Frieda ran back into the classroom to tell Miss Fondevant that the ambulance was on its way. She stood by the doorway, panting. The principal, Mr. Kosper, stepped around her to enter.
“How is he?” asked Mr. Kosper. He was very worried. His normally good-humored face was serious, and his glasses had slid down on his nose. “What happened? Didn’t you get the note?”
Miss Fondevant didn’t shift her gaze from James Phillip as he lay on the carpet. He was breathing noisily. In a voice like ice slivers, she replied, “I received no note. I had no way of knowing something was wrong with the boy.”
Susan thought, She’s setting out her case. Miss Fondevant was preparing to defend herself. She’d heard her own mother do the same thing when she’d written a check on an account she’d known was overdrawn.
Mr. Kosper, looking down at James Phillip, said, “Mrs. Fallon is calling his parents.” He turned to look at the doorway. “I can hear the ambulance coming.” He lurched to his feet and went to look out into the hall, ready to wave the stretcher to the right room.
Miss Fondevant remaining kneeling by James Phillip, whose eyes were closed. The boy was looking whiter and whiter. Susan couldn’t look away, though she wanted to. So she was watching when—with a jerky motion, as though she couldn’t help herself—Miss Fondevant put her hand on James Phillip’s forehead. His body rippled from head to foot as though a wave had picked him up, and the breath escaped his lungs in a little “aaaaaa.”
Then he was still. Susan knew he was dead.
Susan and Taylor looked at each other. Then they turned to Frieda. It was the most complex silent exchange Susan had ever had since she’d looked into her grandmother’s eyes at her dad’s funeral. None of them dared to look at Miss Fondevant, for fear she would look back. Without speaking a word, they went to their desks, walking as silently as they possibly could. Aside from the blare of the ambulance just outside the school doors, there was not a single sound in Room 2.
The children who could go home early were picked up by their parents. Room 2’s other kids were divided among the rest of the sixth-grade teachers. Susan, whose mom had to work, spent the remainder of the day sitting at the back of Mrs. Sullivan’s room next door along with Frieda, whose mom hadn’t been home when the school called.
Though Merlie wanted to spend that Saturday talking about what had happened and comforting her daughter, Susan had other fish to fry. She told her mother she felt fine, and she rode her bike to the library as soon as her mom got on the phone with Donna Lynn to talk about her daughter’s intransigence.
Susan had consulted the set of encyclopedias in the bookcase in the dining room. She took a notebook with her and wrote many interesting points in it, gleaned from her research. She also checked out several books. “This is a new interest for you, Susan,” Mrs. Prentiss said. She frowned. “Not a healthy one.”
“You know I have a good head on my shoulders, Mrs. Prentiss,” Susan said. “My mom always says so.” She smiled at the older woman. She was secretly afraid that the librarian would call her mom, but as Mrs. Prentiss shook her head and turned to the next patron, Susan could tell she wasn’t going to.
On Sunday, Susan and Merlie went to church in their nice dresses, and then they ate Sunday lunch at Gary’s Golden Grill along with lots of other church people.
Susan did not sleep well Sunday night. Tomorrow she’d be back in Room 2.
On Monday, Mr. Kosper was going to have an assembly to talk about what had happened. Merlie had explained to Susan that some of the town ministers would be there to answer children’s questions about James Phillip’s “passing.” This was a new and revolutionary concept to everyone in Schulzberg.
Merlie said, “They’ll help you put James Phillip’s passing in a faith context.” Merlie sighed. “I think we’ve already been through this, though, haven’t we, honey?” Merlie missed Susan’s dad awfully, just like Susan.
“Mom, I’m scared,” Susan said.
Her mother looked at her with sympathy and said, “Sweetie, I know it seems awful wrong when someone your age passes away, even worse than when we lost your dad, maybe, but it’s part of life. You need to go to school and face it. Everyone else is very sad, too. They’ll understand.”
“I’m not scared about that,” Susan said, trying desperately to find a way to tell her mother the truth. “At least, not of dying like James Phillip. I know he’s in heaven, Mom.” (At least, she sort of believed that might be true.) “It’s the way he died.” But there she stalled. Susan just couldn’t tell Merlie that Miss Fondevant had murdered James Phillip. Her mother would never believe it.
Susan was simply resigned when Merlie dropped her at the middle school, giving Susan an extra kiss and saying, “I’ll be thinking of you, honey,” before she drove off to the elementary school.
Since the bell hadn’t rung and the weather was sunny, a lot of the kids were staying outside until the last minute. Susan sat on the low wall around the schoolyard. Frieda joined her there. Taylor ran by, his shirt untucked and his shoelaces undone. He gave them a wild look. Susan could tell he wanted to talk but didn’t dare stop. Boys who stopped to talk to girls (at least some boys who talked to some girls—it was a complex system) got teased. A lot.
When the bell rang, Frieda and Susan trudged silently to Room 2. Miss Fondevant was standing at the door, so they were obliged to greet her as they passed inside. There was a big black bow on James Phillip’s desk, as though he’d gotten the most awful birthday present ever. Susan rolled her eyes at Frieda, who stared back like a frightened rabbit.
All the children gave the empty desk sidelong glances. Susan noticed the compartment under the seat was completely cleaned out: all James Phillip’s drawings and old papers and books and notebooks, gone. The desk looked as if it had been scrubbed.
No black for Miss Fondevant; she wore powder blue and tiny gold earrings to match the gold ring she always wore on her right hand, the one with the three pink roses on it. Susan had always admired the ring. She wondered if Miss Fondevant would say anything about what had happened on Friday, but she didn’t. She took attendance just as usual, her voice calm and cool.
The intercom crackled on. Mr. Kosper’s voice announced, “Teachers, please take your classes to the auditorium.” Jillian, who had the desk to the right of James Phillip’s, was already tearful.
Because they were in Miss Fondevant’s class, they were in the position of being chief mourners. None of the children jostled or joked in line on their way to the auditorium.
The teachers had all had special instructions, Susan could tell, because none of them sat with their children. Instead, they all stood against the auditorium wall close to their classes. Susan wondered if they stood apart so they could watch their students better. She’d managed to maneuver next to Frieda in line so they could sit together. Since Miss Fondevant was looking at the stage, Susan felt free to look at her teacher. She whispered, “She doesn’t look upset.”
“Shut up,” Frieda whispered back urgently.
Susan had never been spoken to like that, especially not by her best friend. She almost replied, but she saw that Miss Fondevant’s gaze was moving in her direction. She looked straight ahead and kept her lips pressed together.
Mr. Kosper stepped up to the podium. He was tall and skinny with big black-framed glasses, and he was not married, which made a few single teachers hopeful. Susan kind of liked Mr. Kosper, who usually wore bright ties with cartoon characters on them and usually smiled a lot. Today, Mr. Kosper wore a black tie and a somber look.
“Most of you knew James Phillip his whole life,” he said. “Some of you went to church with him at Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. Some of you played with him. What you didn’t know about James Phillip was that he had just gotten diagnosed with a serious illness. His doctor thought James Phillip had a Wilms’ tumor.” Mr. Kosper had been looking down to read the unfamiliar term. He missed the startled flicker of movement from many of the students. None of them ha
d known.
“James Phillip was taking medicine,” Mr. Kosper continued. “In his math book, he had a note for Miss Fondevant from his mom, describing his illness and requesting Miss Fondevant to let him go to the restroom any time he needed, or to the nurse’s room to see Mrs. Marks. And James Phillip’s mother called the school Friday morning and talked to Mrs. Marks and to me.” Mr. Kosper took a deep breath. Mrs. Marks, the school nurse, was patting her eyes with a tissue. “But James Phillip got sicker faster than anyone expected. He forgot to give his note to Miss Fondevant. And everything went wrong after that. Now we’re all going to miss James Phillip.”
Without turning her head, Susan slewed her eyes to the left to look at Miss Fondevant.
Though it would have been easy to believe that her teacher was so stern faced today from grief and regret, Susan knew that she was simply angry about all the to-do. Miss Fondevant had murdered James Phillip when she’d put her hand on his forehead. Susan felt the knowledge settle into her, as immutable as the multiplication tables.
After Mr. Kosper finished speaking, a woman Susan had never seen before told them how important their feelings were. It was certainly the first time any of the children had heard this, and they gaped at her. Then there was a long announcement about how Father Perry and the Reverend Hutchins were going to stay in the auditorium to talk to any kid who asked to leave class to speak to them. That was kind of weird and exciting.
Even kids who hadn’t liked or known James Phillip were unsettled by the time the assembly was over. None of the kids in Miss Fondevant’s class asked to return to the auditorium except Jillian, the girl who’d cried that morning.
Miss Fondevant let Jillian go without even a stern look. And she didn’t touch anyone all day.
Susan’s mom asked her that night if she’d talked to any of the counselors.
“No,” Susan said. She turned her head back to the television. She loved Gunsmoke. Matt Dillon was always right, and Miss Kitty was always supportive.
“Are you feeling sad?” Merlie sat on the couch by Susan. “You know you can tell me about it.”
Susan turned to look at her mom. For one second, she hoped she could. But then she went through the conversation in her mind. Mom, Miss Fondevant put her hand on James Phillip’s head and killed him. She just couldn’t stop herself. The kids in her class are good because she makes us be good. “I’m not feeling sad,” she said hesitantly. “But I’m pretty mad.”
Her mom looked surprised. “That’s not what I expected,” she said. “What makes you mad?”
“Miss Fondevant,” Susan said.
“But, sweetie . . .” Her mom took a deep breath. “It’s not James Phillip’s fault, exactly, that he didn’t give her the note. I think his mom should have called Miss Fondevant at home to explain. If only he hadn’t forgotten the note. Or maybe he thought it would make him stand out, and he was embarrassed.”
Susan, who saw she simply couldn’t tell her mother the truth, struggled to frame a question about something else that had bothered her. “He didn’t have a dad, James Phillip. I mean, he has a dad, but his dad is in the army and he doesn’t get to come home much. And I don’t have a dad. But I’m not sick, right?” Miss Fondevant had been able to kill James Phillip so easily because he was already ill.
Immediately, her mom’s face got that wounded look, the one Susan had learned to dread. “You are just right as rain, baby girl,” she said very quietly. “Your dad . . . well, the doctors weren’t able to find out what happened inside his body. But you and me, we’re okay.” For a moment, Susan’s mom looked unlike the naturally lighthearted woman that Susan instinctively knew her mom to be. “Honey,” Merlie went on, “I’ve known Miss Fondevant for two years. She’s always kept a quiet classroom, and she’s always known every kid very, very well. It’s just crazy, the way she can tell you about each and every child in her room. She’s a marvelous teacher.”
“Right, Mom,” Susan said, turning back to the television.
The day after the assembly was a little more normal than Monday had been. Miss Fondevant removed the bow from the desk. Wednesday was even better. A new kid entered the school, and she took James Phillip’s place. Of course the other children told her that she had a dead boy’s desk, and JerriDell pretended to be terrified, but Susan could tell JerriDell didn’t have a lot of imagination. James Phillip didn’t seem real to the new girl.
That was actually good for the other kids in the class. JerriDell fit in very easily.
Now it was Frieda’s willful ignorance that worried Susan. When she tried to talk to her best friend at their usual meeting place at recess, Frieda said, “We probably just thought we saw something.” Frieda was trying to sound grown-up, but instead sounded unbearably condescending. Susan glared at her, keenly feeling the betrayal. Frieda recognized Susan’s anger and became more adamant. “Everything is all right,” she told Susan defiantly, and then she ran off to play jump rope with the Lucky Girls. The ones who had dads and moms and nice houses and clothes. Susan had fallen out of that group when her father had died and they’d had to move to a smaller house. To Frieda’s (and Susan’s) astonishment, the Lucky Girls let Frieda in the game.
In her despair, Susan did something she had never, ever imagined she would do. She waited by the outside water fountain for Taylor, and she voluntarily spoke to him. She’d taken great care to time it so they were by themselves. “Hey. Taylor. Do you understand what happened to James Phillip?” she said.
“Yeah. She killed him,” Taylor said, holding still with an effort. He glanced from side to side, reassuring himself they were not being watched. “And when she puts her hand on my shoulder, sometimes I think she’ll kill me, too.” The manic light in his eyes was gone, as was the overabundance of energy that had made him move constantly before Miss Fondevant had gotten a hold on him. For a moment, he seemed like a ghost of himself. Then his face reanimated, he grimaced grotesquely, and Susan felt a great relief.
“We have to stop her,” Susan said.
And then JerriDell ran up to get a drink, and Susan and Taylor split away in opposite directions.
For the next two weeks, the odd conspirators met at snatched moments, each terrified the other children would detect and publicize their partnership. Susan continued to reign as the class smart person, and Taylor continued to be the just-reined-in bad boy, thanks to Miss Fondevant’s shoulder squeezes. Sometimes Susan wondered if Miss Fondevant suspected something, because her shoulder squeezes became more frequent. One day, she gripped Taylor’s shoulder twice. He found a chance to talk to Susan behind a tree on the playground. “I don’t get it,” he said. “She doesn’t come to my house at night and drink my blood.”
“She’s not drinking blood,” Susan said, “she’s stealing your energy.”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said wearily. “Maybe she’ll take it all.” He trudged away.
One evening as they were driving home, Susan’s mom asked, “Does your teacher . . . grab people by the shoulder?” She was trying so hard to sound casual that Susan was instantly alerted. She had a flash of hope. Someone suspected!
Susan nodded vehemently.
Merlie looked straight ahead. She said, “Mrs. Costello was telling me that.” Mrs. Costello taught in Room 1, right across the hall. Merlie took a deep breath before she continued. “Do you . . . has she ever done that to you? I would hate to think she . . . when she became your teacher, I just figured how nice it would be for you to be in a quiet room, after last year.” The fifth grade had been awful for Susan, and her teacher had not been any kind of disciplinarian.
Susan thought hard about how to respond. “Miss Fondevant doesn’t grab them to make their shoulders hurt,” Susan said, trying to tell her mother the vitally important thing without mentioning the word she knew would make her mom quit listening. “She squeezes some, and they get really quiet. Like she’s draining them.” She waited, hopeful.
“She just touches their shoulder, huh?” Susan’s mom look
ed vastly relieved. In fact, she laughed a little. “Well. Okay. As long as she’s not hitting kids, or paddling them.” Merlie shook her head. “I know that woman’s sixty, and she doesn’t look a day over forty. I’ll have to ask her what her secret is!”
“No, Mom, don’t!” Susan’s cry was involuntary and from the heart.
Merlie looked right at Susan then. “You think that would be rude? Well, maybe. No reason to get all in fuss, Susan.”
Susan was desperate. “Mom, you know what her secret is,” Susan whispered. How could Merlie not understand?
For the second time, Merlie shied away from the truth. She laughed far too shrilly. “Oil of Olay? Pond’s Cold Cream? I’ve tried ’em all, honey, and I haven’t looked a day younger.”
Susan’s disappointment was so sharp that she almost summoned up the cruelty to ask her mother why her father had died. That was a question that always made her mother get quiet and sad. Susan knew only that her father had been found crumpled by his car in Lake Crystal Park, at the west end of town. When her grandmother had come for the funeral, she’d also been silent about the way her own son had perished.
After her grandmother had gone home, her mother had said to Donna Lynn, I know what people are saying behind my back. They’re saying he didn’t go there to run, he went there to meet some other woman. Susan had been angry that no one had thought of telling her that. Surely she should know what people were saying about her own father? There was no way at all that her dad would meet up with some other woman in the park.
But now, Susan knew she should be kind to her mother, who couldn’t help being blind. Susan said, “Mom, you always look pretty, Oil of Olay or not. I can tell Mr. Kosper thinks so.”
Merlie looked startled. “Really?” she said. “He said something to you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Susan said. “He said he wished you taught at his school.”
The rest of the way home, Merlie was thoughtful, cheerful, and (most importantly) diverted.
Susan missed her father something awful. Maybe she could have made him understand.
Seize the Night Page 15
