Five

The school in the state of near deserted was how l liked it best. It wasn’t creepy, like an empty school would have been, and it wasn’t as crowded as during the day. If not for all the residual stress from classes, it would be almost peaceful.

Residual stress was what I was feeling as I strolled back to Ms. Moreno’s classroom after school. So far, my experience with Psychology was exactly one day old, but I could already tell I was going to hate it. I hadn’t elected to be in Psychology, even though it was technically my elective. It just fit my schedule. Actually, they’d (they being the Powers That Be, aka Guidance) originally wanted me to take Child Development, but I’d refused. I don’t think I’m mistaken in saying that no parent wants me near their child. Not that I’m irresponsible, or anything.

When I got to the room, Ms. Moreno wasn’t there, so I sat down in my usual desk and started my Psychology homework. Now, while some individuals (my cousin in included among these) might consider it cruel and unusual for teacher to assign homework on the first day of school, it was something I’d become accustomed to. High-level classes meant a high-level workload, which ate up time, like I wanted it to. Psych wasn’t my only class with homework, either—I’d been given assignments also in French, AP Chem, and Calc.

Ms. Moreno sauntered in a good ten minutes after the final bell—good thing my ride wasn’t waiting for me. Neither of us much bothering the other, I began to patiently pack up my books while she rifled through some files to find the list that I’d been dying to see all summer. Well, maybe dying is a bit extreme. But I did want to know what it said.

She passed it off to me, and I scanned my eyes down the list that was handily alphabetized. There were only three names before mine: Abbot, Branwen, Brody.
Then, me. Clements, Deirdre: Production Manager. For a moment I was confused, thinking she had handed me last year’s list, with last year’s jobs on them. But, no, Liz—last year’s editor-in-chief—wasn’t on this list.

I turned my eyes to Ms. Moreno in a baleful stare, and waited. One of the things that I liked best about Ms. Moreno was that she understood me as well as she needed to, and knew that I – well, that I didn’t talk.

Well, that’s not strictly correct. I speak. If someone asks me a question, I answer. It would be rude not to. But I don’t really say anything unless I am asked a question. I just didn’t really see the point.

When Ms. Moreno didn’t notice me immediately, I looked back down at the paper to see who had been the beneficiary of what was obviously a mistake. It took me a moment—the jobs weren’t in order—but I found it just the same: Morrison, Bane: Editor-in-Chief. Who was Bane Morrison, anyway?

If I hadn’t thought that this was a mistake before, certainly I did now. I didn’t recognize the name Bane Morrison, and as Production Manager last year, I had made up the staff lists. He was probably just a freshman.

I stood up and went to stand at the foot of Ms. Moreno’s desk, so to stare at her with more efficiency. This time, she noticed me almost immediately. Well, good. This magazine being one of the few things I really cared about, I wanted this fixed. “Is there a problem, Deirdre?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“I’m production manager,” I muttered. Ms. Moreno flushed slightly. She knew about all of this nonsense?

“Well, congratulations Deirdre!” she exclaimed with false enthusiasm. “Production manager is an excellent position, and you should be very proud.”
I cast my eyes back down to the list in my hands. “Bane Morrison?” I asked, only slightly bitterly. At least if I wasn’t going to get the position I deserved, someone who almost deserved it should. Not some clueless newcomer who had only learned what a literary magazine was three weeks previous.

Ms. Moreno shifted uncomfortably. Well, if she didn’t want to have this conversation, maybe she should have given everyone the jobs they deserved. I probably hated confrontation more than she did. “He’s very well qualified, Deirdre, so don’t worry that the magazine will suffer. He has some excellent ideas, and wants to do big things with Memorandum.” As if good ideas and qualifications beat out hard work and loyalty. “And you don’t exactly talk during meetings, Deirdre. I have no guarantee that you could conduct them. Bane is very charismatic, I think. You’ll like him.”

Somehow, I doubted this. If someone who had worked on a literary magazine before had the gall to walk in and ask for editor-in-chief, I probably wouldn’t like them.
Particularly because they had received said position. And that position should have been mine. But I didn’t say anything to Ms. Moreno. I just turned my head, shouldered my bag, and headed for the door. That was fine, though; I doubted she’d expected anything else, from me, anyway.

Just as I’d laid my hand on the doorknob, it was jerked out from under my hand, to reveal Dirty Blonde and Brunette’s “gorgeous” boy, the athlete from Calc and Poetry. I stepped aside to admit him, and he gave me a smile and nod of thanks.

Probably he was here to switch out. Poetry and cross country seemed to be a bit like oil and water, at least judging from the significant lack of athletes to take poetry in the far side of forever. Well, in any case, it wasn’t my problem, or my business. “Hey, Ms. Moreno,” said the boy, causing her to jump a little in her chair—she hadn’t been paying attention.

I put out a hand to catch the door, which was slowly swinging closed, when Ms.
Moreno called out, “Deirdre, wait.”I paused, turning my head in response. She flapped a hand at me. “Come here, silly girl.” I let my hand drop, and sidled closer with an inward sigh. I made my way forward until I stood in front of her desk again, hands clasped loosely behind my back.

The boy looked at me quizzically, one eyebrow raised. That’s right boy, stare, why don’t you? “Deirdre,” Ms. Moreno said with a cheerful tone so forced that I knew what was coming had to be bad. “This is Bane Morrison. Bane, this is Deirdre Clements, your production manager.”

I did a full turn to look at him. This was the editor-in-chief, the bozo who had seen fit to steal my job? He was still in running shorts, for goodness sake! And what kind of name was Bane, anyway? I, on the other hand, have an actual name, of which I know the root and history. Take that, Bane.

He stuck out his hand, and I was so surprised that I actually took it. “Nice to meet you,” he said politely. I nodded once. He released my hand, and slowly I let it fall back to its place by my side. Yet, his eyes never left mine, each silently assessing the other. Already I was certain that most of this year’s responsibility would fall to me—like last year, when Liz had gone to France during final production—and that I would be in charge in everything but title.

Ms. Moreno stood and we both turned back to look at her, him, easily, me, kind of reproachfully. I could at least see what she meant about the charisma. She seemed more relaxed with him in the room, and he was clearly relaxed, leaning against a bookshelf—very blasé. Too bad I seemed to be immune.

“Why don’t you tell Deirdre about your plans for Memorandum, Bane?” Ms. Moreno suggested easily. “I’m sure she’ll be invaluable help to you—she knows how to put out a magazine unlike anyone else.” Strange, wasn’t it, how Ms. Moreno was defending my position in this dispute?

Bane’s cool detachment melted into enthusiasm. That was unexpected. Who would have thought that an athlete could summon an interest for art and poetry? Still, I harbored no doubts that for him, this was nothing but just another check that he could put on his college applications.

“Well,” he began, spreading his hands out in front of him. For the first time, I noticed two sizeable booklets in his hand. “I have here a copy for each of you of my old magazine.” He handed one to Ms. Moreno, and put the other down in front of me when I made no move to take it. It seemed that Ms. M had warned him about me, or something. That was both flattering—I was a force to be reckoned with—and insulting—she thought I would be difficult enough that I deemed a warning.

I looked at the magazine in front of me. There was no title, just a quote: “The man who tries to do something and fails in infinitely better than the man who tries to do nothing and succeeds.” Well, wasn’t that charming.

“It was a monthly publication,” Bane explained. Without turning my head, I shifted my eyes up to him. “Every month had a different quote.” Unless I’m very much mistaken, he grimaced slightly at this. I agreed—how ridiculous. “And, while I wouldn’t think to touch your title, I would like to change one thing to match my old magazine.” Of course he would.

Both of the people in the room seemed to be waiting for me to speak. Apparently this was some sort of test, for me as well as for Bane, to see how this whole deal was going to work out. Well, I wasn’t going to get angry. It wouldn’t help, and besides, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

“Tell her,” Ms. Moreno squeaked excitedly after a moment.

Bane shrugged. “Well, I’d like to make Memorandum monthly, as well. I’ve seen the issues, and I think it can be done. Particularly last year’s spring issue—fabulous.” He fluttered his hands around in a makeshift sign language, indicating at myself and Ms. M at seemingly random intervals. “I want to channel that talent and turn it into something that’s as big in this school as it was at mine.”
Rather than replying, I set my bag down at my feet; all my new textbooks were getting heavy. This actually made sense, now. Ms. Moreno had wanted to make Memorandum come out more often than bi-annually for as long as I’d been working on the magazine. She’d suggested it to Liz and me last year, but we’d insisted that it wasn’t possible, not with the number of submissions we were getting. Though she surely didn’t see it this way, Ms. M had seen her dream come knocking and had sacrificed me for it.

“Any questions, Deirdre? Comments?” Ms. Moreno asked me as if I were a first grader. Although, I supposed her question was justified. I wouldn’t have offered an opinion, or asked anything that needed asking, if I hadn’t been prompted for it. How else was I supposed to know that what I had to say was actually wanted?
I reached out and picked up Bane’s magazine. It was thicker than Memorandum typically was—I wondered how they’d possibly gotten enough submissions in a month to fill this many pages. If this Bane character wasn’t a marketing genius, his idea was going to crash and burn. But if it worked… I nearly smiled. If it worked, we’d have something really good happening.

“We’d have to start soon,” I offered, mentally calculating how quickly this was going to have to get done if we wanted a publication at the end of September. Ms. M smiled beatifically—I was her best –and she knew it, despite this miss-assignment of roles— and I was in.