And then she was in class and Clyde was not there. She wanted to run out into the sunshine, and run forever, mostly backward into yesterday, where everything was so very simple.
Looking at Teach, she could not help hating her: so poised, so calm, so understanding, so sure; even with the tiny crows-feet—the first signs of wearing out—around her eyes, as if she had never seen herself as a white death's head, and imagined the wind whispering over her grave and rustling the grass that had been her body, the green grass, dying. But Teach's movements were still quick and lively, and her body did not look as if there was death inside of it, waiting.
And as she watched Teach conduct the class and play upon it as a maestro might upon an orchestra, she remembered the last night, and the wind, and the boy, and she felt unclean.
Time hung suspended; and every second the clock let fall was a heartbeat of increasing intensity. Suspense was in the air, and Margy knew that she was waiting, waiting with a wound up tenseness that would explode inside of her if something didn't happen.
And it was almost a relief when the messenger came, and Teach said, "Margy, would you mind going into room C? Someone wants to see you there."
Trembling, Margy stood up. "Yes, Teach."
She left the room, her feet heavy, too heavy to turn toward the door and set running as she half wanted them to do.
She opened the door at room C and stood silently. There were three people in the room: Mr. Hershey, the co-ordinator, and a man and a woman; she did not need to be told that the man and woman were Clyde's parents.
"Come in, Margy," Mr. Hershey said kindly, but Margy couldn't move.