Page 18 of A Scandal in Homeroom
Some years ago, Croft had had me tested. My IQ was 160. It’s considered genius level except when you consider I’m in the same company as actor Ashton Kutcher.So is it really that impressive?
Neither Croft nor I knew what my true potential was, only that I had a lot of it and sometimes, because of it, I couldn’t sleep.
It was just before dawn. The autumn sun was a little late getting started. I was jogging through the empty streets of the town, enjoying the silence. Barely anyone was up, and I was allowed to wander aimlessly, paying no real attention to any cars that might be barreling down on me.
Haddonfield was a friend to pedestrians and joggers alike.
I was probably in mile four, maybe close to five, when I veered off in the direction of the West End side of town. Just a few blocks of small, one-story homes that constituted the low-income housing section of town.
I turned down the first street, looking at the homes I trotted by, wondering which was Irene’s. Where was she? No doubt asleep in her bed, dreaming of something. What would she dream about? Being head cheerleader? Executing the perfect back spring?
Then I remembered what she told me about her mother, and I wondered if her dreams might not be darker.
I hoped not.
Slowing down, I turned a corner and stopped abruptly.
It seemed she wasn’t dreaming at all. Because instead of being asleep in her bed, she was walking towards me on the sidewalk, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled low over half her face. If her attempt was to hide, it wasn’t working.
I recognized her instantly by her lips alone.
Standing my ground, my chest still heaving from my previous efforts, I waited for her to finally look up. When she did, I could see the scowl on her face.
“What are you doing here?” she said, stopping a few feet in front of me. “Are you stalking me?”
“Miss Adler,” I acknowledged, then held out my arms to show her my apparel. I was in a pair of black basketball shorts and a tight long sleeved running shirt that absorbed my sweat. “Obviously, I was out for a jog. Less obvious is what you’re doing walking the streets so early in the morning, in that.”
Thatnot being the hoodie but the short, black dress she was wearing underneath it, with sheer black stockings and three-inch, knock-off designer heels.
“What are you implying?” She was immediately defensive, and I knew why.
“I’m not. Implying anything that is. Merely curious.”
“Late night,” she said, offering me nothing else. “Look, I need to get back into my house before the fosters wake up.”
“Wait,” I said, reaching for her arm as she tried to walk past me.
She stopped, and I could sense some level of vulnerability in her.
“I mean it. I wasn’t implying anything. It’s no business of mine what you do on a Saturday night into Sunday morning.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be my date next week.”
That was true. Except I didn’t feel particularly jealous.
“Are you worried I think you’re just coming home from being on a date with someone else? I’m not.”
That made her laugh.
“You’re not? It’s—” she looked at her phone “—just after six in the morning. I’m wearing heels and a dress. Where do you think I’m coming from?”
“Oooh. A challenge,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. She stood there while I circled her, taking careful note of her appearance. “You don’t smell like booze or weed so I don’t think you’ve been to a traditional high school party. The back seam in your tights, very sexy by the way, is still perfectly aligned. Which suggests they haven’t been fully removed since you put them on. I wouldn’t imagine you would be as careful putting them on after sex, if bothering at all. So I’m going to say you weren’t on a date with someone else. No booze, no boy, an activity that goes on well into the night…”
“How long is this going to take? I really do need to get inside my bedroom.”
“Gambling,” I said.
There was no visible reaction from her. No gasp, or spine stiffening. Still, I felt like it landed.
