“I just don’t understand why you turned on me,” I said. “Did it make you feel better when you knew Charlie and I weren’t getting along, or when the story you handed in got picked?”
“Actually, no. It made me feel sick to my stomach,” Nora said.
“They why did you do it? How did it help you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think I thought that if I could somehow step into your life and be just like you—have your friends and your clothes and everything else—that I’d be happy,” Nora said. She shrugged helplessly and shook her head. “I know it doesn’t make sense. And I’m not trying to make excuses for what I did.” She looked up at me. “I really am sorry, Miranda. The worst thing about all of this—worse than everyone finding out that I cheated with that story, worse than getting expelled from school—is that for once in my life, I had a really good friend. And I messed it all up.”
I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I took a tissue and wiped at them.
“And I know that you don’t accept my apology and that you can’t forgive me. But I really am so, so sorry,” Nora said.
I nodded. “Thanks, Nora. I appreciate that.” I hesitated and took a deep breath. “And I do accept your apology.”
“You do?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“But aren’t you still angry at me?” Nora asked.
Actually, my anger had faded. Which wasn’t to say that I was ready to trust Nora or to be her friend again. But I did think she was truly and honestly sorry for what she’d done. And I knew it couldn’t have been easy for her to come apologize in person.
“Not as much as I was,” I said, shrugging. “By the way, how did you get here?”
“I walked,” Nora said.
“Do you want a ride home?” I asked.
“That would be great,” Nora said. She gave me a watery smile. “Thanks, Miranda.”
“No problem,” I said, and for the first time since Nora had arrived, I smiled back at her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I sat outside of Headmaster Hughes’ office, waiting for my appointment to see him. Mrs. Boxer—who was the school secretary, but preferred to go by her official title of Executive Administrative Assistant to the Headmaster—was sitting at her desk, typing. Mrs. Boxer was a large woman, tall and broad shouldered, with gray hair that she wore in a beehive and eyebrows that had been plucked to thin lines. I could tell from the way she kept glancing over at me that she was bursting with curiosity as to why I was there.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Can I tell the Headmaster why you’re here?” she asked. She had an unusually high-pitched, breathy voice.
I suppressed a smile. Mrs. Boxer loved to gossip. Anything I told her would go straight into the school’s rumor pipeline.
“No, thanks. I’ll tell him at our meeting,” I said.
“Okay, dear,” Mrs. Boxer said. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, as though she were about to go back to work. But then she decided to take another stab at uncovering some good dirt. “It’s terrible what happened with the Lee girl, don’t you think?”
“Mmm,” I said.
Mrs. Boxer tsk-tsked. “In all of my years at this school, I’ve never heard anything like it. Plagiarizing a published story and trying to pass it off as her own. It’s simply shocking.”
She waited for me to join in with her condemnations of Nora. When I remained silent, she pressed on.
“I gather that you and Nora Lee were friends. And that you had a falling-out,” Mrs. Boxer said.
“You can’t believe everything you hear,” I said, smiling politely.
“Which part isn’t true? The part about you being friends, or the part about the falling-out?” Mrs. Boxer asked, leaning forward eagerly in her chair.
Fortunately, I was saved from having to answer this. The woodpaneled door that led to the headmaster’s office swung open, and Headmaster C. Philip Hughes stood there.
“Miss Bloom. Please come in,” he said.
Headmaster Hughes was as bald as an egg, with dark eyes that gave the impression of missing nothing, thick eyebrows, and a square jaw with a cleft chin. When he smiled, it was a close-lipped grimace that pulled the outer corners of his mouth down instead of up. I’d always found this disconcerting, as it meant that even when he was pleased, he looked disapproving.
I followed him into his large office, with its enormous desk, book-lined shelves, and fussy, old-fashioned furniture. He waved me into one of the navy blue damask wing chairs before taking a seat behind his desk.