Margaret was honestly oblivious. She saw no one, heard nothing but her lessons. If a girl was dressed in a bathing suit or a kimono, she wouldn’t have noticed.
Each morning Margaret left the house at 8:22. She walked the block, reached the school yard, glanced at her watch. She made sure to enter the school building no earlier than 8:28, moving quickly, reaching the door of her first class at 8:29.50.
As the class was 45 minutes long, she would be packed at 44.30. As the bell rang, she was up and out. Either she slipped into a bathroom, the library, a stairwell, anywhere she could wait for four minutes.
She had to move quickly, sometimes she arrived a bit late, but she never was early.
If the classroom was full or empty, Margaret wouldn’t know, because she didn’t look around.
Her eyes went from the teacher and any visual displays at the front, to her book with no diversions.
At the end of the day she left through a rarely used side door. This would put her off near a path through a small wooded area, and she’d reach home in twelve minutes.
Margaret had, from the first day, made it a ‘religion’ to avoid the other students by all means necessary.