Charmed by Carrie Mac

Author:Carrie Mac
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: JUV000000
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2004-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Margaret corners me in front of the school as soon as Dillon pulls away in his Jeep, with Tuck sitting pretty in the front seat like he’s always been Dillon’s dog.

“Where have you been?”

“Dillon’s. You know that.”

Margaret rolls her eyes. Amanda is standing off to the side, pretending not to be listening. She’s so obvious.

“Why haven’t you been at school?”

I shrug. “I’m here now.”

She rolls her eyes again. She glances at Amanda. Amanda purses her lips.

“Yeah, but what about the last three weeks?”

“It hasn’t been that long!”

Amanda purses her lips tighter and adds an annoying rise to her eyebrows. She looks like she’s about to birth a toad out of her mouth. “Oh, yes it has.”

“Stay out of it, Amanda.” If I were someone different, I’d punch her prissy lights out right about now.

“We’re worried about you, Izzy.” Margaret’s expression is so sweet, I wish I could ignore the “we,” but I can’t.

“We?”

Margaret pales. “Well, of course Amanda is worried about you too. Right, Amanda?” Amanda nods so enthusiastically that I wouldn’t be surprised if her head fell right off and rolled into traffic.

“What the hell does she care?” I glare at Amanda. She smiles like I’m some kind of gimp to pity.

“Of course I care.” Amanda’s breath stinks. Good luck ever trying to find a man who’ll kiss that.

I shake my head. “I don’t need this crap.”

Margaret takes my hand. “Mrs. Singh’s been asking about you.”

“Did you give her my number?” If she did, I’ll kill her.

Margaret looks like I’ve slapped her. “How could I?” She lowers her voice, but that just makes Amanda perk up her ears. “You never gave it to me, Izzy.”

“Well, Margaret…” God, some friend I am. “You never asked.”

“Come on, Margaret.” Amanda backs away. “We’ve got to get to class.”

Margaret stares at me for a second and then follows Amanda inside.

It gets worse. Mrs. Singh takes me out of my first class and escorts me straight to her office. I actually love her office; it smells like oranges and cloves, and it’s decorated with Indian tapestries and rugs and shimmering blue and gold drapes. She is the first East Indian principal in the district, and only the third woman ever. Last year, the news was right into her and she gave television interviews in this office, dressed in her saris. My mom says she’s glamorous and smart, but what does that matter if you hate kids? Everybody knows she hates kids.

There’s a bowl of East Indian sweets on her desk, but you’re only allowed one if you’re in there because of something good. She takes one, tucking it into the corner of her mouth to speak. “Tell me, Izzy.”

“Tell you what?”

She rolls her hands in front of her. “Come on, tell me.” She has a real English accent mixed in with her East Indian accent. It sounds like a nice smell. She should work at some posh private school where everyone’s polite and wears uniforms, not this grungy hole. I wonder why she doesn’t?

“Okay, fine, Izzy.

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