WHEN THE LUNCHbell rings, I head toward the library to collect my bike. Through the library windows, I see Ms. DiCarlo typing at her computer. The bleach smells emanating off her desk are especially strong, which means she’s been cleaning again. Still stressed. I bet if I went in there, I’d come out a blonde.
I should unchain my bike and leave. Court will be meeting me at the windsock soon.
But I can’t.
Ms. DiCarlo looks up as I push through the familiar doors. “Hi, Ms. DiCarlo.”
“Oh, hello.” Her features look especially pale today under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “What can I help you with?” she says a shade too brightly.
I fumble around for an answer, not knowing myself why I’m here. Guilt, probably.
Her manuscript,Avoiding the Torture Chamber of Medieval Library Collections,lays open on her desk.“That looks interesting.”
She touches her face. “Thank you. I’m hoping to get something published. It’s hard to make a name for yourself as a medieval collections specialist, especially if you’re a woman.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.” Because I did not know medieval collections specialists existed until today.
“Yes, well, it’s a huge problem. Most librarians are women, but the ones at the top are inevitably men.” She squirts her desk with cleaner and rubs it with a paper towel, rubbing so hard, she may set the desk on fire. “I hate to say it, but women get the short end of the stick almost everywhere, especially middle-aged women.” She chucks her paper towel in the garbage, then teases out a tissue and wipes her nose, which has started to run.
“That’s . . . sad,” I say lamely. If not for my mistake, Ms. DiCarlo would be sharing her lunch with a certain math teacher, instead of spending it contemplating gender treatment. “But I think that as long as there’s hydrangea, there’s hope.”
Smile lines appear on her cheeks, but instead of making her look old, they give her face a sweet kind of vulnerability.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kali rolls up on her bike and parks it in the racks. I exit the library.
“Talofa,”Kali says, jerking her chin up. “I’m late for lunch duty.” She starts making tracks. Her nylon windbreaker swishes with each pump of her arms. I jog to keep up, and together we join thenoisy mass of students on their way to the cafeteria. The nauseating smell of enchiladas and pizza intensifies with each step.
“You get your plants?”
“All but one. Court’s taking me to Playa del Rey right now to find it.”
Her head retracts. “Court?”
“Yeah. He had a change of heart. So where were you this morning?”
“Home. Thinking about earthworms.”
“Why?”
“Those earthworms have to eat dirt all their life. Talk about a sucky existence. Not only that, they have to worry about being stepped on, chicken gangs, the sun baking them. They don’t make SPF sleeves in their size, you know.”
I let out a teensy smile.
“But do those things stop them? They keep eating dirt, and crapping it back out. And look how nice they make the grass.” She holds her hand out to the smashed strip of crabgrass that runs along the building next to us.
“I know you’re making a point.”
“Never let fear stop you. I’m not going to let a squirrel push me around.”
“That’s good, but the squirrel still has your journal.”
“Humph.” Her face grows dark and her pace quickens.
“But you don’t have to worry anymore. I took care of her.”
Her eyes narrow to black slashes. “What do you mean?”
