Her father sighed periodically, evidently frustrated by his students' nonsensical answers, or maybe just their lack of effort. The ceiling fan whirred above her, gently ruffling her auburn curls, making them tickle her face. She barely noticed, absorbed in her task, and occasionally brushed a hand across her forehead to push away an errant strand.

She'd finished all the piles except for the largest, the quarters. She leaned back and stretched her hands over her head, yawning loudly. A brief glimpse to her right indicated that her father was still quite irritated by his work.

“Dad?”

“Yes?” He looked up from his paperwork.

“What's a fallacy?” She worked on the quarters, settling into the comfortable rhythm of counting them and making little stacks. Four to a stack. Ten stacks of four. Roll them up. Repeat. Always the same; never more, never less. It was a reassuring routine.

“A fallacy? Well, there are all kinds of them. Non sequitur, hasty generalization, begging the question—”

“No, no,” she interrupted, taking the completed rolls and piling them in a triangular shape. “What are they? What does it mean?”

“Oh, I see what you're asking.” He scribbled a few notes on one of his papers. “A fallacy is an often plausible argument using false or illogical inferences.”

She set down another thick roll of quarters, adding it to the pyramid. “In English, please.”

He shook his head and laughed, the deep sound rolling easily from his throat. It nearly drowned out the chatter from the television.

“Alright, Izzy. Let me see here... a fallacy is like...” he paused, placing his right index finger against his lips, deep in thought. “Okay. It's an error in a person's thinking. An error that will lead to a conclusion or decision that's wrong.”

“Mmm,” she said, nodding in affirmation. “I see.”

“Well, good. That means you're at least one step ahead of these guys.” He lifted some of the papers and lightly smacked them with the back of his hand. “ They don't get it at all.”

“Why?”

“They don't listen. I could talk 'til my voice gives out and still nothing will get through to them.”

“Why won't they listen?”

“I don't know,” he sighed. He set down his work and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. She paused her quarter-counting and studied him curiously.

“Mom says you work too hard.”

He barked a short laugh. “Does she?”

“Yeah.”

“She might be right about that,” he said thoughtfully.

“But then again, she doesn't get it either. Like the students. She doesn't quite understand. She—” he halted abruptly, looking at his daughter. “Never mind. I shouldn't be telling you this.”

“I get it,” Isabelle supplied helpfully.

His teeth flashed white, and the laugh lines around his face creased deeply.

“I know, Izzy.”

“Good.” She pointed to her pyramid. “I'm done.”

v

On any other day, the blank canvas before her would not have been quite so captivating. It was just a wall, after all, and not a very pretty one at that. The white latex paint was chipping, and the baseboard was cracked in several places. Yet it offered her comfort, somehow, so she indulged.

“Oh, Izzy, there you are! I've been looking all over for you!” A barely controlled, hushed voice interrupted the companionable silence between Isabelle and the wall. Swallowing a groan, she slowly opened her eyes and let them rest on the person before her.

Kristen Martin could be described as a tall, fair blonde, although that would be doing her more justice than she deserved. “Tall” was usually associated with slender, while Kristen was just skinny, with long, awkward arms and legs; jutting elbows and wrists. “Fair” was really just a politically correct way of saying “pale.” And her hair, although a true natural honey blond, had been abused by numerous failed perms, leaving a dry, frizzy tangle atop her head.

“Hey,” Kristen said, her voice considerably calmer. She eased down to the floor next to Isabelle, sitting Indian-style. Her shoes rubbed and squeaked against the tile. Isabelle ignored her.

“Um.... your mother asked me to come check on you,” Kristen whispered, as if she were speaking to a child. “She wants to know if you'll come back inside and stand with her.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes and looked the other way. Kristen's brow furrowed. “So, have you been out here all this time? Are you okay?”

Nothing.

“My mom was telling me about your dad earlier... They went to school together. She said he was a real nice guy. Smart, too.” Kristen bit her lip anxiously, waiting to see what effect this statement produced.

“What else did she say?” Isabelle's voice was eerily calm and even.

“Oh, lots of things. She just talked about what a great guy he was, and how much everyone here will miss him... Izzy, are you okay?”

Isabelle knew her face was slowly fading red; she could feel the heat rising from her throat on up. Gritting her teeth, she scrutinized the nervous girl squirming beside her. The same girl who had scarcely spoken to her all through elementary, junior, and senior high schools, except to borrow a pen or ask for her vote in some school election. Isabelle's mother had probably assumed that “classmate” equated to “friend” and “demographic” was related to “understanding,” and that was why this clueless diplomat was here in the first place.