Vision in White

He’d just lost his head for a moment, that’s all. And it was understandable considering the rest of the experience.

Still, he should probably write her a note of apology.

Dear Mackensie,

I want to offer my sincere apology for my untoward behavior on

the evening of January fourth. My actions were inexcusable, and

deeply regretted.

Yours, Carter

And could he possibly be any more stiff and stupid?

She’d probably forgotten about it anyway, after having a quick laugh with her friends. Who could blame her?

Let it go, that was the thing to do. Just let it go and get back to leading the class on a discussion of Rosalind as a twenty-first-century woman.

Sexuality. Identity. Guile. Courage. Wit. Loyalty. Love.

How did Rosalind use her dual sexuality in the play to become the woman at its end, rather than the girl she was in the beginning, and the boy she played throughout?

Say “sex,” and you drew teenagers’ attention, Carter thought.

How did—

He kept scanning notes, and called out an absent, “Come in,” at the knock. Ah, evolution, he thought, of identity and courage through disguise and . . .

He glanced up, blinked.

With his mind full of the engaging Rosalind, he stared at Mac.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

He lurched to his feet, scattered his papers so some sailed to the floor. “Ah, it’s all right. No problem. I was just . . .”

He bent to retrieve papers as she did the same, and knocked his head against hers.

“Sorry, sorry.” He stayed down, met her eyes. “Crap.”

She smiled, and the dimples came out to play. “Hello, Carter.”

“Hello.” He took the papers she offered. “I was just going over some launch points for a discussion on Rosalind.”

“Rosalind who?”

“Ah, Shakespeare’s Rosalind.

As You Like It?”

“Oh. Is that the one with Emma Thompson?”

“No. That’s

Much Ado. Rosalind, niece of Duke Frederick, is banished from his court, and disguises herself as Ganymede, a young man.”

“Her twin brother, right?”

“No, actually that’s

Twelfth Night.”

“I get them confused.”

“Well, while there are some parallels between

As You Like It and

Twelfth Night as far as theme and device, the two plays address markedly divergent . . . Sorry, it doesn’t matter.”

He laid the papers down, took off his reading glasses. And prepared to face the consequences of his actions. “I want to apologize for—”

“You already did. Do you apologize to every woman you kiss?”

“No, but under the circumstances . . .” Let it

go, Carter. “Anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped by to give you this. I was going to leave it at the front office, but they told me you had a free period, and were in here. So I thought I’d give it to you in person.”

She offered him a package wrapped in brown paper. “You can open it,” she said when he only looked flustered. “It’s just a token—appreciation for letting me dump on you the other night, and for the hangover you spared me. I thought you might like it.”

He opened it carefully, peeling up the tape and flapped ends. And took out the photograph matted in a simple black frame. Against the black and white of snow and winter trees, the cardinal sat like a living flame.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s nice.” She studied it with him. “One of those lucky breaks. I took it early yesterday morning. It’s no belly-crested whopado, but it’s our bird, after all.”

“Our . . . Oh. Right. And you came in to give it to me.” Pleasure flustered him nearly as much as embarrassment. “I thought you’d be angry with me after I . . .”

“Kissed my brains out,” she finished. “That would be stupid. Besides, if I’d been pissed, I’d have kicked your ass at the time.”

“I suppose that’s true. Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“I liked it,” she interrupted, and rendered him speechless. Turning, she wandered the room. “So, this is your classroom, where it all happens.”

“Yes, this is mine.” Why, dear God, why couldn’t he make his brain and his mouth work together?

“I haven’t been back here in years. It all looks so much the same, feels so much the same. Don’t people usually say the school seems smaller when they go back as an adult? It actually seems bigger to me. Big and open and bright.”

“It’s a strong design, the building I mean. Open areas, and . . . But you meant that more metaphorically.”

“Maybe I did. I think I had some classes in this room.” She walked around the desks to the trio of windows along the south wall. “I think I used to sit here and look out the window instead of paying attention. I loved it here.”

“Really? A lot of people don’t have fond memories of high school. It’s often a war of politics and personalities, set off by the cannon fire of hormones.”

Her grin flashed. “You could put that on a T-shirt. No, I didn’t like high school all that much. I liked it here, because Parker and Emma were here. I only went here a couple of semesters. One in tenth and one in eleventh, but I liked it better than Jefferson High. Even though Laurel was there, it was so big we didn’t get to hang out all that much.”