Off Limits

by Robert Rayner

  “I guess Ms. Legate’s all right,” Birmingham commented.

  “You better believe it,” said Geoff. “And you better do just what she says. Deny everything.”

  “There’s nothing to deny.”

  “Didn’t say there was,” said Geoff airily. “Deny everything, all the same. The superintendent knows diddly-squat. Legate isn’t going to sell out her good buddy, Ms. Flood. And your friend Amber isn’t going to soil her own nest by spilling the beans — as if there were any beans to spill, of course. Jenna might dish the dirt, but who’s going to believe someone like her? Especially when she’s obviously nursing a big grudge.”

  Birmingham nodded. His friend made it sound easy.

  “Now, to more important things,” Geoff went on. “What’s the time?”

  “Eight-fifteen.”

  “Plenty of time to grab a coffee over at Tim’s. So we have a chance of staying awake through the morning.”

  They headed out of school against the tide of students arriving.

  ***

  A week later, during math class, the principal’s voice on the intercom asked Jenna to report to the office. Birmingham guessed the inquiry had started. Earlier, he’d seen Dr. Sefton with Ms. Legate.

  Birmingham and Geoff were lounging in the hall and saw Jenna leave the principal’s office. She was pale and her eyes were red. She plucked at Birmingham’s sleeve.

  “Sorry, Birm.” She sniffed and wiped her nose.

  Geoff moved away, saying, “I’ll leave you kids alone.”

  Birmingham asked Jenna, “What are you sorry for?”

  She wiped her nose again as her words poured out. It was as if confessing to Birmingham would clear her of blame for what she had told Dr. Sefton.

  “I’m sorry for saying that stuff about you and Ms. Flood. Dr. Sefton asked me about it, and if it was true. He asked if you were my boyfriend. I told him you used to be and he asked why did we stop going together. I told him I didn’t know, but he went on and on at me. In the end I said it was because you got, like, the hots for Ms. Flood. He asked what made me think that, and I told him how when we were in class, you’d stare at her, and afterward you said how her face went soft, and stupid stuff like that. Like you wanted her for . . . you know . . . like for a girlfriend, except she was old enough to be your mom. Then he kept asking what else I knew and said if I didn’t tell him, he’d tell my mom I was mixed up in it. And his voice got louder and more stern, and I nearly blabbed about what happened in Fredericton. But I was getting mad at him by then and stopped myself just in time.”

  It was a cool November morning, but Jenna was wearing a short skirt and a tank top with ruffled shoulder straps. Her fingernails were painted pink and purple. She looked like a grade six kid trying to look as if she was in senior high. And she looked cold.

  “It’s okay,” Birmingham said.

  “I never knew everything was going to get so serious,” she went on. “I thought it was just going to be a laugh, spreading those stories and getting out of class for the inquiry. If I’d known what it was going to be like, I never would have said that stuff about you and Ms. Flood.”

  Birmingham realized she was about to cry again. He said, “It’s not your fault.”

  “Is too my fault,” she insisted. “I turned you off, didn’t I?”

  “No!”

  “Yes, because I wanted to do it in those weird places. But that was only because I was afraid you were getting tired of me. It seemed you didn’t want to do it, not anymore, not like before. And I thought that would make it exciting again, like it was when we were first together. But then I realized, all of a sudden, I was starting to really like you. Stupid, huh? And it wouldn’t have mattered if we never did it again, because just being with you was enough for me, but I was afraid it wasn’t enough for you.”

  Just being with you was enough for me.

  Birmingham wished he could tear his heart out. He wanted to show her how sorry he was, and how stupid he’d been.

  She hugged him and whispered, “I hope everything will turn out all right.”

  Geoff was called to see Dr. Sefton during the next period. He grinned at Birmingham as he left class, and was grinning even more when he returned ten minutes later.

  “What’s so funny?” Birmingham demanded as soon as class ended.

  “I’m probably not Dr. Sefton’s favourite student,” said Geoff.

  “I’m shocked,” said Birmingham. “What happened?”

  Geoff sat at a desk and pretended to be Dr. Sefton, assuming a deep voice and puffing his cheeks out after every few words. “I am Dr. Adrian J. Sefton, Superintendent of the Back River School District, of which Back River Regional High School is part. And you are — let me see — Geoffrey Reeve.”

  Geoff leaped up and moved to the other side of the desk to play the role of himself. “I was Geoffrey Reeve when I got up this morning, so I probably am now.”

  Students stopped and gathered around.

  Geoff changed sides and looked up slowly, puffing out his cheeks and glaring at the imaginary student opposite him. “You are a friend and classmate of Birmingham Glover, and . . .”

  Geoff leaped across the desk. “I never saw anything.”

  Back to the other side. “Please let me finish my question. Did you see anything to suggest Birmingham and Ms. Flood were in any kind of relationship?”

  “I just told you, I never saw anything.”

  More cheek puffing.

  “Did you witness any inappropriate interaction between them?”

  “I never saw anything. What’s inappropriate interaction, anyway?”

  Geoff, in the guise of Dr. Sefton, glowered across the desk. “You know very well what I mean.”

  Geoff reverted to himself. “Not unless you spell it out.”

  Becoming Dr. Sefton, he sighed, pretending to lose patience. “I mean behaviour like inappropriate touching, embracing, fondling, meeting outside of school . . .”

  “You must be sick in your head, thinking stuff like that about Birm and Ms. Flood.”

  “Were you aware of stories about them circulating around the school?”

  “Yeah, of course. But that doesn’t mean anything. There’s stories going around all the time. Like the one where the cafeteria puts drugs in the food to stop the kids wanting sex. And the one that Ms. Legate dresses up as a man on Saturday nights and hangs around Waterloo Street . . .”

  Geoff, in the role of Dr. Sefton, shook his head slowly. With a final puff of his cheeks, he said, “I see you are going to be no help to this inquiry.”

  Geoff became Geoff again, rocking back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “You got that right, Doc.”

  His audience applauded.

  He jumped up. “Come on. Let’s get a coffee.”

  Chapter 14

  Birmingham spent every minute of the next two days at school expecting to be called to see Dr. Sefton. His stomach roiled and his pulse raced with anxiety all the time.

  At the end of the second day, he told Geoff, “This waiting is driving me crazy.”

  Geoff suggested, “Why don’t we ask Ms. Legate when you’re on?”

  They went to Ms. Legate’s office, but it was empty. They were about to leave when they heard her voice in the conference room next door, where Dr. Sefton was holding his inquiry.

  “I have told you repeatedly, Dr. Sefton. I saw nothing to suggest anything improper was going on.” She sounded angry.

  Birmingham whispered, “We better go.”

  Geoff said, “Hang on a sec.”

  Dr. Sefton’s reply oozed sarcasm. “I’m sure you’re not saying that because Ms. Flood is a friend.”

  Ms. Legate shot back, “Don’t insult me.”

  “But you agree that you heard
stories about Ms. Flood and the student meeting in a hotel room and—”

  “I don’t deal in rumours, Dr. Sefton. I hear a dozen of them every day.”

  Dr. Sefton persisted, “And you observed Ms. Flood serenading Birmingham Glover at the piano, with the young man sitting close beside her.”

  Ms. Legate’s voice changed from anger to exasperation. “Ms. Flood was Birmingham’s substitute music teacher. Surely she can use the piano to demonstrate a point about music to one of her students without being accused of ‘serenading’ him.”

  Birmingham murmured, “We’ll be dead meat if they catch us here.”

  Geoff grinned. “It’s not our fault we can hear them.”

  They heard Dr. Sefton growl, “But did he have to sit close to her?”

  “Yes, of course, if it would help him observe how she was playing. I see teachers and students standing and sitting close all the time as they go over work.”

  “Ms. Flood sent Birmingham a note.”

  “She left him a note at the office, to be picked up.”

  Dr. Sefton’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “Isn’t that rather like teenagers passing notes, making secret, romantic meetings?”

  Ms. Legate snapped, “Teenagers text one another. They don’t write notes. Your observations are as out of date as they are ridiculous. I will not put up with unfounded accusations regarding a member of my staff.”

  The boys heard movement in the conference room. They walked quickly out of school, where Geoff muttered, “I knew Ms. Legate could be tough, but, jeez . . . imagine telling your boss to go fuck himself.”

  “I hope she won’t get in trouble for it,” said Birmingham. “It’ll be my fault if she does.”

  “Nah,” Geoff assured him. “This is all the fault of that shit, Sefton. He wanted the inquiry.”

  Halfway through the next morning, Birmingham went outside and sat on a bench alone. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, relaxing his muscles one by one, trying to calm himself. He felt the tension start to drain away. He opened his eyes and saw Ms. Flood walking toward the school doors, escorted by Ms. Legate. Adrenalin surged through him, cranking up his tension even higher than before. Amber looked across the schoolyard and saw him. Their eyes locked for a few seconds. Then she looked away with a toss of her head that reminded him of Jenna.

  When had her pleasure in his company turned to anger? What had he done to deserve it? He had stopped her from sexually assaulting him. She should be grateful, not mad.

  He half rose, with the intention of confronting her, but Ms. Legate held up her hand and shook her head.

  His free period ended a few seconds later and he followed them into the school. He saw Ms. Legate conduct Amber to the conference room.

  Birmingham went on to class, his nerves like sunburn.

  At lunch, Geoff said to him, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I might be called,” Birmingham protested.

  “Tough shit for Sefton,” said Geoff. “Make the bastard wait. It’ll be good for him. And it’ll do you good to get out of school.”

  Geoff was right. It was true that the stares of teachers and students, including Jenna’s friends, had turned from curiosity and scorn to sympathy. But Birmingham still felt their eyes on him. He felt like a frightened, caged animal, an exhibit in a zoo.

  They went to Tim Hortons.

  Birmingham returned with his heart racing after two cups of coffee. Before he even got to class, he heard, “Birmingham Glover, please report to the office.” He was afraid his heart would explode through his chest. He stopped in the crowded hall, fists clenched and sweat pooling under his arms, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”

  Geoff threw his arm round his friend’s shoulders and said, “Take it easy. Breathe slowly through your nose.”

  A classmate passing by joked, “Hey, fag boys.”

  Geoff turned a look of such fury on him that he apologized and scurried away.

  “Again — slowly, deeply,” Geoff ordered.

  Birmingham obeyed. Geoff kept his arm round him as the hall emptied and Birmingham got a grip on his nerves.

  “Okay now?” Geoff asked.

  Birmingham nodded.

  “Go on, then.”

  Birmingham stammered, “Th-thanks.”

  “I’ll be gone when you get out,” said Geoff. “Gotta go with Mom to the doctor again. I’ll call you later.” He punched Birmingham lightly on the arm. “Stay cool. Deny everything.”

  Birmingham made his way through the empty halls to the office. Ms. Legate was waiting for him.

  She said quietly, “Remember what I said the other day. I’ve told Dr. Sefton I saw nothing to suggest any kind of improper relationship between you and Ms. Flood.” She added, “Of course I said that because I believe it’s the truth.”

  Ms. Legate led him to the conference room and knocked on the closed door. She opened it and announced, “Here’s Birmingham, Dr. Sefton.” She propelled Birmingham into the room with a gentle hand on his back and closed the door behind him.

  Birmingham remembered watching a movie in which a helpless, unarmed slave was thrown into an arena alone to face a heavily-armed gladiator.

  Dr. Sefton was sitting at one end of the long table that took up most of the room. He was writing on a yellow notepad. Birmingham hovered just inside the door. Dr. Sefton kept writing. The superintendent was a pear-shaped man who walked with a lurching waddle like an overweight raccoon. The teachers always seemed nervous when he was visiting the school.

  After what seemed like an hour, Dr. Sefton said, “Sit.” He still did not look up.

  Birmingham sat at the end of the table opposite Dr. Sefton, who wrote for another few seconds before at last looking up. He had a pinched and puckered face like a Pekinese dog. Above it, his high forehead was topped with a few strands of fluffy white hair.

  He puffed out his cheeks and said, “You are Birmingham Glover.”

  Birmingham murmured, “Yes.”

  The superintendent said, “Hmmm,” as if doubtful of Birmingham’s identity. He made a show of setting his pen aside in order to flip to a new page on his notepad. Then he announced, “I am Dr. Adrian J. Sefton, Superintendent of the Back River School District, of which Back River Regional High School is part.”

  He sounded exactly like Geoff had. Despite his worry, Birmingham nearly laughed. It was like trying not to laugh in assembly, or at a funeral.

  “You are not on trial, Birmingham, and neither is Ms. Flood,” the superintendent went on. “This is an informal inquiry, called by me in order to ascertain the facts surrounding an alleged relationship between you and Ms. Flood. Do you understand, Mr. Glover?”

  Puff.

  Birmingham nodded.

  Dr. Sefton continued, “If, after hearing from everyone present, I am satisfied that nothing improper has occurred, then no further action will be taken. However, if I believe something inappropriate has been going on, I will have no alternative but to refer the matter to the police. They may have an interest in the alleged relationship, which could lead them to pursue action of their own.”

  Birmingham’s stomach lurched at the mention of police.

  “I have heard from your friends, Jenna and Geoffrey, and your principal, Ms. Legate. Ms. Flood has also given me her account.” The superintendent paused and looked at his notes before going on. “So far I have heard contradictions and denials, so it appears I will have to rely on Ms. Flood’s account of your relationship . . .” He paused again, looking steadily at Birmingham, before finishing, “And yours, Mr. Glover.”

  Puff.

  Birmingham’s brain went into overdrive.

  What had Amber told Dr. Sefton about their meetings?

  How could Birmingham deny everything without knowing what he was denying?


  The superintendent’s eyes were still fixed on him. “All I want, Birmingham, is the truth.”

  “Okay,” said Birmingham.

  But what was the truth?

  Would denying everything, like Geoff said, be the truth?

  What would count as an improper relationship? Talking to Ms. Flood in the music room and at the cottage? Listening to her at the piano?

  No.

  Sneaking glimpses down her dress?

  Maybe.

  Lying on a bed in a hotel room with her?

  Yes.

  Leaning back against her breasts while he sat at the piano?

  Yes.

  Letting her slide her hands down his front?

  Yes.

  Was his truth the same as Amber’s truth?

  Was it the same as Ms. Legate’s and Jenna’s truth?

  “The truth, Birmingham,” Dr. Sefton insisted.

  Would everyone deny the truth, whatever that truth was?

  Would just one person’s failure to deny the truth lead to a police investigation? Who would that person be?

  Dr. Sefton’s eyes seemed to bore into Birmingham’s brain, extracting everything he was thinking.

  “Nothing happened,” said Birmingham,

  remembering the advice of Geoff and Ms. Legate.

  “Tell me about Ms. Flood.”

  Puff.

  Birmingham shrugged. “She’s a substitute teacher.”

  “What was your relationship with Ms. Flood?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did it go beyond the normal relationship between teacher and student?”

  “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “I don’t think so. No.”

  The superintendent sighed. “I can see you are reluctant to offer any account of your relationship — whatever it was — with Ms. Flood. So let me make a few statements, based on what I have heard already. You may respond to them as you wish.”

  Puff.

  “You first encountered Ms. Flood as a substitute music teacher, correct?”

  Birmingham nodded.