“Where are you, Gloria?”
“On way home. I think she vill give it up today. I think she vill return to her friends in the homeschooling group. She vill see that she’s too different now to join this main stream.”
Or you vill give up trying to direct her entire life, mom. A hard thing for moms to do.
Interesting pictures formed in my mind featuring all those teenagers floating on a river of hormones. I couldn’t support her hopes, so I just mumbled a few words so she’d know I was at least listening. Sometimes listening is the best. Sometimes listening is the only.
“But I pray she vill be safe. Not upsetting like first day. Not like Friday.”
“Has she talked about friends she’s met?” I ventured.
I was thinking about Judi’s suicide a handful of hours ago and worried how this might affect Abigail. Teen depression was contagious.
“No. She says nothing. Goes to room and studies. I worry, Rachel. I know this sounds like not much but she stopped painting. This is extraordinary for her. She has spent ten of her first thirteen years drawing and painting every day, usually for several hours. Now nothing. She is brilliant artist. This change is so sudden. You will see when you come to the bee, Saturday.”
Oh lord. Only six more days and I’d have to endure another long night of sewing. I reached back and rubbed my neck. Sitting up half the night does nothing for healing.
How in hell was I going to stoop over the quilting rack for eight to ten hours? I definitely needed to work on changing their schedule. Maybe sew the quilt for two half-nights instead of one entire night.
I thought about Abigail’s comments at the previous (my first) bee--the one held at Victoria Stowall’s home, also up on the Cleveland plateau--and how they’d presaged Abigail’s rebellion. There was nothing sudden about it.
Abigail was troubled and now she’d stepped into a river of trouble, Pinto Springs High. I bumped into Matt in the kitchen. He looked like I felt.
Chapter 33
Tonight we would eat homemade beef stew and pear salad (my turn to cook). I’d make the beef stew from a huge can of really delicious Brazilian meat I’d bought a couple of months ago. Add onions, small white potatoes, carrots and mushrooms, a few mild spices. Fresh bread for Matt. Fresh fruit for dessert. Yum.
It was still Monday morning and I was trying to get my mind into a better place. I looked over at Matt. We were sipping coffee at our twin computers in our home office--LIRI headquarters. And I was still thinking about dead teenagers. They were piling up a mountain of them way up there on Cleveland mountain.
I sighed and glanced around, and thought this had to be the day I cleaned up our messy work space. I needed to take care of my end of the paperwork. And I was overdue on a research project for Llamb and Stern on the effects of Lamotoral on the human personality—a nifty new over-the-counter sleep aid and a name I thought sounded like some new French motor oil. One of their clients was probably attempting to blame the sedatives for making them kill their spouse.
The phone rang and gave me a start. Matt answered. Suddenly I remembered this was the morning I was to meet with the principal of Pinto Springs.
“It’s for you. Are you ready for another call?”
I nodded and took the call.
It was Latisha Harper, the social worker assigned to Abigail’s case. After polite hellos, she told me she was hearing noises from her gang contacts.
“Abigail may be in trouble, Rachel. Sounds like she shot her mouth off at one of the homies while he was harassing an Indian girl on Friday.”
“As in Native American?”
“Yes. The Mexican-American gangs are pretty strong at Pinto Springs High. The school system has been good at keeping a lid on their activities, but frankly they are loath to mess with this or any political hot potato. Hispanic students feel harassed already with their second language issues and the related difficulties with the new testing requirements. Some outspoken families have hired lawyers to represent them.”
She took a deep breath, and continued.
“The gang calls themselves the Pintos, from the name of the city--and the fact that one initiation rite is to guzzle a pint of tequila and then take a beating from the other members. The tequila numbs the pain. These are very rough hombres. Most of them are second and third generation members, so their fathers are very involved.”
They don’t always get the painkiller, as Abigail and I witnessed in the dog park. Gangs were not lovely.
“What about the Indian girl?”
Her turn to sigh. “Yes, I know. It’s a balancing act between all these minority groups and their needs. Unfortunately the old rule still applies: the squeaky wheel gets greased.”
Latisha finished the call with one bit of good news for me; Gloria had put her challenge to her daughter’s attendance at PSHS on hold--at least for now. The ACLU meeting was off. This probably had as much to do with Gloria going two days with minimal sleep over this past weekend as with a change of heart.
Matt and I turned our attention to what to do about Abigail. We had begun the discussion last night after hearing and seeing Sandy’s visceral objection to Luis doing undercover work.
“Are you sure we can’t just place a bodyguard on campus with her, Matt?” I said after hanging up and bringing him up to speed.
“Aside from the fact that she’d probably object to the intrusion, we can’t move forward without school officials approving. That process takes more time than we may have. And from what you’ve told me about this asshole running the high school and the first meeting you had with him, I don’t picture him agreeing to anything that might lend itself to supporting her remaining a home-schooled child. I think he’ll deny there’s any danger from the get-go.”
He was right.
“Yes, but I’m worried about her, Matt. She doesn’t seem to have the necessary emotional brakes to keep out of trouble. Her reaction to the gang attack we witnessed was my first warning. And now to hear she’s already had a run in with one of the local gangs…”
“Let me call John Clancy and get some guidance from him.”
John Clancy was a Captain in the Escondido Police Department, but more importantly he was Famine’s brother-in-law. I’d never met him, but I presumed he was African American since Detective Leslie Mosby (AKA Famine) of the Pinto Springs Police Department was. Mosby was also frighteningly thin.
Matt made his call as I half-listened and pondered how the day’s workload would be spread. We had a request for papers to be served on a sex offender who’d skipped check in with his probation officer two months running, and I had that research request I was overdue on. And then Matt was to be in court the second half of the day. So even without the meeting with Dr. Forsythe, our plates were full.
I was contemplating unplugging our phones. But that doesn’t work with cell phones.
While Matt made a series of grunts and uh-huh noises I Yahooed “bullying and student bodyguards” on my computer and came up with dozens of pages of websites. Some of them had to do with the movie “My Bodyguard”.
One of them was about a twelve year old girl living in Seoul who regularly had two bodyguards escort her from class to class after she was bullied by gang members.
A Sunday Herald Sun article was posted regarding bullying claims by a young teen boy. School officials are quoted as denying any proof of bullying, stating, “We’ve thoroughly investigated his claims of bullying and they are unsubstantiated…the student suffers from learning difficulties and was merely assigned a volunteer tutor to assist him with his lessons.”
Apparently the “tutor” shared lunchtime with him.
A California Representative initiated legislation after the tragic death of a local student which she called Safe Schools Improvement Act.
And several articles were written about Phoebe Prince’s suicide after intense and unrelenting bullying by many students at her high school, much of which took the form of cyber-bullying.
Bullyin
g was definitely in the headlines. But in the short time it took Matt to finish his call I had found nothing about the legality of placing a bodyguard on a California campus. In fact I was beginning to think it couldn’t be achieved, at least not quickly, without using some ruse.
Matt finally hung up and said, “Will was supposed to serve for lawyer Denlop again today. But I’ll take that. It’s on the way to the Municipal Courthouse where I’m due later. We’re serving some cretin in Vista who skipped bail on a child molestation charge. He lives down the street from Hannah and Pete Lilly, by the way, you might want to warn her.”
“Oh great, just what the Southern California homeschooling family needs. But why doesn’t Will serve the papers?”
“You mean aside from the fact that the last time he served papers on a child molester he broke down the cretin’s back door, cornered him in the can and slammed the papers onto his chest so hard he cracked a rib?”
I grinned and said, “Yeah, that wasn’t so good.” Actually it’d been the high point of our week. “So what are we doing about Abigail?”
“We’re sending Will in undercover for the moment. John is calling a friend of his to have him issued a work pass to assist one of the janitors on campus. I don’t think she needs classroom coverage at this point, just during class breaks and lunch.”
Good. I felt better already. Except for second thoughts.
“Are you sure about using Will?”
He gave me that look again, the one that wonders openly if I’m losing my mind. I hated that.
“What do you mean?” Matt.
“Well, now that we’re actually sending someone in, I’m worried about Will being the one. He’s so…so…”
Huge and scary.
“He’s all we’ve got, Rache. Anyway, after our little discussion last night about being careful using Luis with Sandra’s concerns for his safety, I called Will and asked him to be the point man on campus if it became necessary. It just became necessary, thanks to Latisha Harper.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m just worried.”
“You want to write that down somewhere so I don’t have to hear you keep repeating it?”
Okay, he was getting rude. I rose to go take my shower and wake my brain up completely. Matt called after me.
“Remember, after court I have to meet with realtor Rodriguez, the one who has been scamming all those Mexican-American seniors in upside down homes. I may put Luis on a computer chase with this one too.”
As it turned out, I was right to worry. While I was dressing our phone rang again. I hustled into the office to listen in.
It was William Townsend calling only fifteen minutes after stepping foot on campus. Matt had the call on speaker.
“They made me.” Will.
“The authorities?” Matt.
“Yep. I was escorted off the campus a few minutes ago. Principal actually walked me to the gate. They’re pissed.”
“Uh-oh.” Me.
“Did you know the big fences around most Southern California school campuses usually aren’t locked? Another waste of tax dollars.”
“They’re probably just there in case Homeland tells them to button up,” Matt interjected.
But Will was upset.
“And their so-called guards consist of janitors and grounds keepers doing double duty. I asked the guy I was supposed to be helping. He said he didn’t even get a raise for taking on this new assignment. They aren’t armed or anything. I call it hazardous duty.”
“You’re probably right, Will, but budgets are tight right now.” Matt.
That was not where Will’s head was. I saw my chance to change Matt’s overly busy schedule and quickly asked, “Does this mean you can serve the papers in Vista today?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Matt turned to stare at me. He was not pleased.
I was thinking how great it would be for Will to crack some more pervert ribs.
My cell phone rang. I answered it while Matt said goodbye to Will. Then he turned to watch me as my over caffeinated blood made a fast retreat from my head.
I could actually feel the tide going down toward my legs, which made me wonder why nature didn’t think I needed my brain while running away.
Which was what my brain wanted me to do right now.
“What is it?” he whispered.
I raised a hand and kept listening, then thought to press the speaker button. The angry voice filled the room.
“…and if we catch you sending another of your thugs onto our campus I’ll report you to the superintendent’s office where I fully expect they will begin legal action.”
Finally I interrupted with a clarifying question.
“Excuse me, but who am I speaking with?”
“This is the Principal of Pinto Springs High, and you damn well know that.” And then in an aside he asked “What..?” He was listening to a female voice in the background—Chrissie Prichard.
“Oh, well my secretary tells me she didn’t have a chance to introduce me, but you should certainly have been expecting my call after I caught your body-guard on my campus. Just what the hell do you and your husband think you are doing? You can’t send armed men on campus. Don’t you know we are under tight security restraints?” I mouthed to Matt, was Will armed?
Matt snatched the phone from my hand and said, “Just what has our man done wrong…” I quickly scribbled his name and handed him a note. He finished, “…Mr. Forsythe?”
“It’s doctor Forsythe, Mr. Lyons….”
“I prefer Colonel Lyons, actually, Dr. Forsythe.” I arched my brows and cocked my head at him. His tone was neutral but we didn’t need to make things worse by pointing out the man was a fool. He ignored me.
After a brief pause, Principal Forsythe continued. “As I’ve just learned, Colonel Lyons. You are a man of considerable influence for someone who has just arrived in our neck of the woods.”
“And how did you learn that, Mr. Forsythe?”
“When I called the police to have your man arrested for trespassing I was handed up the line to some detective who took your side of things, that’s how!”
“What side would that be, Mr. Forsythe?”
Forsythe sputtered and I pictured him wiping the consternation off his flushed face.
“Never mind, that isn’t the point. The police may not want to get involved with campus affairs—as they so coyly put it--but I’m sure the superintendent’s office will. Just you keep your goons out of my school!”
Matt called Will back and clarified that he hadn’t been wearing a gun.
But now we were back to plan one, Luis Lewis. Louie-Louiee. Sandra wasn’t going to be happy.
Chapter 34
Unfortunately, not an hour after Will Townsend was sent off the high school campus for impersonating a gangster, and we learned that Luis wasn’t available today, Abigail ran smack into trouble.
She called my cell phone half hysterical, and I jumped in my car and took off to meet her at the mountain high dog park where we’d gone last week. I asked her if the school knew where she was. Her answer lit a fire under me. No one knew where she was.
It only took me twenty-five minutes to get there. I was probably speeding. But the whole way I was worrying that she was in danger. The call had ended abruptly. Turned out her battery had quit.
It was a shame there wasn’t someone local who could help her out. Of course her mother was sleeping and she wouldn’t have called her if her life depended on it.
Victoria Stowall, the Quilted Secrets bee matriarch and distant cousin of mine, was too old and ill to help her, but surely one of Victoria’s daughters could have helped. But of course they all worked at their Apple Fixation store-slash-restaurant in Julian.
I certainly understood why she didn’t want to turn to her homeschool teachers. This would only give them more ammunition to get her to return to their fold.
Finally, I arrived at the park in the middle of the second lunc
h break where I found several high school kids meandering amidst the dog owners. I couldn’t see Abigail among them.
Unlike some dog parks, the Las Pulgas Preserve (The Preserve of the Fleas, in Spanish, a bit of Mexican humor I suspected) wasn’t dedicated exclusively to dogs and their owners. Since the high school was literally just around the corner from the park, it was a favorite hangout for some teens after school.
Of course, they weren’t supposed to leave campus during the school day, but some managed to sneak out anyway—like Abigail just did.
After our last visit, when the Pintos gang had conducted a nasty initiation rite here, I was thinking maybe they shouldn’t even come here after school.
I finally located her hunched over on a half hidden bench, pretending she was reading a school book. When she looked up I gasped.
“What’s that! What happened to your face?” There was a clearly defined red hand print on the side of her face. She didn’t answer.
“Who slapped you?”
I was thinking, call the police, visit the principal and show him why we needed to protect her, but then she burst into tears and raced for my car. Poor girl was thoroughly humiliated, no doubt. Or was she afraid? I followed her, glancing around, but gang members were noticeably absent.
She scrambled into my car and I joined her. She burst right out with it as I closed my door.
“Oh Rachel, it was awful. I was in the girl’s room—they’re disgusting places, full of week old used tampons and obscene graffiti—when a group of freshman came in. At first I thought they were seniors, the way they were talking, but then I recognized one of their voices. She’s in my math class.
“There were three of them, and they were talking and laughing, using really crude language, and then I smelled the cigarettes. Right in school! They lit up as if it was no problem. And they were standing right under one of the smoke detectors.”
“Slow down, honey. First of all, are you in pain? Do you think any bones were broken?” The tears had dried up, indignation taking their place.
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