“But what if he hasn’t done his homework and he’s not eating well?” Emily asked.
Crystal eyed her cynically. “So what if he isn’t? Reporting it will only make more work for you. The teachers will take care of the homework situation if it ever arises, which it probably won’t. Some of these kids are troublemakers, but they all do their homework because they don’t want the detentions they’d get otherwise. As for eating habits, whatever. I wouldn’t report a lack of appetite unless they’re passing out from starvation. Otherwise you’ll have to start monitoring everything they eat at every meal and turning in a food diary for them.”
“But what if they do pass out from starvation?” Emily asked, increasingly alarmed at the callous attitude that Crystal advocated.
“They get sent to the school nurse, who diagnoses malnutrition or anemia or whatever. You claim that you thought the kid was eating properly and that you never saw him skip a meal. Then the food diaries begin and you hope that your transfer comes soon. I had an anorexic fourteen-year-old as my second assignment, and those food diaries are an absolute pain. And don’t look at me like that. I know perfectly well that eating disorders are bad, but she was going to skip meals whether I recorded it or not. Your kid doesn’t look like the eating-disorder type, though.”
“I’m just worried that he won’t adjust well to being here,” said Emily wistfully.
“And if you report as much, you’ll create more trouble for him, and vicariously for yourself. Any kid who gets labeled with a developmental roadblock has to start sessions with the school’s psychiatrist. If you’re the one that labels them, they get vindictive in their revenge.”
“The plumbing system in the handlers’ dorm gets blown up?” Emily guessed.
Crystal grimaced. “Just remember: we’re the expendable ones here, especially at Prom-F, since they’ve got nowhere else to send these kids. Sit back, shut up, and try to make as few waves as possible.”
Emily reluctantly took her advice. She’d already drafted Oliver’s status report, and the observation sheets she had to fill out for each class were completed for the rest of the week. The two computers in the room were occupied, like always—and she had yet to figure out how those other handlers always arrived ahead of her—so she had only two options left: she could watch NPNN, or she could stare at the walls.
Hence, the window in Oliver’s second period observation room was an incredible bonus.
It had a perfect view of the gates and the driveway that led to the school’s main building. A morning PE class was stretching on the lawn, and the leaves fluttered in the trees. It was a beautiful summer day.
And the gates were opening.
“Hey, there are some cars coming up the road,” she said to no one in particular.
Crystal tossed aside the trashy novel she’d been reading on the sofa. “Oh yeah? They must be having another meeting this week. They had one last week, and the week before. My little darling and her brothers really did cause a lot of havoc, and no one seems to know what to do.”
Emily’s attention snapped to her face. Crystal flashed a smile as she joined her. “Two weeks ago, it was the principals of Prom-A, Prom-B, and Prom-F. Last week, they invited Prom-C and Prom-D. Let’s see who we have this week, shall we?”
Four cars rolled up the driveway. The first parked, and Maggie Lloyd hustled out of the driver’s seat to open the passenger door nearest the school’s staircase.
“That’s Genevieve Jones,” said Emily with a strange twinge in her heart. Her attention darted to the classroom next door, where Oliver scrawled his notes in a bored posture.
“And Principal Lee,” said Crystal. “Principal Gregory Lee, from Prom-B,” she clarified for Emily’s benefit. “Michelle must be in another car. There’s no way he’d come without her.”
“Who else got out of the front of the car?” Emily asked; she had returned her gaze to the spectacle as a man trotted up the stairs out of sight.
“Probably Principal Jones’s admin assistant. I don’t remember his name. He’d have preference over Michelle to ride in the first car, and Maggie has preference to drive the first car since Prom-F is playing host to this ensemble. It’s surprising the hierarchy that exists in these academic circles. Here’s Principal Carter from Prom-C getting out of the next car.”
Emily watched with curiosity as a rotund man heaved himself from the back seat. Oliver had once told her that Rupert Carter didn’t get along well with Genevieve Jones. Seeing him for the first time, she wondered if he got along with anyone. An arrogant sneer was etched into his face, plain evidence that he frequently viewed the world around him with contempt. His thinning hair swept upward into an elaborate comb-over that was grotesquely obvious from her vantage point.
“Is that the Prom-D principal getting out behind him?” she asked as a petite blonde joined him from the confines of the car. It stood to reason: if there was a hierarchy present, Prom-D would come after Prom-C.
“Annemarie Legrand,” Crystal said. “I don’t know much about her, except that she’s top dog at Prom-D. She kind of reminds me of a toy poodle, all fluff and leathery skin.”
It was an apt description, so much so that Emily was hard-pressed not to bark a laugh. Principal Legrand’s frizzy, unnaturally blond hair was far more youthful than her face or figure, but it complimented her vibrant pink pantsuit. She certainly looked less austere than Genevieve Jones, whose black-clad figure had already disappeared into the building.
“So if all the principals were in the first two cars, who’s in the third?” Emily asked.
Crystal shrugged. “Admin assistants, maybe. I think that was Carter’s driving the second car, and Legrand’s must have been the one in the passenger’s seat. Yeah, that’s Michelle getting out of the driver’s seat of the third,” she said, craning her neck to get a better look at a thin, frigid woman. “Can you believe she’s only a couple years older than we are? How’d you like to be not-yet-thirty and ready to take over a prestigious place like Prom-B?”
Emily’s brows shot up. “Jealous? I wouldn’t think you’d want that job.”
“I don’t,” said Crystal flatly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t begrudge other people their success.”
Emily suppressed a rueful laugh. “So the admin assistants are all accounted for. Then who’s getting out of that car?”
Michelle from Prom-B had crossed around to open the back door. Beneath the watchful eyes of Emily and Crystal, a broad-shouldered man stood. All they could see of him was salt-and-pepper hair and the army-green uniform that made his posture seem even more rigid than it was.
Crystal whistled, suitably impressed. “Looks like they’ve called in the military.”
“That’s not all they’ve called in,” said Emily in a strangled voice. A second person emerged from the back seat, a woman with immaculate poise and a familiar face. “That’s Mary Rose Allen.”
Shuffling sounded behind them, and four more handlers crowded to the window to get a look. “It is her,” one of them said in awe. “Mary Rose Allen? What on earth brought her all the way here from Washington?”
“What if she’s here to audit our performance?” said another in abject terror.
“She’s here about the runaways, Einstein,” said a third. “Prometheus is a division of the GCA, so it’s only natural that she’d get called in eventually.”
Emily worked her way out of the sudden crowd at the window, happy to let others take her place to gawk at the semi-celebrity. Mary Rose Allen was the White House’s Service Czar, the figurehead at the top of the Government-Civilian Alliance who worked directly with the President of the United States. Everyone who pursued higher education knew who she was because her policies determined how far up the academic ladder they could climb. She was one of the most powerful women in the country.
And Emily, having so recently botched the GCA’s efforts to recover the West kids, had absolutely no desire to meet her.
“You okay?” Crystal asked
as she joined her on the couch. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just the ghost of what was once my future career,” Emily said with a wan smile. “Do you think there’s any way the students won’t find out who’s here?”
“Oh, no. They’ll be here a couple of days, at least. They were last week, anyway. The news will spread through the ranks by lunchtime. Why does it matter?”
“Because if Oliver finds out that Principal Jones is here, he’ll demand to speak with her,” said Emily, but that was only half of what concerned her. If Oliver demanded to speak to Principal Jones, Emily would have to go with him. And since Principal Jones was currently in the company of Mary Rose Allen, there was the smallest chance of an encounter. Mary Rose Allen had been the one to request Oliver’s help in finding the Wests, or so he had said. It only stood to reason that she knew who he was. Whether she knew the name or face of his idiot handler was another story, and one that Emily had no desire to discover.
“Just because he demands it doesn’t mean that they’ll let him,” said Crystal logically.
“He’s on a first-name basis with her. Oh, this is a complete nightmare. Couldn’t everything just die down a little?”
Crystal seemed mildly sympathetic. “Cheer up. Maybe he won’t find out who’s here until it’s too late.”
Since she had said only a breath ago that all the students would know by lunchtime, Emily had a hard time believing this second possibility. A grim expression settled on her face. “It’s fine. There’s no point in prolonging the agony. I’ll tell him myself.”
Given the choice, she’d much rather rip the bandage off quickly than waste time dreading how it would feel. Her decision made, she spent the rest of the class period steeling her nerves against whatever encounters might come that afternoon.
“Guess who we just saw arriving out the window,” she said to Oliver the moment she rejoined him in the hallway outside his class.
He shot a crusty glare up at her. “They finally caught the Wests and dragged them back to prison?”
Emily bit back a cynical laugh. “No. Principal Jones is here.”
He stopped short as a strange array of emotions flitted across his face. “I need to talk to her,” he said.
“Your next class starts in four minutes,” Emily reminded him.
“I need to talk to her now.”
“Hey!” Emily snagged his shoulder as he started past her. “After third period, okay? She just got here, and Crystal says she’ll probably be here until tomorrow. You can wait until lunch.”
He looked mutinous at first but then realized she wasn’t forbidding the encounter. He jerked away from her grasp. “Fine. We’ll go find her at lunch. Genevieve will straighten everything out. You’re not expecting me to put in a good word with her for you, are you?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m pretty sure I’m stuck here regardless,” said Emily, “and I know that you have no good words to say about me anyway.”
Oliver grunted, a sound of tacit agreement. Which was perfect in her book. The last thing she wanted was someone to bring up her name to Principal Jones. Right now she’d rather be completely forgotten.
Third period raced by, over almost as soon as it began, according to Emily’s perspective. With growing dread, she watched Oliver sweep his school things into his bag.
“Forward to my doom,” she muttered.
Maybe they would get nowhere near Principal Jones. That many important people would have several layers of protocol and security around them. It wasn’t as though Oliver could walk into Principal Gates’s office and demand an audience with Genevieve Jones.
“Straight to Principal Gates’s office?” she asked when she joined him in the hallway all the same.
To her surprise, he shoved his things into her hands. “I have to use the bathroom first,” he said, and he bolted for the nearby lavatory door.
Stay of execution, Emily thought pessimistically. She didn’t know whether it was a relief or a burden to have to wait any longer, but she did make a mental note to discourage Oliver from drinking an extra glass of soymilk for breakfast in the future. But he was probably nervous too. His future at Prometheus might ride on this impromptu interview, and he’d had only an hour to prepare his defense.
His third period was near the bay of elevators at the center of the building. Emily watched with idle interest as the other students and their handlers cleared the hallway. They streamed down the nearby stairs to the cafeteria, or to whatever corner they’d chosen for their midday plotting. In half a minute flat, she was alone.
The elevator nearest her chimed and the doors slid open. A man absentmindedly stepped out, his attention fixed on the cell phone in his hand. Suddenly, he stopped and looked up in surprise. “Oh!” he said, and he immediately slipped the phone into his pocket. He glanced around himself. “I think I got off on the wrong floor. How are you, Ms. Brent?”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. “You know my name,” she said with a feeble smile. “That’s not really a good sign.”
There was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t quite place him. Right now she wasn’t particularly keen on strangers knowing who she was.
“Of course I know your name,” he said, much to her surprise. “We met back in New York. It’s kind of hard to forget the sacrificial lamb about to be thrown to the wolves.”
That familiar something clicked into place. “You’re the man in the gray suit,” said Emily in sudden recognition.
He glanced quizzically down at his suit, which was quite obviously black.
“No, I mean,” Emily floundered, “you were wearing a gray suit that day. You met me at the train station and took me to the airport. I don’t think you ever said your name.”
An open smile broke across his face. “Oh, I’m—”
“Birchard!” Oliver emerged from the bathroom, his unexpected entrance causing both adults to jump. He had slicked back his hair with a wet comb, which explained what had taken him so long.
“Ben Birchard, at your service,” the man said to Emily under his breath.
“Birchard, I need to see Genevieve,” Oliver declared as though speaking to his personal slave. Emily had assumed that only handlers were treated that way.
“Not possible at the moment, Oliver,” Ben Birchard said without so much as batting an eyelash. “She’s having lunch right now, and she’ll be in a meeting all afternoon.”
Oliver clenched his teeth. “Look here, Birchard. They’ve gone and enrolled me at Prom-F. Someone needs to correct this absurd mistake, and the sooner, the better.”
“Prom-F is a very good school,” Birchard replied with a smile, “much better than the primary school I attended.”
Oliver screeched in outrage. “I belong at Prom-A!”
Nothing seemed to ruffle the man. “Principal Jones is fully aware of the situation, and she’s doing everything in her power to straighten it out,” he said diplomatically. “I’ll inform her that you would like to speak with her, of course, but I can’t make any guarantees. I have no idea how long she’ll be in conference with General Stone and Secretary Allen.”
Oliver paled. “Mary Rose Allen is here too?” His accusing eyes shifted to Emily. “You didn’t say anything about that!”
“I didn’t realize you’d care so much,” said Emily defensively.
“I would’ve expected General Stone’s presence to be the more astonishing of the two,” said Birchard to the wall.
“Who’s General Stone?” Oliver asked sharply.
Birchard favored him with a thin smile and turned back to the elevator. “The cafeteria’s in the basement, isn’t it?” he asked. The doors opened, and he disappeared within.
“I take it that he’s Principal Jones’s administrative assistant,” said Emily in the ensuing silence.
“Never a straight answer out of him,” Oliver grumbled. “He’s come up in the ranks by being able to say the right things to the right people. Never can te
ll what he’s really thinking, though.”
“How old is he?” Emily asked. He didn’t look all that much older than she was, now that she considered it, but he had one of those faces that would probably age well.
“Ancient,” said Oliver. “He’s at least thirty-two.”
VI
Forewarned Is Forearmed
July 30, 1:50pm mdt, Prometheus-F
Emily was able to pass a nice lunch without the threat of impending doom hanging over her head. Ben Birchard had been ambiguous enough in his promises to Oliver that she was confident there would be no meeting with Principal Jones. Part of her pitied Oliver, to be brushed off so easily by adults who had catered to him in the past. Her overwhelming sense of a disaster averted squelched that feeling, though.
Her terror renewed when, shortly after fourth period started, a knock tapped lightly on the observation room door and none other than Ben Birchard poked his head inside. He homed in on Emily.
“Do you have a minute?” he said, and he beckoned her out to the hall.
Self-conscious, she ignored the curious eyes of her co-workers as she exited the room. “What is it?” she asked, dread pooling in her stomach.
“Were you in the middle of something? I’m sorry,” he said, and the apology seemed sincere.
“No, no,” said Emily. “I mean, I’m observing, but—”
Her words cut off when he snorted. “No, sorry,” he said, and he made a heroic attempt to suppress his laughter. “You really aren’t doing anything, then. No one ever actually observes. Or do you?”
Emily sighed. “What did you need to speak to me about, Mr. Birchard?”
“Sorry,” he said again. “You can call me Ben. Or Birchard like Oliver does, but that kind of makes me feel like a butler. ‘Mr. Birchard’ makes me sound like I’m sixty. It was actually Oliver I wanted to talk to you about. Could you try to dissuade him from demanding a meeting with Principal Jones?”
A Rumor of Real Irish Tea (Annals of Altair Book 2) Page 5
