In the Dead of Summer

by Gillian Roberts

  A group? An idea? A tradition? A

  Person? Not Romeo, Juliet or that gang. They’re dead.

  Assigning blame is useless, something he wouldn’t

  dare.

  Would he?

  Ask him.

  Perhaps he is

  Afraid.

  Probably is, because

  Reality

  Is too much like fiction and

  Life sucks.

  “See that?” I said.

  “I see it.” W.A.P.A. Running down the side of the poem. Running, a second time, right into April. The same letters that had been carved in Woody’s side, sprayed elsewhere. “Things are connected,” I said in a low voice. “I was right.” That didn’t make me feel any better. I took a deep, deep breath.

  Romeo and April Truong. All her questions about whether Juliet had done the wrong thing. I remembered asking her what other options she thought Juliet had. I’d wanted her to realize that acting without reflection—killing herself as Juliet had, as Romeo had, was juvenile. April’s response instead had been that Juliet could have left sooner.

  But Juliet had never left at all. April did, and saw it as a parallel. “She left to save them, to save Woody.” My tongue felt thick, words hard to say.

  “Then it sure was one sorry plan.” Mackenzie looked at me. I could tell we were both remembering that boy, hanging from the backboard, arms up, hands nailed in a parody of an all-too-familiar pose that usually was accompanied by the idea of salvation. “But maybe,” he said slowly, “the people who wanted to hurt that boy chose that particular method to make it clear that nobody was saved. Not at all.”

  Nineteen

  WOODY WAS THE ONLY SUBJECT ON THE CURRICULUM the next morning. It isn’t often—thank God—that students are found crucified in a school gym. The late news and the early morning news had headlined the story and repeated it every five minutes. All three networks had called my house last night, but I’d refused to comment, let alone be photographed. This morning, CNN had phoned. Mackenzie fielded the calls.

  Even though I felt as if I’d emotionally and intellectually exhausted the topic, it was obvious that I couldn’t avoid it.

  Five approached the school at the same time I did. I’d walked, because my car was still at the shop, the weather was fine, and I hoped exercise would keep me alert, maybe even reinvigorate me after a night of no real sleep.

  I wasn’t invigorated, but Five looked even worse. Ashen. “Mandy!” he said. “My God! I watch the news while I shave, and when I heard—” He shook his head, speechless. “I nearly cut my throat!” He had a Band-Aid on his jawline, but I permitted the hyperbole. That was nearly his throat. “Speaking of cuts—what’s that on your face?”

  “I’m auditioning for Bride of Frankenstein.” I could not bring myself to describe the spike in Woody’s hand cutting my cheek.

  “They said you found him. Is that true?”

  Why had they used my name on the air? Wouldn’t a generic “found by a member of the faculty” have sufficed?

  “What—Why were you there? When I left you, I thought you and Crispin were going home. What made you go into the school? Go looking for Woody?”

  My mental screen flashed Mackenzie’s grin, sexy Mrs. Taubman, and our plans for the evening, and I felt my neck, then my chin, then my entire face blush. “I was, I—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t looking for—I—” I forced myself to shut up until I was breathing normally. “I’d forgotten something, and since I was there, I thought I’d get it from my room.”

  “What?”

  The police hadn’t ever inquired what I needed to retrieve, but Five was a fellow teacher, and less likely to be satisfied with vagueness, and much more aware of the normal parameters of teacherly devotion. What was worth going back to school for at night? “My roll book,” I said, “and I was in a real sweat—didn’t want a student to get ahold of it and change grades or anything.”

  He nodded.

  Stupid! The police had to call Havermeyer to get Woody’s number—but if my roll book had really been in my classroom, I could have provided it. I need a lot more practice at lying.

  But why would Five question how or where the police got their information? I relaxed. The trouble with lying is that you—I—become paranoid and excessively suspicious, jumpy, and worried about loopholes in my story. Five had asked a casual teacherly question. A make-conversation question.

  “They said—the TV—that he’s going to live and probably will have full use of his hands,” Five said. “But they aren’t sure about damage to the shoulders and hips.” He shook his head again. “Did he say who did it? The news didn’t say a word about that, maybe for legal reasons.”

  “He couldn’t speak. He was in shock.”

  Five’s lips were clenched. There was lots to say—and no point saying it.

  “They carved letters in his side,” I said. “They stand for some racist group. Did the news say that?”

  He shook his head, his mouth slightly open. His silent shock reminded me of Woody’s last night. I thought about Mackenzie’s unfounded suspicions of him and wished he could see him now.

  “Something rotten’s going on,” I said. “And I hate to say this, but I think it’s based here. In this school.”

  “Why here? Just because that’s where Woody—”

  “I personally think even April’s disappearance is connected.”

  He looked at me with great concern, then shook his head. “Her parents didn’t seem to.”

  I shrugged.

  “I can only hope you’re wrong,” he said softly. He moved in the direction of the office, slowly, so I could accompany him. “You still didn’t say why you think this thing, whatever it is, is based here.”

  “Have you gotten peculiar notes?’’ I asked “Poems? Threats? Things that feel in code?”

  “No,” he said. “But obviously, you or somebody must have or you wouldn’t ask. What kind? What did they say?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing specific. Vague threats. A quote from Romeo and Juliet. The nurse saying ‘woe is me.’”

  “Maybe it has nothing to do with these…events. Maybe,” he leaned close, “they’re typically garbled messages from Havermeyer.”

  I smiled weakly.

  “Might as well try for levity,” he said.

  “Isn’t it awful? I’m just so nervous now. So appalled.” It was Phyllis, swooping down on us in the office, all aflutter and batting rescue-me eyes in the direction of Five. I found her doubly annoying on a morning when I had almost no lashes to bat. “How could something like that happen?” She seemed about to swoon into his arms.

  I took that as my exit cue, silently waving goodbye and backing off. Phyllis didn’t care about me, or about Woody for that matter. She cared about appearing pathetic and in need of a great big history teacher to take care of her. She cared about Five. Dennison was sufficiently sibilant to add to her string of names.

  “Dr. Havermeyer called me in the middle of the night,” Helga announced as I passed the dark walnut barrier that shielded her from us. “Woke me up and nearly frightened me to death. What were you doing in the school at that hour?”

  “I was…this is pretty embarrassing, but I was going to practice gymnastics.”

  “You? Here? Gymnastics?”

  I nodded. “It’s kind of a secret, though. I’m not very good.”

  “But those girls are tiny. Barely past puberty. You’re a great big, tall—”

  I nodded again. “That’s why I only practice at night, when nobody’s around.”

  She blinked a few times, and I turned to leave. “I’ll have to check whether you’re allowed,” she called out. “You didn’t ask permission. We could be liable if you got hurt.”

  I tried to slam the door behind me, but it had one of those whooshy tubes attached that made it impossible. Foiled again.

  “Amanda!” This time it was Aldis, who already had her mail, and who looked honestly in distress. “I heard. Are you all righ
t? Your cheek—what happened? Did he hurt you?”

  I nodded, then shook my head. “Fine, thanks,” I said. “Just a bit shaken. The cheek? I played with a cat that needed a manicure.” I glanced at my mail. Nothing looked personal today.

  Aldis fell into step beside me. “How did you happen to find him?”

  This time I refused to think about Mackenzie’s grin or his buxom science teacher and I didn’t blush. I changed my story to a packet of tests I’d left behind. “I don’t know when it happened,” I said. “Did you hear or see anything when you were there?”

  “That was too early. Nothing was going on then.”

  “How come you came back to school?” I asked in a noncommittal tone.

  “I forgot my roll book.”

  Come on! I thought. That’s cheap and easy—even I thought of that one right away, like a reflex. Surely, you could do better than that, or don’t expect me to believe you.

  “It is not like me to be slovenly and forgetful,” she said. “I don’t think I ever did that before.”

  I had a nasty if irrational moment when I was sure that Mackenzie had also told her the story of Mrs. Taubman, and that they, too…

  “You know how these people are,” she said. “Those grades would be switched in a second. I couldn’t risk leaving it overnight. But I never went near the gym. Up the back stairs and down again.” She didn’t ask why I had gone to the elevator, which was lucky, because it might have sounded odd that I was taking along a handicapped friend to get my test papers.

  We were quiet for about half the flight up, then Aldis tsked. “We shouldn’t be surprised that something like this happened,” she said. “All this overemphasis on equality—on mediocrity, if you ask me. And look where it’s gotten us. Look what happens when you let that sort into where they don’t belong.”

  “What sort is that?” I kept my voice low and sounded convincingly interested, if I say so myself.

  “Do you really have to ask? The coloreds—pardon me, the blacks. Or are they Afro-Americans these days? And those Orientals who barely speak decent English and who even knows if they’re legal? Or if they’re communists? And the Filipinos and that Russian girl and those Spanish from what, Salvador? Where are the Americans? Except for that one poor boy, and look where he wound up! You see my point? I came here for this program because I expected anything but this! And look where it leads. I could have told you.”

  “I still don’t get what sort of people—which of our summer school students—you think did that to Woody,” I said. “He was crucified. Wasn’t it the Romans who were into that? Their soldiers? Are you saying we let too many centurions enroll this summer?”

  She looked at me as if I were not only insane, but criminally so. She looked at me, in fact, as if I were…that sort.

  And then she huffed off.

  I nearly made it into my room, but not quite, and nearly doesn’t count. “Mandy Pepper!” a high-pitched male voice said. “Mandy Pepper, are you all right?”

  Students stopped milling and turned to watch, no doubt formulating rumors about Lowell Diggs and me. The idea was pornographic. “I’ve been worried sick!” he shouted.

  “Calm down,” I said from between gritted teeth. The kids moved in for the kill. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m all right. I found him. He was the one hurt, not me.”

  “Your cheek! What about that?”

  “I auditioned for a play. An all-female Count of Monte Cristo. This was a dueling accident. It looks worse than it is.” I’ve never understood that expression, to tell the truth. By definition, aren’t things precisely as bad as they look since that’s how we’re defining bad?

  “I was so upset, I called your house,” he said with arm-waving agitation, “but some man told me to get lost.”

  Great. Supergreat. I really wanted the student body to know the details of my personal life, like my having a male roomie now and then. “That’s my security person,” I said. “After all you told me about what’s going on in the world…”

  He squinted, considered, and nodded. “Talk to him about his attitude. How was I to know he was a good guy? I thought maybe he was a thug. I thought maybe you were being held against your will.”

  What was Lowell’s problem? Me? Or something more? His shaving today had been even more impaired than usual, with several patches of stubble and one piece of toilet paper. “Why would you think that?” I asked. “Honestly, Lowell!”

  “I was so worried, I called your mother!”

  The air went out of my lungs. I had to remind myself to breathe. I shaped my lips to respond, to find out why on earth, what, why…but no sound except that of collapsing lungs emerged. I gasped and tried again. “My…my…you…my…”

  “Thank goodness, my aunt knew what complex your parents—”

  My strength and speech returned. “My mother lives in Florida. That state all the way at the bottom of the map. Far from here.”

  “Don’t I, of all people, know that? That’s why it took so long. I don’t have a Florida directory.” He looked even worse when agitated. His eyes bugged and he dribbled spittle. “I couldn’t remember where, but my aunt remembered, but first she had to call—”

  “Why?” A blonde girl stepped back a pace at my shriek. Her lids lifted until I could see white above her blue-blue eyes. What could be better than seeing a teacher have a nervous breakdown? I tried to scream softly, privately. It hurt my throat. “What on earth did you think my mother could do in Florida if I were being held? Which was a bizarre thing to imagine, anyway! And who are you to call her?”

  He looked stunned—profoundly hurt. Uncle Lowell, he called himself with me. And must have believed we had some kind of kinship. Nonetheless, an unsolicited fix-up by my mom and her pal did not constitute the ties that bind, and it was now down to Lowell’s emotional health versus mine. “You—You—” I had lost coherency again. And then I remembered who else had been at the scene of the crime last night. “You!” I said. “What about you?”

  “Me? What?”

  I lowered my voice still more. Students strained forward to hear. “Why were you here last night?”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” His voice squeaked and broke.

  “Asking. I saw you leave the building around ten. I called you by name.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Was I supposed to say did so to his did not? He was lying, but why? “I saw you,” I hissed. His face glistened with perspiration. Humidity, or nerves?

  “I told you to be careful, didn’t I?” he said. “When we saw the eighty-eight? I told you bad things were going on.”

  “Was that some kind of a warning? Besides, that’s a non sequitur. How about last night?”

  “What about last night?” he said, back to his loudest, most stupidly belligerent voice.

  Students sniggered. Lowell knew precisely what he was doing—he had a reservoir of stupid cunning I hadn’t suspected, and his object was to humiliate me, for whatever evil purpose. Lowell had no redeeming qualities. He wasn’t even much of a teacher, from what I heard. At least, not of math. Maybe he was better at teaching hate. In any case, I was finished worrying about his ego. “I have to get to my class,” I said softly.

  Before I was inside my room, from across the wide landing, Lowell shouted at the top of his lungs, “Don’t forget to call your mother, Mandy. She’s worried sick.”

  I entered my room to a chorus of adolescents chanting, in singsongy unison, “Call your mother, Mandy. Oooh, Mandy—call your mother!”

  Evil has many faces. Some of them are poorly shaven.

  Twenty

  THE DAY FELT OLD BY THE TIME IT TRULY GOT UNDER way, and it wasn’t helped by my morning session’s two empty seats—April’s and Woody’s. We were being slowly decimated. Was it something I’d done? Planned to do? Somebody stalking my students?

  In any case, not a soul in my room, including me, wanted to systematically build our vocabularies through synonyms, antonyms, prefixes,
and suffixes. I could kiss the first forty-five minutes of my lesson plan goodbye.

  To make matters worse, I’d forgotten my notes on Lord of the Flies, which we were to start reading and discussing today. And how applicable my talk on the dark potential of human nature would have been. My words shimmered much more brilliantly when out of reach than if I’d been holding them. As it was, while my clever insights took the day off at home, I stood in front of my class, dull with exhaustion and mind-numbing memories.

  I had no choice but to wing it. We’d talk about the substance of the book, get into how the group defined civilized behavior, what bound us together as a society, what happened when the rules collapsed or people misused or overenforced them.

  We didn’t need a novel about boys stranded on an island to examine chaos. We could pull up the shades and look outside. Or keep them down and look inside, at ourselves. Boys and girls stranded—for their own good—in a seemingly benign private school, a little island of safety away from the world’s insanity for a few weeks in summer. We could write our own story. We already had our own horrific sacrifice.

  My attitude was not wholesome, teacherly, or optimistic this morning, but there wasn’t a hope in hell of changing it. We staggered onward, minute by minute. We discussed Lord of the Flies, then wrote letters to Woody, swapped them, edited them, and rewrote them. That was a subversive way to have a writing lesson. Plus, the class discussion of what could or should go into such letters, what would or would not be beneficial for Woody to hear and know, unbeknownst to the oh-so-tough teens, was an actual, face-saving exploration of emotions. In the guise of discussing what they could or should say to their fallen classmate, they seemed willing to show themselves for once, to mention fears, anxieties, and guilts.