by Joan Hess
The one I thought was Mae Bagby nodded. “Emily Parchester has served the students of Farberville High School for forty years, and her reputation remained unblemished until yesterday.”
The third Fury, who had dozed off, opened her eyes to add her support. “Her father was Judge Amos Parchester of the state Supreme Court, Bernice. That bears comment.”
Miss Dort could read the storm signals as well as I. “The auditors will see,” she murmured as she started out the door. She halted and looked at me over her shoulder. “Teachers meeting this afternoon, three-thirty in the cafetorium.”
“What?” I sputtered. I had other plans for that time. I fully intended to be on the heels of the last student out the door. If I was agile enough, I might be on his toes.
Three heads swiveled to stare at me. “We always have a teacher meeting the third Thursday of the month,” Mrs. Platchett informed me coldly. “It is a tradition that has survived for a very long time at Farberville High School.” And no whippersnapper was going to disrupt it if she had any say in the matter.
I did not care if she had ridden a brontosaurus to the first meeting. I cared about escape, a hot bath, and a world populated by adults with minimal interest in education. I opened my mouth to protest, but Miss Dort had sailed away to her paperwork, smug in the knowledge that I was nearly trapped. I rather wished I knew a Latin expletive; my Anglo-Saxon ones would have caused a three-cornered swoon.
The bell rang in the middle of my decorous growl. I ambled down the hallway in time to shoo a few stragglers into the cave, then forced myself to follow them. My darling daughter was perched on the desk like a leprechaun on a toadstool.
“How’s it going, Mother?” she chirped.
I pushed her off the desk and pointed at a girl with frizzy hair. “You, what’s your name?”
“Bambi McQueen, Mrs. Malloy.”
“On your birth certificate?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the student editor for the Falcon Crier, and your fourth-period aide.”
I tossed the roster book to her. “Take role, send in the attendance slip and the little blue things, and then tell everybody what to do.”
“But, Mrs. Malloy, if the newspaper isn’t going to come out next week, then I don’t know what to tell everybody. Should we just read or something, or should we go ahead and do assignments for the paper anyway?”
I glared at Caron as I spoke to the cervine whiner. “I don’t care what you do, Bambi. I hope not to be here more than a few days; thus I have no interest in your academic progress, the next issue of the newspaper, or your interim activities. Think of something to amuse yourselves.”
The candor perplexed her. She chewed on her lower lip for a long minute, gauging the potential limits. “Maybe some of us should go to the printer’s to let him know that the newspaper won’t come out as scheduled?” she suggested.
I flipped a hand. “By all means, let us not keep the poor man in suspense.”
Bambi and ten eager volunteers dashed for the door. When we were alone, Caron flopped down in a desk. “That was dumb, Mother. They just wanted to leave the campus; they could have called the printer. Seniors!”
“They may drive to the West Coast, for all I care. I have to devise a way to avoid a barbaric tradition known as a teachers meeting-this afternoon after school.”
“What about Miss Parchester? Have you figured out who framed her yet?”
“I have been here slightly more than five hours. For some inexplicable reason, students keep appearing in the room in droves, expecting to be supervised if not regaled with mature insights. An opportunity to figure out who, if anyone, framed Miss Parchester has not yet arisen. I need an excuse to avoid the teachers meeting.”
“Have you met Mr. Weiss or any of the teachers?” Caron said without a flicker of sympathy for my plight. The child knew nothing of meetings; her day would come. Of death, taxes, and committees, I preferred the first two.
I ran through the list of those I had encountered during the morning. When I mentioned Miss Hart and her coach, Caron interrupted with a noisy sigh.
“Aren’t they the cutest couple? Miss Hart used to date Mr. Timmons, but he wouldn’t marry her so she could have babies. When she saw Coach Finley, it was love at first sight, and now everyone except Mr. Timmons knows that they’re secretly engaged.” More sighs.
“How do you know all this?”
“This is a school, not a monastery, Mother. Do you want to hear what Mr. Timmons said when he found out that Miss Hart was dating Coach Finley? It was in Latin, but it was still dirty.”
“No, I don’t. This zoo may be a microcosm of society, but I have no desire to delve into its social interactions.” I sat down behind the desk and produced a few sighs of my own. “I suppose I’ll have to stay after school for this silly meeting. You can go home and cook dinner.”
“But what about the newspaper-and Miss Parchester?”
There was that. I shrugged and said, “The accounts are not here; Miss Don must have them in her office. Even if I had some idea of what to do with them-and I don’t-I haven’t seen them. I don’t know the procedure for depositing money or writing checks to pay bills.”
Caron gathered up her books and purse. “Ask Miss Hart. She’s the cheerleader and drill-team sponsor, the business club sponsor and the senior class advisor, so she deals with oodles of club accounts. I’m going to the library, Mother.” She left with the briskness of a Don.
I picked up a copy of the Falcon Crier from the previous month and flipped through the pages. Miss Demeanor was on the second page, which was dated October 22.
Dear Miss Demeanor,
My boyfriend wants to take me to a fancy French restaurant for our one-month anniversary. He wants to order champagne, but the waiter probably won’t serve us. What should we do- walk out?
Dear Reader,
Miss Demeanor must sympathize. Coq au yin does not go well with coke au cola. However, Miss Demeanor prefers to cater to her stomach before she caters to her sense of injustice. Eat, pay the bill, and then walk out. That will show ‘em.
Dear Miss Demeanor,
Two boys have asked me to the homecoming dance next week, and I don’t know which one to say yes to. One of them has pimples, but he also has a neat car. The other one is really foxy, but he baited on my dress at the September Mixer. I’m not sure I’d feel safe with him anywhere near. Besides, I have a really nifty new dress. What do you think?
Dear Reader,
How much did the dress cost? How much did the neat car cost? How much will the dry cleaners cost? If you can’t figure it out, sign up for general math.
Dear Miss Demeanor,
The reason I was at the Xanadu Motel was because I was following the married man. His wife has brown hair, but the woman he was with didn’t. What do you think about that?
Dear Reader,
Nothing at all. Why should I? For that matter, why should you? There are at least three people more qualified than either of us to ponder the situation.
Puzzled, I folded the Falcon Crier and stuffed it into Miss Parchester’s middle drawer. The first two letters sounded like typical adolescent stuff, but the third had an edge that neared nastiness. I wondered why Miss Demeanor had bothered with it. I wondered where the Xanadu Motel was, and who would want to go there. I then dismissed the muddle to wonder if there were any way to disappear at three-thirty without risking the wrath of Bernice Dort.
The bell rang once again, and shortly thereafter the room swelled with Photo II, a.k.a. the newspaper photographers. We exchanged the necessary courtesies and they managed to talk among themselves until the class was over. Ho hum. Teaching wasn’t all that hard.
My last (thank God) class was the mysterious “Falconnaire.” Although I was less than frantic for an explanation, I was mildly curious. Once the dozen or so students were seated, I asked them.
“The Falconnaire is the yearbook,” said a blond girl with the body of a lingerie model. Her blouse did little to discourage the comp
arison; buttons were nearly bursting out all over. She made no effort to hide a broad yawn as she added, “I don’t think we can do anything until they find a replacement for our embezzling teacher.”
“What’s your name?” I said peevishly. Now I was going to have to withstand the compulsion to yawn for fifty minutes.
“Cheryl Anne Weiss,” she said. When I failed to react with any visible astonishment, she produced a pout of superiority. “My father happens to be the principal of Farberville High School.”
“That’s right,” grunted a hulking form in the back of the room. “Cheryl Anne’s daddy is the king of this dump. She’s kinda like a princess.”
I tried a stern, teacherish frown. “What’s your name-Prince Albert?”
“Theodore Immerman, ma’am; everybody calls me Thud. I’m in charge of the sports section of the yearbook, if there is a yearbook. Are you gonna take Parchester’s place and tell us what to do, or just take the rest of the money?” Smirk, smirk.
“Why are you so sure Miss Parchester is guilty, Mr. Immerman? Isn’t it possible that there was a simple error on someone’s part?”
His massive shoulders rose like snowy Alps. “I don’t know, ma’am. I just know she had the checkbook, and now the money is gone. I sure as hell didn’t write myself any bonuses.”
The class tittered nervously, but Thud seemed pleased with his little joke. It was, I decided, in keeping with his intellectual capacity. A girl in the front row murmured that they could continue to organize the layout of the sophomore pictures, even though Miss Parchester was not available to supervise them.
I rewarded her with the roster, instructed the class to busy themselves with the layout of said pictures, and went to the cabinet to find more copies of the Falcon Crier. The Miss Demeanor column was quite clever for a post-pubescent mind, although I wasn’t sure if the ailing Rosie had written the examples before her quarantine, or if my daughter had done so. The coq au yin was a bit startling; the only chicken Caron had eaten at my dining-room table arrived in a cardboard bucket, an original recipe but not of mine.
Before I could dig out a copy of the newspaper, an argument broke out on one side of the room. Cheryl Anne Weiss was not happy with darling Thud, nor he with her.
“I can’t do it!” the blond girl squealed. Her ponytail swung around her head to flop across her eyes, and she swung it back with a practiced hand and an equally practiced scowl.
“You said you could, dammit!” Thud thundered. “You swore that he wouldn’t yank my eligibility!”
“He won’t listen to me, Thud. I tried as hard as I could, but now I don’t know what to do. I’ll think of something else.”
I slammed the cabinet door to get their attention. “Excuse me for disturbing you, but the discussion will have to be postponed until after class. I left my whistle at home.”
Thud’s simian brow sank until his eyes were barely visible, and his lips crept out. Cheryl Anne, on the other hand, gave him an impertinent sneer and flounced back to her desk. The ponytail and other things wiggled with disdain. The rest of the students resumed their whispers, feigning no interest whatsoever in the argument.
I decided to forego the newspaper and spent the rest of the period preventing a holocaust in the cave. Thud and Cheryl Anne exchanged numerous dark looks and made numerous inarticulate and threatening noises, but restrained themselves from further verbal combat. I kept the maternal frown on Lull power until the bell finally rang and I could send them away. As the two met in the doorway, they resumed their argument. I could hear them all the way down the hall, but I didn’t care. It was three-twenty-five.
The cafetorium was at the far end of the first floor. I found a seat toward the rear, smiled vaguely at those around me, and prepared for utter tedium. Other teachers looked equally excited. The Furies marched in and took possession of the front row; Miss Hart and Coach Finley slipped in to sit in the row behind me. Evelyn and Sherwood joined me seconds later, looking like naughty children who had come straight from the cookie jar. Sherwood bowed slightly and gave me a broad wink.
Mr. Weiss strode to the front of the room, with Miss Dort on his tailwind. He snapped at her to take attendance (to whom would she send it?) and glowered until she made her way from “Aaron” to a final “Zuckerman.” All were present.
“This will be short and to the point,” he barked. “Item one:
the schedule for Homecoming activities is on the mimeograph Miss Dort will distribute, along with the names of dance chaperones and stadium-concession supervisors. There will be no changes, tradeoffs, or excuses. If your name is there, be there. Thirty minutes early.”
Miss Don snapped to attention and passed out the pale purple mimeographs, eyeing us challengingly. When she arrived in the rear, she curled her lips at me. “You’ll cover for Parchester at the dance, Mrs. Malloy,” she whispered with the expression of a barracuda swimming alongside a cellulitic snorkler. I managed a nod.
Mr. Weiss tapped his foot until Miss Dort finished her chore and scurried back to his side. “Item two: the auditors will be here next week to examine every club ledger, along with the journalism account and our general accounts. I want records in my office tomorrow morning before home room. I want copies of expenditures for the previous year. I want a list of deposits and checks for this semester-in duplicate. Your books had better balance to the last cent. No excuses.
A groan went down the rows, and a particularly unhappy one from Miss Hart behind me. According to Caron, she had oodles of accounts. No hot date that night. From Sherwood Timmons came a barely audible, “Quem Dens vult perdere. prius dementat- those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad. The man’s a veritable draconian these days.”
“Any questions?” Mr. Weiss said, looking over our heads.
Paula Hart raised her hand. “Mr. Weiss, the seniors are frantic to know what will happen with the yearbook. Several of the girls actually burst into tears in my room because they’re so worried they won’t have a memento of their final year.”
To my surprise, Mr. Weiss did not roar at the insubordination. He located Miss Hart in the corner and smiled with all the sincerity of an airport missionary. “I have not reached a decision about the Falconnaire. The seniors would be concerned, naturally.” He tugged on his chin, then glanced at Miss Dort. “Tell the substitute-ah, the Malloy woman-to get on with the yearbook, Bernice. Miss Hart and I wouldn’t want our senior class to be disappointed, would we?”
“Wait a minute,” the Malloy woman yelped. “I have no idea how to ‘get on’ with the yearbook. I don’t make books; I sell them. They come ready made.”
“The Falconnaire staff can handle it,” Miss Don said firmly.
Paula Hart tapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll help whenever I can, Mrs. Malloy, and I’m sure Coach Finley will, too.” Jerry nodded without enthusiasm.
In the front of the room, Mr. Weiss’s expression turned to stone. “Coach Finley may find himself occupied with other matters, Miss Hart. I received certain information today from Farber College that may shed a new light on Coach Finley’s career at our school.”
That earned a collective gasp, followed by furtive looks and whispers. Sherwood murmured, “Has Weiss made alapsus lingua, do you think?” His comment earned a kick from Evelyn. “A slip of the tongue,” he translated in a wounded tone as he rubbed his shin.
Jerry stood up, his hands on his hips like a playground combatant. His blue eyes were circles of slate, his dimples tucked away for the moment. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Weiss?”
“That means, Mr. Assistant Coach Finley, that you and I shall have a long conversation as soon as the auditors are gone.
“As long as I have your attention, Mr. Weiss,” Jerry continued tightly, “What about Immerman’s eligibility? He said you refused to consider a temporary suspension of the rule until mid-semester grades are in. That means he can’t play in the Homecoming game. Our policy says that-”
“I am aware of our school policy. I
do not need a first year assistant coach to explain it to me, nor do I care to engage in an argument about my decisions. Immerman is no longer eligible to participate in extracurricular activities, in that his grades are below one point two five. Is that clear?”
“As clear as mud, Mr. Weiss!” Our gray-clad hero stormed out of the room without a parting glance for Miss Hart, who seemed on the verge of a collapse. Beside me, Evelyn looked grim, but Sherwood Timmons was battling not to snicker too loudly. I considered a kick, but opted for a glower.
“Dum spiro, spero,” he said, shrugging. “While I breathe, I hope.”
“Shut up, Sherwood,” Evelyn hissed. She looked back at Paula Hart. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Once the auditors arrive, Weiss will forget all about this. But in the meantime, keep Jerry away from him.”
Paula’s eyes filled with tears, but she bravely held them back. “Jerry doesn’t deserve to be abused, and it’s not fair,” she said in true pioneer-woman fashion.
Miss Dort cleared her throat. “One final item, please! Today I noticed a marked increase in the flow of students in the hallways during class, especially from the basement. Any student who leaves your room for any reason must have a blue slip with the current date, room of origin, destination, and your signature. Is that clear?”
Oh, dear. How slipshod some teacher must be to allow students to roam the hallways without blue slips. I slumped down and stared at my ankles, which are trim and appealing. When those around me began to shuffle, I presumed it was safe and stood up.
Evelyn accompanied me to the sunless labyrinth of the basement. “By the way, Claire,” she said as I turned toward the cave door, “on Fridays we have a potluck lunch in the lounge. The Furies, Paula and Jerry, the Latin pedant, and whoever else drops by. Sherwood considers it a prime opportunity to needle any and all of the aforementioned, but you mustn’t pay any attention to him.”
“I haven’t yet,” I said. “I understand from the gossip that he and Paula used to-to, ah…”
