For some reason, as Miss Schwartz stared down at her, Candy thought of Henry Murkitt, sitting in Room Nineteen on that distant Christmas Eve, waiting for his ship to come in.

Thinking of him, she realized what she'd been drawing so obsessively in her workbook.

"It's the sea," she said quietly.

"It's what ?" said Miss Schwartz, her voice oozing contempt.

"It's the sea. I was drawing the sea."

"Were you indeed? Well, it may look like the sea to you , but it looks like two weeks in detention to me."

There was a little eruption of laughter from the back of the class. This time Miss Schwartz didn't hush it. She simply tossed the defaced workbook onto Candy's desk. It was a bad throw. Instead of landing neatly in front of the disgraced Candy, it skimmed across the desk, taking the paper about Henry Murkitt, along with several pens, pencils and a blue plastic ruler, off the other side and onto the floor.

The laughter halted. There was a hush while one of the pens rolled to a halt. Then Miss Schwartz said: "I want you to pick all that trash up."

Candy didn't reply, at least not at first. She remained in her seat, not moving a muscle.

"Did you hear me, Candy Quackenbush?"

The Hackbarth clique was in hog heaven. They watched with smirks on their faces as Candy sat in her seat, still refusing to move.

"Candy?" Miss Schwartz.

"I heard you, Miss Schwartz."

"Then pick them up."

"I didn't knock them off the desk, Miss Schwartz."

"Ibeg your pardon ?"

"I said: I didn't knock them off the desk. You did. So I think you should pick them up."

All the blood had drained from Miss Schwartz's face. The only color that remained was the purple of the shadows under her eyes.

"Get up," she said.