Invitation to a Bonfire by Adrienne Celt Page B

cook for myself before the large exotics arrived. I’d need to be on hand to supervise where they were placed, how they were arranged; to make sure the watering system was correctly installed, and that there were fans angled around the room to provide proper airflow to every corner.
    â€œLunch?” I said to John. All summer we’d eaten together midday, choosing from the bare-bones selections the cafeteria provided for theyear-round staff, and I knew that with students and parents present the food would be more carefully prepared, a table of fresh-baked pies—apple, cherry, peach, pecan—set out to accompany the beef stroganoff and chicken à la king. “Just a quick one.”
    â€œOh, in there?” He frowned towards the dining hall. “No, hon. Siobhan packed me a sandwich. There’s some to share, if you want.”
    I considered the offer. Eating in the greenhouse was faster and easier; we’d finish in time to double-check our staging plan before the first truck showed up, and make sure no interlopers snuck in before the unveiling. It made sense, and I knew I ought to say yes. But I couldn’t help feeling the reflected glow of the new semester on my skin—an afterglow, really, in my case—and wanting to take part to whatever degree I could. The festival air was so familiar that I half expected Margaret to turn the corner and give me a perfunctory wave. Plus, I knew the limitations of my own cooking, and didn’t look forward to the months of scrambled eggs and sardines on toast that stretched ahead of me. A mouthful of hot food would do me good, I was sure.
    â€œOk, I’ll see you in half an hour, then,” I said. John raised his eyebrows and dug around in the knapsack he’d thrown into a corner several hours ago, pulling out a pastrami on rye.
    â€œYour funeral,” he told me. A strange choice of words, or so I thought at the time.
    20.
    Approaching the dining hall, my toes and fingertips tingled with goodwill. So many people hugging hello and good-bye. Such a fever of affection. None of the girls remembered yet that they’d have coursework beginning the very next day, long afternoons with mimeographed articles and eight A.M . classes to pull themselves out of bed for. They saw only the intermezzo: timing things just right to hand off notes in the hall between Geometry and European History II; the late nights ofpunch-drunk study parties that made seven-thirty alarm clocks so impossible. Spying a cute boy in town and pretending to have business the same direction he was strolling, coming up with terrible excuses to walk past the public high school or the arcade—or, if their tastes ran a bit more to silver, past the Eagles Club. All summer the campus had felt empty and bleak, but now it was home again.
    As I picked up my tray, one of the cooks spotted me from across the room and gestured furiously. John O’Brien and I often stayed to chat with the ladies over coffee, so I knew them all by name. This was Hilda, and running up behind her was a younger worker named Nadine. I waved back and flashed them a smile. Just then, someone knocked into my left elbow, sending my tray skittering onto the floor. “Oh!—” I said, as a group of students pushed ahead of me towards the entr é e line. They didn’t look my direction, just tossed their hair and kept on chatting—something about wanting to avoid the leftovers, which didn’t make sense, since this was Welcome Day. I assumed they hadn’t seen me, and grabbed a new tray, sliding behind the threesome and grabbing a plate of stroganoff on a fresh bed of noodles. Hilda shouldered her way through the hungry crowd and ran over to me. She grabbed my elbow and steered me away from the line, picking up a piece of strawberry rhubarb ( New flavor! was still all I thought) on the way to a table in the far corner of the hall.
    â€œWhy are you here?” she