Ficlet 3
"Coming right up," the guy stammered, glancing surreptitiously at Grissom's package before darting away.
"Class, settle down. Jimmy Jordan, don't make me have to come over there."
Sara Sidle leaned her head on her palm, doodling in her notebook. It was Career Day yet again. Every year, her school would bring in lawyers and doctors and postal clerks to come in and talk about their jobs. Most were parents, though occasionally they were able to entice outsiders. Not much of a draw, though, since they didn't offer any pay and junior high students tended to be less than attentive.
She worked on her concentric circles slowly, painstakingly. It didn't matter if she listened to this guy or not. She already knew what she wanted to do with her life: get out of Tamales Bay. Beyond that, it didn't really matter.
Though she suspected she'd make a really good rock star.
"Our first speaker is a guest lecturer at Berkeley tomorrow, and he agreed to come and talk to our class first. Isn't that wonderful?"
Peachy. She worked on her spirals, too, admiring the way the ink flowed off the ball point of the pen.
"He is what's called a criminologist."
At this point, Sara zoned out. The guy standing at the front of the room was nice enough looking, and spoke with quiet authority. But, truth was, she didn't really want to hear about murder, or robberies, or domestic abuse. Especially not domestic abuse. Pulling her long sleeves down a little further, she started drawing parallel lines. Straight, narrow, and perfect.
"Hi there."
Sara looked up in surprise. The period must have ended, because the room was now empty, except for the criminology speaker, who was walking her way with a friendly expression.
"Hi."
"What's your name?" the guy asked, holding out his hand.
She shook it reluctantly. "Sara Sidle."
"It's nice to meet-" he broke off suddenly, noticing the dark bruises on her wrist. His eyes darted to her other wrist, and she pulled both sleeves down self-consciously. "Sara? Are you-"
"I'm fine," she interrupted, gathering up her books hurriedly. "I got them in gymnastics, from the rings."
It was an old excuse, but it usually worked on adults. "Oh," he said, and she felt the usual combination of relief and despair.
"I should get to my next class."
"Sara?" he called after her. "Here." He held out a business card, which she took after a moment. "In case you ever want my help."
"Thank you, Mr.-" she glanced at the card quickly, "Ecklie."
"You're welcome," he said kindly, following her out the door.
She didn't call him later that week, when her father broke her collarbone. She didn't even call him when her mother took out the big steak knife and decided she'd had enough. In fact, she never called him at all. But many years later, when the physics seminar she'd wanted to take was at maximum enrollment and she needed another credit, something made her look twice at the criminology course.
"Hello, class. My name is Gil Grissom, and I'm what's called a criminologist."
The instructor was nice enough looking, and spoke with quiet authority.
And this time, she listened.