“Why’d you spend time here?”
Sloane realized that Clay wasn’t kidding. He didn’t understand a principal’s function. It was going to be a hard year for him. There was so much to learn.
“I hope you never have to find out,” Sloane told him, putting a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Let’s go meet Mr. Greeley.”
Elise listened to Lincoln Greeley’s inevitable first-day-of-school pep talk and along with everyone else in the room, nodded her head at the appropriate times. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling buzzed annoyingly, and the one over Mr. Greeley’s head flickered on and off making a flashing neon sign of his shiny bald head.
Bob sat next to her listening intently to Mr. Greeley’s speech as if it weren’t the same one they heard every year and others before them had heard every year, too. Elise fantasized generations of teachers, women in Gibson Girl hairdos, men with waxed handlebar mustaches, all of them listening to Mr. Greeley’s speech.
“And so,” he concluded, “it is our duty to carry on the tradition of excellence that was begun ninety years ago in that one-room schoolhouse on the Wehachee. In your hands rests the future of this town, this state and this great country.”
Elise applauded politely. Mr. Greeley took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Obviously he, too, was glad to have his first speech of the day out of the way. The faculty stood and filed out row by row in a fashion that would have made the fire marshal proud.
“Same classroom this year?” Bob asked as they waited their turn to exit.
“Same one. How about you?”
“Yes.”
Same school, same speech, same homeroom, same boring questions. Elise wondered why she was feeling so dissatisfied. The sameness of her life had often been a comfort to her. Now it was barely tolerable.
Out in the hall she headed for her classroom, smiling and exchanging the inevitable greetings as she went. She was in one of the far wings. The school was designed to resemble a dissected spider. The administration section and auditorium were the body of the tortured insect, and the classrooms were laid out along each of six spider legs with triangles of lawn in between. A parking lot, football field and track had been laid out where the rest of the spider should have been, and there was also a small pond with a resident alligator who was the unofficial school mascot.
The unforgiving Florida sun and humidity had made a mockery of the attempt at architectural innovation. The school board had never had adequate funds to keep up with all the surfaces that needed painting and the grass that needed tending. Like many other things about Miracle Springs, the high school was a well-intentioned failure.
As she passed Mr. Greeley’s office, Elise glanced through glass walls soon to be covered with the smudges of countless teenage fingers. Clay and Sloane were standing by the wide counter, obviously waiting for Mr. Greeley. She stopped, debating what to do.
Clay was in her homeroom. She had fought with herself since the night a week before when Sloane had come to her house to put their relationship in perspective. But in the end, she had requested Clay’s presence in her English class and homeroom, too. Her relationship with Sloane might be a problem, but Elise knew that she had the capacity to understand Clay and the significant adjustments he would have to make at Miracle Springs High. Not everyone else on the faculty had that capacity. And no one else had the emotional investment in him that she did, as dangerous as it was.
Now she took a deep breath and pushed open the doors that led into the office.
“Good morning, Clay, Sloane.”
“Hello, Elise.” Sloane’s smile was no more than polite, and Elise chastised herself for caring.
“Are you waiting for Mr. Greeley?”
Sloane nodded. Clay fastened his long-lashed brown eyes on her face as if she might unlock the puzzles of the day for him. Elise’s heart did a flip-flop. What a beautiful young man he was. “Am I going to be in your class, Elise?”
“Miss Ramsey,” Sloane corrected before Elise could answer.
“Elise will be fine outside of school,” Elise said gently. “But you’ll be accused of being a teacher’s pet if you call me that here.”
“Teacher’s pet?”
“Someone who gets special favors,” she explained. “And yes, you’re in both my homeroom and my English class.”
Clay smiled his thank-you. Elise wondered what it was about the Tyson men that made her insides run together when they gave her that certain little grin. She remembered all too well what effect that same expression had had years before when Sloane had aimed it her way.
The door wheezed open, letting in a rush of warm air from the open hallway, then shut. Lincoln Greeley came in behind the warm air, still mopping his forehead. He looked up and his pug-dog features were transformed into a mock grimace. “Sloane Tyson. Right back where you belong.”
Sloane extended his hand and the two men shook warily. Elise watched as they readjusted their relationship. It was always the same. It took time for alumni who returned as adults to come to terms with their new status. Sloane wasn’t immune, not even after seventeen years and two best-sellers.
“I’d like you to meet my son, Clay Tyson,” Sloane said, stepping back to give Mr. Greeley a full view of the boy. “He’ll be a student here this year.”
“Glad to have you, son,” Mr. Greeley said, extending his hand. His sharp, well-practiced eyes examined this new student for signs of trouble. “Hair’s a little long, isn’t it?”
“Does the school have a dress code?” Sloane asked politely.
“Not one that covers hair. We got out of that business after the sixties. Keep it clean and I can’t say a word.” He continued to examine Clay. “How many people have told you that you look just like your dad?”
“A lot,” Clay answered.
“Did your dad tell you about the time I caught him chiseling the mortar out of the bricks in the library during study hall?” He watched Clay shake his head. “Get him to tell you about it sometime. We haven’t had too many like your dad in all my years as principal. He kept me on my toes. Are you going to keep me on my toes, too?”
Clay frowned a little. “Am I supposed to?”
The answer seemed to please Lincoln Greeley. He laughed and slapped Clay on the shoulder. “We’ve put you in Miss Ramsey’s class. She asked for you specially, so you treat her right, son.” He dismissed Clay and Elise with a wave. Elise opened the door and ushered Clay through without meeting Sloane’s eyes. She wished he didn’t know that she had asked to be Clay’s teacher. She had done it for Clay, but she wondered if Sloane would see it as an excuse to be closer to him. Then she wondered why she cared.
“First days are always a little chaotic,” she told Clay as they walked to the classroom. “Everybody feels strange, so don’t imagine you’re the only one who doesn’t know exactly where he’s supposed to be. If you need any help, find me and I’ll see what I can do.”
“All right.”
Out of the corner of her eye Elise watched Clay covertly examine every aspect of his surroundings. His expression gave nothing away, and she was left with nothing but her own projections to help her understand his feelings. Two things were certain, however. It wasn’t going to be an easy day for Clay Tyson. And watching him suffer wasn’t going to be easy for her. She felt a stab of maternal concern so intense that for a moment it was a physical pain.
Clay Tyson might not be her son and she might not be anyone’s mother, but Elise was sure that if she’d had a son, Sloane’s son, the bonding could not possibly have been any stronger than what she felt at that moment.
No, it wasn’t going to be an easy day. It was, in fact, going to be a very difficult year. For all of them.
Algebra. Obviously, Clay thought, it was a foreign language using numbers and letters. A code, probably related to Egyptian hieroglyphics. Clay sat through his first period algebra class and wondered what the day was like back in New Mexico. Destiny Ranch was gone now, but for the fifty minutes of the class he pretended
that when the bell rang, he could stand up and walk out of the school, stick his thumb out on Hope Avenue and get a ride all the way back to Destiny to find it thriving as it had been when he was a young boy. At least at Destiny he’d had some idea who he was. Here, in Miracle Springs, he wasn’t even sure of his own name.
Clay Tyson. What was this Tyson bit? he wondered. Sure, he looked like the man who said he was his father. At times he even noticed similarities in the way their minds worked. But what did that mean?
Once a woman named Willow had claimed to be his mother. He remembered her only vaguely. She had been tall, but then he’d been pretty short so how would he really know? Her hair had been long, like Elise’s, and dark, if his memory was correct. He remembered running to her once to be kissed and cuddled after a childhood injury. After that he only remembered her from a distance. And then she was gone.
When would Sloane leave him or make him leave? It didn’t really matter. He was fifteen and he’d understood how to get along in the world for years. Oh, there might be things he didn’t understand, like algebra and how to find his way around this ridiculous building. But he did understand the important things, things like not causing anybody any trouble, and teaching himself how to do what needed to be done. He didn’t need Sloane. He wasn’t even sure he liked Sloane. At least, once, Willow had picked him up and held him and kissed away his hurts. He couldn’t imagine Sloane holding anybody.
The sound of a bell interrupted the teacher’s indecipherable lecture. The school operated on bells. The kids were trained to respond, just like Pavlov’s dogs. What had that experiment been called? Some kind of conditioning. Well, these kids were conditioned. Everyone jumped when the bell rang. In another week, he’d probably jump, too. Was that one of those skills Sloane had said he needed to develop?
The classroom emptied quickly. Clay followed the group of students out into the hall. His next class was American history. He recognized the teacher’s name. Bob Cargil. It was the man Elise had introduced him to at the Inn. The man hadn’t liked him, but then the algebra teacher hadn’t looked any too pleased to see him either.
Was it the ponytail? None of the other boys had long hair; in fact few of the girls did either. Actually they all looked pretty much alike. Everyone had short asymmetrical haircuts that were molded a certain way and didn’t move. They wore blue jeans or bright flowered shorts and oversize shirts. And shoes. Shoes seemed to be a big deal here. He’d watched the kids comparing brand names. Athletic shoes seemed to have some magical allure, especially if they were made by a certain company.
He found the history classroom just as the bell rang, and slid into a desk at the back of the room.
“Tyson? Third seat on the fourth row. On the double.”
Clay stood and found the seat, stooping to stow his books in the metal cavern beneath before he sat down.
“Tyson? I expect you to be on time from now on. Tyson! Did you hear me?”
Clay listened to the giggles of two girls next to him. What was he supposed to say? He shrugged, his face a careful blank. “I heard you,” he said politely.
“Yes sir!”
Clay realized that something was expected of him.
“Yes sir!” the teacher repeated a little louder.
Clay returned Mr. Cargil’s stare. For some reason, few adults expected someone his age to meet their eyes. He liked to show them they were wrong.
“One more chance, Tyson. Yes sir!”
Clay understood. He was expected to say “Yes sir!” back. He complied amiably. “Yes sir.”
“I don’t want any trouble with you, Tyson. I’ve got my eye on you.”
Actually, Clay thought, Cargil’s eyes weren’t really on him at all. His eyes shifted when Clay tried to return his stare. It was funny; he acted like a man with something to hide.
“Say ‘yes sir,’“ a voice behind him prompted.
Clay complied. “Yes sir,” he said again, as pleasantly as before.
The response seemed to mollify Mr. Cargil. He began to list supplies they would need, books they had to read and give a year’s overview of assignments. Clay leaned over to retrieve his notebook from under the desk. As he did so he turned to see who had offered him help. The girl behind him was writing fast and furiously, but as Clay straightened, she stopped for a moment and gave him a tentative smile. His momentary impression was of curly golden hair and eyes so light that they were almost silver. She belonged in one of those fairy tales someone had read him as a child. A fair maiden who had rescued him from the dragon. It was a nice twist.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
Her smile broadened a little showing the hint of a dimple, and she nodded.
Until that moment, Clay hadn’t even realized just how lonely he was.
Elise watched the group of tenth-graders file back into her classroom for the last ten minutes of the day. Where was Clay? All day long she’d worried about him with the hysterical fear of a hen who knows one of her chicks is heading straight toward the jaws of a hungry fox. There was something so vulnerable about Clay Tyson, she reflected, for all his adult mannerisms and conversation.
She had been relieved when fourth period came and he showed up in her English class. She’d started the kids on a writing project immediately. They were to write ten pages in a journal every week, and today they were to begin with their impressions of the first day of high school.
Afterward she’d collected the journals to take a look at the writing samples. She hadn’t had much time, but she had checked Clay’s right away, expecting trouble.
She had worried needlessly. His handwriting was average, but his writing itself was extraordinary. His control of the language, the depth of his analysis, and his unusual perspective made the simple journal entry a small masterpiece. She had seldom, if ever, seen such talent.
His father had kept a journal although no teacher had required it. Elise had known about it and wondered what Sloane found to write about. And then she’d had the chance to find out. Sloane had presented it to her the day he left Miracle Springs. It had been an ironical goodbye gift. She had never opened it.
Now, instead, she was reading his son’s.
The realization of Clay’s potential had affected her deeply. There had been few moments in her life to daydream. But on the rare occasions when she’d had that opportunity, she’d found herself imagining a child. The child had grown in her imagination until one day she’d realized how unhealthy the fantasy was. A child would never grow inside her, never come to her for comfort or advice, never achieve adulthood because of her efforts.
But if there’d been a child … If there’d been a child it would have had Sloane’s face and her gentleness. The child would have had their love of the English language and their talent to communicate it. It would have had both Sloane’s uncanny ability to analyze and her own ability not to judge too harshly.
The child would have been Clay.
Fantasies had been bad enough, but having the flesh and blood child in front of her, and knowing that she could never be more to him than an English teacher, might well tear her apart.
“Miss Ramsey?”
Elise looked up from her desk and focused on Clay’s face. She knew immediately that it hadn’t been an easy day for him. He looked tired. No, he looked emotionally exhausted. She felt a wave of anger at all those who had given him trouble. “Stay after class a minute and tell me about your day,” she invited.
Clay seemed surprised, as if the simple request was incomprehensible. He recovered his poise quickly. “All right.”
“Do you need something right now?” she prompted him.
“I’m supposed to go to the counselor’s office and take some kind of test. I got in trouble once today for not having a pass in the hall.”
Elise took a packet of blue forms out of her desk drawer and filled in the necessary information. She gave the pass to Clay. “Come see if I’m still here when you’re finished.”
“Okay.”
Elise watched him gather his books and leave. She couldn’t miss the stares of the other teenagers, the laughter, the mimicking. Kids were so cruel. It was no wonder they drove each other to find ways of blotting out the pains of adolescence. Anyone who didn’t understand drugs and alcohol and teenage sex hadn’t been to high school lately.
The final bell rang, and a spontaneous cheer echoed through the building. Elise watched her classroom clear out until, one minute later, it was a ghost town of desks.
She stood, smoothing her yellow flowered skirt around her knees and absentmindedly repinning a long strand of hair that straggled down her neck. Her eyes caught a movement in the doorway, and she realized Sloane was leaning there, arms folded, watching her.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could pretend, even to herself, that his presence there meant no more to her than the presence of any other parent of her students? Her hands fumbled with the hairpin and she jabbed it harder, wincing when it dug into her scalp. She waited until she’d inhaled deeply before she spoke.
“Hello again, Sloane.”
“I was looking for Clay. Have you seen him?”
“He’s down in the counselor’s office taking a test, but he’ll probably stop by here before he heads home. Would you like to wait?”
He inclined his head in a motion that could have meant anything at all. Elise decided to ignore him, turning to clean the chalkboard so that she could print the next day’s assignment.
“Do you really enjoy teaching?”
His question surprised her. It seemed to be a continuation of the conversation they’d had at her house. How was she to answer? Truthfully? In depth? Or just politely?
“Well, sometimes I feel pretty frustrated. I actually get kids who can’t read, as impossible as that sounds. They’ve been pushed through the system, or they’ve managed to fool teachers who wanted to be fooled. I have to start back at the beginning with basics and convince them how important reading is, then I have to stay with them every step of the way. I also get a lot of kids who don’t want to read, and I have to spend the whole year trying to make them want to. Then, every once in a while, I get a wonderful student. Like Clay.”
Season of Miracles Page 7
