Michael Malone - Weebly

that 98 was good enough, was pedaling full speed along
Cromwell Hill Road. She had raced out of Dixwell High
without bothering to turn down the hall to see if her
friend Joy Strummer was at her locker yet. A team of
ball-dribbling boys would have surrounded Joy
anyhow. Swinging dangerously onto the gravel path,
Polly entered the courtyard behind St. Andrew's.
Father Sloan Highwick was out there, clipping the roses
all wrong and humming the Nicene Creed, "He suffered
and was bur-i-ed."
"Guess what?" she called.
"Yes, terrible. I already know."
"How?" Polly dismounted.
"I had dinner last night at the Ransoms. Everyone
was there. Very pleasant. Except, of course, for poor
Mrs. Abernathy. And poor Mr. Abernathy. And that
poor misguided fellow, Rage, who has apparently, I say
apparently, um, gone away with her." The rector sighed.
"Such is Life, Polly dear. Not all roses." He
returned to clipping his.
Polly was chagrined. Elation over her now
worthless scoop deflated like a bike tire. She kicked