The St. Ambrose School for Girls(24)

The second notice is white. It’s a stern reminder that nothing should be flushed down the toilets in the dorm except toilet paper. All sanitary items must be disposed of in the small metal trash receptacles affixed to the insides of the stalls. The plumbers had to come again to work on the pipes and it is expensive. I promptly decide that we must convene a dorm-wide meeting about the issue. I will write up the flyers and I will work with Ms. Crenshaw, Hot RA, and the married couple up on the third floor to set the agenda and I will address the students as a peer. After the meeting, no one will flush anything but toilet paper down the pipes and we will never again need those plumbers. I will save the school so much money that I will be invited to address the Board of Trustees on cost-saving measures campus-wide and the way to get teenage girls to comply with regulations. I will be the catalyst of institutional improvement that reforms everyone from the staff to the teachers to the administrators, and when I graduate with honors two years from this spring, I will hand over the mantle of leadership to a junior I handpick as my successor. She will follow in my footsteps and be almost as good as I am.

The final memo is blue. I read it through twice. It is from Ms. Crenshaw to the members of her Geometry I class. It is dated today. It explains that due to a personal issue, tomorrow’s class is canceled and the test on chapter three postponed until the Tuesday class next week.

I’m very happy with this unexpected snow day, and know that Strots will be jealous. Strots hates geometry, and based on how she struggles with her math homework, it is clear the subject is not any more favorably disposed toward her.

I turn away to the stairs, memos in hand, backpack hanging off my shoulder, smile on my face.

I stop.

I look back over my shoulder at the mailboxes. And do not move.

It is not immediately clear what’s frozen me in place. I look down at the blue memo—and as I read it for the third time, that is when I see the typo. In the concluding sentence, right above Ms. Crenshaw’s closing and signature, I catch the grammatical issue: “Be sure to study hard, its going to be a hard test.”

Actually there are two errors. The comma should be either a semicolon or a period that splits the two halves into proper sentences. And it is “it’s” as in “it is,” not “its” as in the possessive form.

No, there are three errors, if you count the repetition of the word “hard.”

Warning bells start to ring and I step back over to the boxes. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but this just doesn’t feel right. Ms. Crenshaw, for all her weirdness, speaks perfect English. The papers she sends home, the assignment sheets, the lists of supplies, the schedule of tests, everything is without a mistake.

But maybe this one time she was in a rush.

Francesca is in my class. I track down her box by her last name. She’s emptied hers. I try to remember who else lives in my dorm. There’s a Bridget, isn’t there? Yes, her room is on the first floor. But what’s her last name?

I eventually find Bridget’s box, but before I take out her flyers for a forensic analysis of their contents, I look around to make sure no one is in the phone room or the common area down the hall or coming out from the opposite direction. The coast is clear for this nanosecond, and I move fast before I’m caught.

Bridget, last name irrelevant, has received the donation reminder and the toilet warning, as well as a memo about soccer practice, a US Postal Service letter from what surely is her mother, and the blue flyer from Ms. Crenshaw. I put everything back but the blue flyer. Looking down at the printed words in memorandum form, I note the to and from, the date, and the subject being about the test, and I’m both instantly relieved at not being the brunt of another practical joke and simultaneously worried that my paranoia is returning.

Except then I read the verbiage. This memo says that the test, which is going forward tomorrow, will include an opportunity for special credit, and a problem is set out on the lower half of the sheet. Anyone who provides the correct answer will receive five bonus points.

I read Bridget’s memo two more times, and then place it back in her box. There were no grammatical mistakes, and it strikes me as wholly within Ms. Crenshaw’s style to actually give her students the bonus question in advance of a test. She wants us to get As. She needs us to get As. She’s rigging her own system to ensure that result, or at least something close to it.

My brain processes all of this while my eyes trace across the rest of the mailboxes. I move over so that I can see the undersides of the lazy sloping notices. I find a third dorm member who’s in the class. Savannah’s memo matches Bridget’s.

I focus on Francesca’s empty box. I wonder when she got her mail. I’m willing to bet it was after lunch.

Francesca works on the student newsletter. I know this because I’ve seen her byline on articles about Taco Tuesday, the importance of litter pickup, and the upcoming student election. She also reported that the Board of Trustees is meeting next week to discuss tuition increases and gave ideas for entertaining our parents over Parents’ Weekend. The newsletter comes out weekly, its ten or so pages stapled in the upper left-hand corner, its content more letter than news.

She’s unlikely to receive a Pulitzer for her penetrating investigation into Ambrose’s decision to suspend the campus-wide Sunday Ice Cream Sundae Bar indefinitely.

I’ve never been to the newsletter’s facility. But I’m willing to bet they have reams of colored paper and serious copiers there, because all eight hundred students receive the weekly missive and white is not the only page color they use. They of course also have computers attached to printers, and cubicles in which people can concentrate on their work without interruption.