Saving Nightlock

5. Lines Are For Children

September 25, 03:30 P.M.

Tallahassee, Florida, U.S.A.

St. Andrews High School.

ISABELLA.

My face glum, I look down and sigh at the fine lines of Mrs. Dimitrov's writing sample.

'I must not look at my cell phone or other electronical devices while in class. I must not steal my electronic devices back once they've been suspended. I must not talk back to a teacher or threaten to sue her or ruin her career at any point in time, not matter how I feel. (Jessica Cutler, copy the lines above at least 100 times. –Mrs. Dimitrov).

Lines? Really? Why?! Lines are for children! Damn my coordination and perpetual clumsiness.

With another sigh, I pick up a pencil and begin writing slowly.

It will be fun, he said, you'll enjoy every minute of it, he said. "He" is my dad. I still remember him standing with one hand in his pocket, and the other waving goodbye as I boarded my flight back to America. I'd been on a vacation around Europe for the holidays with some of my classmates from the "prestigious" school I'd attended before in New York, and spent my last week of freedom with him. Though I love him, I wish I'd been there when Irene paid him a visit. From what I've heard, it was quite a drama.

She gleefully calls him "old man" or, more preferably, "a lot of dtor-lair" (whatever that means). He calls her an "angry bee" behind her back. I'm not sure why dad is afraid of Irene though; she can be quite intimidating when she wants to be, but his anxiety whenever he sees her seems to go deeper than that. Much deeper.

Her relationship with Henry seems to be a lot better, or so I've heard. When Irene talks about Henry, which is too often for my taste, its as if he is her savior. She practically worships him, emulating him to the point where I'm surprised she hasn't undergone plastic surgery yet. I don't think that's too surprising though, considering her life. Jemima told me off for being "insensitive", since Henry rescued Irene from a horrible foster home when she was just four. He took her in as his adopted daughter and trained her himself. I've only seen him once, or twice, from a distance, but he sounds like a great guy.

My dad works for Henry as a sort of secretary. He handles all the finances, letters, top agents like Irene and Jemima, representations, presentations, pretty much everything that has nothing to do with actually being in the field. My mother used to be in the field though. She was one of the best at what she did and she was his everything. Even though she died when I was just a baby, I want to be just like her.

Beep. My phone buzzes anxiously in Mrs. Dimitrov's desk. "I'm scared," it seems to squeak, "Come get me, super agent Isabella, save me! The old lady smells!"

Mrs. Dimitrov reaches for it and cruelly turns it off. Her eyes don't even leave the book she's reading.

"I'm sorry," I mouth silently towards the dead device, and continue copying my lines. I hope it will forgive me when once I get it back. Perhaps I'll buy it a new phone sticker to make up for it.

"Hi, Mrs. Dimitrov! Is it ok if I borrow Jessica for moment?" Jemima's head pops into the classroom and I hold my breath as she says those magical words. Say yes, you miserable old hag, or I will shame you with my superior intellect in the next pop quiz about the Rationalization of Ethnomethodology.

"Of course you can. That is, if she's finished her lines." Oh, it's on. Prepare to be shamed.

"Ok," Jemima says and withdraws her head. My pencil flies faster over the pages as I keep one eye on my paper and the other on my wristwatch.