I eyed them nervously. I’d been hoping for something a little more interesting than your typical run-of-the-mill keep-off-drugs convocation.
But having spent a considerable amount of time in the company of the police only a few short months ago — even though I hadn’t been the one who’d actually done anything, just the one who’d taken all the blame for it — this was a little much.
The cops seemed to make everyone, not just me, nervous. The auditorium suddenly got very quiet.
“Mr. Flores,” the principal said into the microphone, “you may be surprised to know that I can see you perfectly clearly from up here. And you just earned yourself an OSS for the remark about my mother. That’s an Out-of-School Suspension, for those of you unfamiliar with the term. Please remove yourself from the school grounds, Mr. Flores, and don’t bother returning until Monday.”
Everyone in the audience hooted appreciatively at this as a young man in a black head scarf rose and sauntered — not appearing too concerned about his suspension — from the back row of the auditorium. The police officers observed his exit casually from where they stood.
This was a far cry from the Westport Academy for Girls, where the first assembly was always devoted to a loving tribute in song to the school’s founder, Miss Emily Gordon Portsmith.
“Hey.”
To my surprise, the guy in the white polo shirt had gotten up from his seat. Now he turned to face the entire auditorium. Without so much as wiping the nervous sweat off his hands onto his khaki shorts (probably because he had no nervous sweat), he said in his easygoing voice, “Welcome back, Wreckers.”
To my astonishment, everyone shut up to listen to him. I suppose this might have been because of the cops.
But there was something more going on than that. There was an ease, a confidence with which this guy spoke — and I suppose the boy-band good looks didn’t hurt, either — that made people seem to just want to shut up and listen.
“I know it’s been a long summer,” he said, looking serious and yet friendly and approachable. “And I’m stoked to be back and to see all of you, too. Well, some of you. Right, Andre?” His gaze fell on a guy in the crowd, whom he gave a mock frown. Andre pretended to cower in his seat. Everyone laughed.
“But Mr. Alvarez’s got the floor right now,” the guy in the white shirt went on. “So let’s hear what the man has to say. All right? Peace.”
He turned and sat back down to thunderous applause. I clapped, too, not even sure why. Except that everyone else was…except, I noticed, my cousin Alex.
“Why aren’t you clapping?” I leaned over to whisper.
He shrugged. Like his father, Alex wasn’t always super communicative.
“Thank you,” Principal Alvarez said as the clapping died down. He clearly wanted to seize control of the situation before anyone else could begin yelling about his mother. “Thank you, Mr. Rector, for that. And for all of you freshmen or transfer students who might be new to IHHS and don’t know, that was senior class president Seth Rector, who also happens to be this year’s varsity quarterback and treasurer of the Isla Huesos High School Spanish Club —”
Rector? I had definitely heard — or at least seen — that name around the island. Only where?
Oh, right. Since the local economy wasn’t doing so well — thanks, in no small part, to Dad’s company — every other business in Isla Huesos seemed to have a FOR SALE sign in the window. Rector Realty seemed to be everywhere. Could that be any relation to Seth Rector?
“I just wanted to say welcome to all of you, new and returning students, before I hand the microphone over to someone I think you know well. But first, I’d like to discuss an important safety issue with all of you. And that issue is…bonfires.”
Principal Alvarez looked down at his note cards. Note cards? Really? Snore.
“Why don’t we allow bonfires during IHHS football games anymore? Well, let me tell you. Here on Isla Huesos, the average temperature in September is eighty-seven degrees. At temperatures like that, a bonfire can quickly escalate out of control.…”
But it wasn’t just on realty signs I’d seen the word Rector. It had been written somewhere else.…
Now I remembered. It had been carved into the high-gloss marble of one of the mausoleums Mom and I had gone past in the cemetery during the bike tour of the island she’d given me.
Unlike all the rest of the crypts in the vicinity, the Rector mausoleum was on its own plot, cordoned off by a little chain fence, and was two stories, with shiny brass nameplates. This family had really gone all out for their dearly departed.
“Someone’s got money to burn,” I’d remarked, idly wondering why my necklace, tucked inside the front of the V-neck tee I was wearing at the time, had turned such a deep, stormy gray.
“Yes,” Mom had replied in a funny voice. “They do.”
“What’s the matter, Mom?” When I’d looked up from my necklace and over at her, I saw she’d gone as white as the sundress she was wearing. “Do you know these people or something?”
“I used to,” she’d said in a distant voice. “A long time ago.”
Then she’d seemed to shake herself, put her foot back on the pedal, and smiled at me. “Look at us, spending all this time in a cemetery on such a beautiful day. Let’s go get some lemonade.”
“And that’s why this year,” Principal Alvarez droned on, “we’ll be taking proactive measures to curb such activity. You should be aware that the Isla Huesos police officers, along with members of Isla Huesos High’s nationally recognized, award-winning innovative social services program, New Pathways, will be out in force the coming days — and nights — and they plan to be especially vigilant this year —”