He laughed. Then he put his hand on my shoulder—which was still so bony I flinched—and led me over to his bass, locked up in a scuffed brown case. “Do you think you could do the drawing fast? The band already has a bass player, so I’m like the sub, but I think they’ll want me to rehearse with them soon.”
I nodded. “Where should I do it?”
“Not in here.” He blushed. “Out in the hall? If you’d be comfortable. I could bring you a chair.”
“Sure.”
I carried Griffin’s bass (surprisingly heavy in its case) out into the hall and waited. A minute later he returned with two chairs—one for him.
My heart banged. He was going to stay out here with me?
“Um, you said you wanted the griffin red, didn’t you?” I asked. “You said the bass was black and white, so I thought on the white part—”
“Cool,” Griffin said. He unlocked the case and took out his bass. Right away I could see he hadn’t been exaggerating. It really was in horrible shape, all nicked and scratched, like something somebody had found at a tag sale for ten dollars. No wonder he wanted a way to distract people.
I pulled out the griffin drawing he’d printed out, but just for making sure I was getting the details right. I didn’t want to copy it—it seemed too static, and my plan was to make the griffin seem like it was taking off. Not in flight, but getting ready for flight, one paw up, the wings arched.
The whole time I was drawing, Griffin didn’t say a word, which I was grateful for, because I was already plenty nervous. I drew slowly, because I couldn’t erase, and didn’t want to smear. Plus, I wanted it to look good.
When I finished, he shouted: “Norah, that’s awesome! Thanks so much! It’s exactly what I wanted!”
I beamed. And exhaled.
We grinned at each other.
Then he grabbed his instrument and ran inside the band room.
* * *
Just before leaving the building, I checked my watch. It was 3:25. Dismissal was 2:35, so I was fifty minutes late. I’d need to give my parents some excuse: Overslept on the nurse’s cot? Review session for a French quiz? Couldn’t open my locker? Yeah, that one: and I couldn’t find the janitor to help me unlock it.
I smiled apologetically as I got into Dad’s car. Mom wasn’t there, for some reason. “Sorry,” I began, “but my locker wouldn’t open and—”
Dad spun around. His face looked scrunched and strangely pale. “NORAH, WHERE WERE YOU?”
I swallowed. “Oh. I mean, I just told you, my locker—”
“Do you realize what time it is? We were frantic!”
“Why?”
“Why? Why?”
“Dad, did you think something had happened to me? If anything was wrong, they’d have called you, right?”
“Norah, don’t use that tone with me!”
“What tone?”
“The one you also used on us last night, when you called our rule ‘stupid.’ ” He got out of the car and slammed the door. “I’m going to look for your mother.”
Not “Mom.” “Your mother.” “Mom is here? Where did she go?”
“Searching for you inside the building. Where do you think she is?”
He stormed off. I felt dazed. Dad was the relaxed, jokey parent, the one who never yelled. Why was he overreacting just because I was fifty minutes late? People were late sometimes; it didn’t mean they had a relapse of cancer.
It was so unfair. The first good day of my life in the last two years had turned into this. Whatever “this” was.
A few minutes later, Dad showed up with Mom behind him. As soon as I saw her face, I could tell she’d been crying.
Crap.
She got into the car without saying a word, took off her glasses, and stared straight out the windshield.
“Sorry, Mom,” I said. I didn’t even bother to tell the fib about the locker.
She turned around to face me and exploded into angry tears. It was extremely awkward, because normally Dad would be the one consoling her, but they never hugged each other anymore. So I had to do it, even though she was furious with me and her body felt tight and stiff.
Finally, she pulled away and reached for a tissue in her purse. She honked her nose and put her glasses on again. Then she said: “Norah, don’t you do that to us ever again.”
“What did I do? I’m sorry I was late, Mom, but I didn’t do it to you.”
“Is that what you think? That your safety and well-being doesn’t affect us?”
“No. No! I just meant it wasn’t about you.”
“What was it about, then?”
A boy I maybe like. Okay, not “maybe.” Like. “I just wanted to check out Afterschool.”
“Afterschool?” Dad’s eyes were huge. “Norah, are you kidding? We discussed this with you just last night! I thought we’d made it clear: You’re not ready yet!”
“Well, I disagree.” I folded my arms across my chest.
My parents gaped at me.
“Norah, why are you acting like this?” Mom asked in a quiet, shaky voice. “You’ve always been so mature and responsible. Even when you were sick, we could always count on you—”
“And you’ve never treated us with disrespect,” Dad added.
“But I don’t disrespect you!” I protested. “I just wish you’d respect me.” Now I started crying, too. I didn’t see the tears coming; they just snuck up on me. “I’m sorry I scared you, okay? I should have called. But you’d have just told me I couldn’t stay, and I wanted to stay. And I swear I wouldn’t stay if I thought I couldn’t. Physically.”
“Norah, honey, you may not be the best judge of that,” Mom said, handing me a tissue.
“But I’m not a baby!” I shouted. “And anyhow, it’s my body! Who knows how I feel better than I do?”
My parents didn’t answer.
So I kept going. “This is so unfair. You guys never used to treat me like this! And how come you let me go back to school if you didn’t think I was ready?”
Dad sighed. “We do think you’re ready.
