trickles through my fingers like so much cornstarch dough. Firm if you poke it, but it liquefies the moment I'm not directly under pressure.

I can delude myself for just a moment that I can actually uphold this part of our bargain. I grip the bible tightly, unwilling to open it and shatter my illusion like so much spun glass. Words have never been my friends, no matter how hard I want them to be.

My stupid pride wins out. I sigh and slip the bible—unopened—into the satchel I now wear during the school day, to carry all the nonexistent notebooks and pens I bring to class. The truth is, I just want somewhere to hide stuff that won't be suspicious when it comes time to be clandestine. The bible feels obvious on its own, so I stuff the satchel with a few more untouched notebooks and a handful of school supplies. If anyone asks what I'm up to with a brass geometry compass, three erasers, and a fountain pen without a single sheet of graph paper, I can always say I'm plotting someone's funeral. That tends to shut them up.

Clarice is a necessary part of me and Exie's after-school activities, which means Clarice-hunting is now a necessary part of mine. I pause to contemplate where I would go if I were a kleptomaniac given free roam of a cathedral that flaunts its stained glass windows but never lets its students touch a penny of that wealth. I snicker immediately. My destination is clear, so I stroll back to the crossroads with all the casual arrogance I learned from my father on his way to Sunday services. It takes only minutes to reach the school chapel. I peek around the organ.

"Finding shinies?" I say.

Clarice jumps so hard, she cracks her head on the keyboard's underside. "Ow," she says plaintively when she sees me. She sits back with a hand on her head and a suasive pout.

I grin. "Do you have a moment? Well, probably an hour. We want your thoughts on something."

Clarice starts to answer, then eyes me. "Who's 'we'?"

"Me and Exie. We're, uh..." I make sure we're still alone. Though even if we aren't, I guess I can play myself off as crazy for talking to the organ. "Investigating the school?" I finish in an undertone. "If that's something you want to be a part of. We've got a book that could use a second opinion, and you're most likely to recognize what's in it."

"Do you trust her?"

"Who?"

"That girl. Exie. Do you trust her?"

"Why?"

If Clarice has dirt on Exie, I'll have earned whatever natural consequences come my way. Clarice wrinkles her nose and scoots out from under the organ. She perches on the padded bench instead, kicking both feet like a schoolgirl half her age. Despite school dress code, she's not wearing shoes. I respect that.

"Are you close?" she says.

"No," I say, a little too quickly.

She gnaws her lip. "Are you sure she's a safe person to work with? She seems like... the good kind of student, if you know what I mean."