At the Twilight's Last Gleaming Read Online Free PDF Page B

course,
the
acting school of Britain).
    So, I felt fairly certain I had the role of Lucy.
    I’d gone to sleep last night, cozily clutching my pillow, thinking about that cape again closing over me, those glaring eyes taking me in, that mouth descending upon me, those strong arms around me, holding me in their clutches…..and then our laughter afterwards. Oh that was so much fun, Rebecca, he’d say. You have such a soul, girl. Say, we really should see more of each other. A movie this weekend?
    But I’d woken up in the middle of the night, cold and frightened, and I slept fitfully all night.
    Something seemed wrong.
    Was it just simple stage fright? Had I actually started thinking of what it would be like standing in front of a large audience in nightclothes, my bloomers hanging out, and emoting those stiff Victorian sentences?
    Now, in the principal’s office, I felt vulnerable and alone.
    Perhaps that was because I was vulnerable and alone.
    A buzzer buzzed, startling me. A secretary picked up a phone, listened briefly, spoke briefly, and then set it back into its cradle.
    “Dr. Canthorpe will see you now,” she said glacially.
    “Should I just go in?” I said.
    “Correct.”
    I got up, feeling a little dizzy. I walked down the corridor of closed offices. Each office was clearly labeled with metal plates. At the end of the hall was the door with the largest plate, this one with black letters.
    DOCTOR CROYDON CANTHORPE
    PRINCIPAL
    I had expected Dr. Canthorpe to come out and escort me back. Somehow it seemed like the courteous thing to do. The notion of walking back alone was frightening. It wasn’t as though the hall was dark and gloomy, or that skeletal arms might reach out from the doors and grab me. No, the hallway was well-lighted. But the coldness, the sterility, the efficiency felt quite inhuman.
    My stomach churned.
    I got up, shivered a bit, and began my march.
    At the end of the hall, I tentatively put my hand on the door knob. It was cold, cold as ice. I drew my hand away, had a second thought – and knocked instead.
    “Come in,” barked a gruff voice.
    I used both hands this time, twisting the knob. The latch clicked, the door opened with no squeak of hinges and I stepped cautiously into the office.
    It was a large office, bigger than the vice principals, and certainly much bigger than the cubbyholes occupied by the guidance councilors. Much of the spartan linoleum floor was covered with a beautiful Persian rug. Behind the standard issue wood and metal desk were walnut book cases stuffed with old leather volumes that perfumed the air with a sense of college, rather than high school. I had expected a big Maryland flag and a bigger American flag to dominate the disciplinarian’s den. No such items. I had expected a portrait of Maryland governor Spiro T. Agnew or at the very least President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Instead, besides bookshelves, he had the usual array of certificates and awards, clustered around an old large old fashioned landscape painting of a what seemed to be a castle amidst a dense forest.
    Dr. Canthorpe himself was sitting at his desk, working on some forms.
    “Just a moment,” he said, peering down at the forms through wire spectacles. “Have a seat.”
    In front of the imposing desk was a solitary wooden chair. There was a winged armchair and a small couch and a coffee table to fill out the comfort aspect of the office, but that chair…
That
chair was clearly not designed for any comfort, nor for faculty or staff behinds. It was the hot seat, situated like a meager creaky platform for the accused, above which towered the judge’s bench — the desk.
    I sat down.
    The chair was hard and awkward.
    Thus Principal Canthorpe kept me waiting another two minutes while he filled in the forms. His breathing was heavy and harsh sounding. As I sat, I became aware that the room was filled with a peculiar odor, a not unpleasant male muskiness that lurked beneath hints of pipe tobacco and