Belle Rousseau's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

Belle had a spy and an opinion, but she still had no words. She had never once spoken to Mr. Phillips. Not in the hall, not at lunch, not near the copier. Moana's advice stuck to her anyway. Make him see her. To do that, Belle needed a reason to stand in front of him and open her mouth. She found one on the staff bulletin board. Rapunzel, who ran the art tower across town, was hosting a Saturday teacher outing at a pink cottage by the sea. Sign-up sheet below. Mr. Phillips's name sat on the first line. Belle did not sign field trips. She refused them on principle. But she wrote her name under his. Then she went to find Rapunzel. Rapunzel stood in the gym doorway, taping a flyer to the wall. She smoothed each corner slow, like the tape mattered. She did not perform. She just worked. "You're the literature teacher," Rapunzel said, not looking up. "You've never come to anything." "I'm coming to this one," Belle said. "I want to help plan it." Rapunzel finally turned. Her green eyes were plain and steady. "Why now?" Belle did not lie well, so she did not try hard. "There's a person I need to talk to." Rapunzel studied her a moment. "Art's no good alone," she said. "Neither is anything, really." She handed Belle a clipboard. "You can help. But you carry the flowers." That was how Belle ended up crouched in the dirt Friday afternoon. Rapunzel wanted the cottage garden fixed before Saturday. Belle knelt by a strawberry patch, mud on her good skirt, pulling weeds she could not name. A pink rose bush scratched her arm. She hated every second and did not leave. Then a shadow fell over the strawberries. Belle looked up. Mr. Phillips stood there, sleeves rolled, holding a watering can. He had come early to help too. Her whole plan arrived at once. She stood. Her heart slammed. "You're Mr. Phillips," she said. Stupid. She knew that. "Yeah." He smiled, easy. "You're new to this. I've seen you in the halls, right?" "Belle," she said fast. "Belle Rousseau. I teach literature." "Belle." He said it back. He actually said it. "You read too, then. Good. Nobody around here reads." She had done it. She had spoken to him. He knew her name and her subject. Belle's certainty came flooding back, warm and total. Then Mr. Phillips glanced past her, toward the cottage door. "Zip's inside picking rooms," he said. "She wanted us to share the drive Saturday." He crouched by the strawberries. "You should come sit with us. Zip likes new people." Belle's smile froze. She had won the sentence and lost the seat. Now she was not a stranger to Mr. Phillips. She was a stranger being invited into his life with Mrs. Zipoil. The door was open. Mrs. Zipoil stood inside it.