At the top of the slope the phone went again. It was done, the voice said — the other side had not given an inch the whole way. How.
“Being there was enough.”
The 4:45 was the last that still made the flight.
Four o’clock had let the school out into the park. Uniforms came down the slope in twos and threes and fives; across the crossing the bus stop was full.
Two had stopped at the chestnuts past the car park, off the line the rest took. The taller held a notebook out, shaking it.
“You didn’t do my homework.”
Low.
The smaller stood with empty hands, eyes on the notebook.
“I’m never doing it.”
The tearing began on the second syllable of never. Through the spine first, then by handfuls. The pages came down under the chestnuts’ new leaves, white on green, and were still settling when the crying began.
The crying was true, and it carried. It went up toward the gate gathering words, and the words put the torn notebook in the smaller one’s hands.
A teacher came out at the sound and started down.
The smaller one did not look up.
The account would take a minute at the gate. Whatever it settled, the class would carry the rest of the day.
From the gate there were the crying and the pages. From the chestnuts there had been the hands. Between the gate and the chestnuts there had been one witness, and the witness had a ferry to catch.
A teacher was already here. The school would sort its own. The bag had a flight in it, and the hour on the notice would not move.
The feet had already taken the slope. Holding the head to the water took a small work at the back of the neck; the work got done.
The 4:45 gave eleven minutes. The walk to the pier took nine. The teacher was halfway across the grass.