Harrison Squared Read Free

doorknob—and then it swung open, pushed from the inside. A very tall white woman in a very long black dress looked down at me. She seemed to be constructed of nothing but straight edges and hard angles, like the prow of an icebreaker ship. Her black hair, shot with gray, was pulled back tight against her head. Her nose was sharp as a hatchet, her fingers like a clutch of knives.
    â€œMr. Harrison,” she said. “I am Mrs. Velloc.” Her lips barely moved.
    Behind her, kids my age sat in four rows. Lengths of rope were draped from one desk to another, and the students were tying them together. Or had been, until they’d all stopped to look at me.
    They all seemed to be related to each other. Black hair, pale skin, dark eyes. Every one of them Caucasian. I fought the urge to back away.
    I said, “The woman in the office—”
    â€œMiss Pearl.”
    â€œRight. She told me to come here.”
    â€œAnd you followed directions. Perhaps you’d like a commendation.”
    Mrs. Velloc made a small gesture, and I found myself walking into the room.
    â€œClass,” she said. “This is Harrison. He is from California .” She enunciated the word carefully, as if it were an exotic country. I wondered how she knew where I was from. Had Miss Pearl buzzed her while I was on my way up?
    â€œHello, Harrison,” the students said in unison. Not just generally at the same time, but in perfect synchrony, like a choir. A choir that had been rehearsing.
    I lifted a hand in greeting. They stared at me. They were dressed in blacks and grays, not quite a uniform, but definitely a look , as if they all did their shopping at clinicaldepression.com. My tie-dye shirt was like a loud laugh at a funeral.
    I let my hand drop.
    â€œIt’s Practical Skills hour,” Mrs. Velloc said. “We’re learning how to make a proper net. Do you know your knots, or do you not?”
    â€œPardon?”
    She already seemed put out with me. “This way.” She led me to an empty seat in the first row. On the desk was a flat stick almost two feet long with notches at each end. Its middle was wound with rope.
    â€œLydia will show you the sheet bend. Miss Palwick?”
    The girl to my right—Lydia Palwick, I presumed, since I’m smart like that—looked at me with a slightly surprised expression, though that was probably because her eyes were so large. Her long black hair shined as if oiled.
    Mrs. Velloc turned and walked back to her desk. She picked up a tiny book and began to read to herself.
    I looked down at the section of rope that lay across my desk. Then I picked up the tail end of the rope that was spooled around the big stick. Okay, I thought. Tie this thing to that thing and make a net. No problem.
    Except I didn’t know any sailor knots. Mom did; she was great at that stuff. But I never went on boats. I didn’t know anything about nets or ropes or sheet bends.
    Lydia watched me fumble around, then took the stick out of my hands. She moved it in and out of the net, over and around, the rope spooling behind it. Suddenly there was a new diamond in the net.
    â€œWait, how did you—?”
    â€œLeft, loop, right, loop, over, and through,” she said. Her voice was flat, bored.
    I leaned closer to her and whispered, “Can I ask you a question?”
    She glanced to the side but didn’t pull away from me.
    I said, “How much of Practical Skills hour is left?”
    *   *   *
    Forty minutes later the class showed no sign of ending, and my fingers prickled from what felt like microscopic needles. I didn’t know that rope could get under your skin like that. Also? I was bored bored bored. My phone was getting zero reception, so there was no one I could text to back home, and no one here was passing notes or even whispering. They simply worked, fingers busy as spiders.
    I finally leaned over to Lydia and whispered, “Why is