Not That Kind Of Girl

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“I love the bonfire idea, Natalie. It takes me back to my Ivy League days. You’re really thinking outside the box. And I’m anxious to see what other projects you propose this year.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bee.”

She leaned in close. “I didn’t want to tell you this before, in case something terribly unjust happened and you didn’t win the election. But there have only been eight other female student council presidents in the history of Ross Academy, and none since I returned to teach here eleven years ago. Which, honestly, as a woman who cares deeply about these sorts of things, made me feel like a complete failure.”

I turned to say something, but Ms. Bee just stood there, admiring the wall and the rows and rows of slightly dusty frames holding the portraits of former student council presidents. It took a second before I realized her picture was right in front of me.

I knew Ms. Bee had divorced her husband — a professor of philosophy — several years ago. They’d lived overseas and had never had children. After the separation, she’d returned to her childhood home in Liberty River and begun teaching at Ross Academy.

She had been beautiful back then, too. Pin-straight raven hair, dark eyes, small pearl studs and a tiny gold cross. She was grinning more than smiling, one eyebrow arched with a tinge of mischievousness. Nancy Bee.

Ms. Bee pointed to the empty space next to the final picture, of Will Branch. Unfortunately, he’d blinked at the worst possible time. I wondered if people ten years from now might assume he was blind. “This is where your senior portrait will hang, Natalie. It’s an exclusive club, but I know you’ll make a wonderful member. And you’ll be known forever as number nine.”