Deadly Debut

by New York Tri-State Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  I remember looking at Donna at that particular moment. She was like no one I had ever met. Brazen, ballsy, loud. But underneath that halo of thick, dark hair and teeny-bopper attire, I sensed a pure, genuine soul. And, she was the only one who would take the twenty hours. We could have shaken on it, but Donna already had a tight grip on my hands.

  “SEE. You’re in. That’a girl!” Donna offered me a sip of her soda and listened again for the kids.

  “Sure. Why not?” I settled back down into the leather recliner and accepted my fate.

  “Gimme a recap.”

  “Right. Well, the test was this past Monday. After the test I collected the materials and headed back to my office. I counted only thirty-one. I ran back to the classroom, but no loose test. Then I ransacked my office. No test.”

  Donna nodded solemnly and motioned for me to continue.

  “The class met again today, Wednesday. I walked in, and the students could see I was pissed off. I told them what happened.” I sank back into the chair and relived the enormity of my next move and the students’ subsequent reaction.

  “OKAY, guys. Bring it down a notch.” I dropped my books on the podium using the thunk to silence the class. Then I crossed my arms over my chest and assumed a fed-up pose. I started right in. No pleasantries.

  “Someone stole the test. I don’t know if it was on purpose or not, but a test is missing. You may not be aware, but I put a number on the back of each test. I passed out thirty-two exams and thirty-one were returned.”

  The room was quiet. A number of jaws dropped. “I’m going back to my office. I’ll return in an hour. The test better be on this desk or in my mailbox on the fourth floor. If the test isn’t returned in the next hour, I’m failing the entire class.” I walked out.

  On my way down the hall, I noticed the classroom next to mine was open. And empty. I darted in and pressed my ear against the wall. This type of maneuver ranks right up there with reading your teenager’s diary. And just like a hidden diary, I got an earful of crap I would have rather not known.

  I listened in as Rodney Purcell, the star of the football team, pulled the trigger first. Eddie Sanchez was his victim.

  “You stupid fuckin’ spic. Put it on the desk.”

  “I didn’t take no test, homeboy. My guess is that the football team needed a little something to study from. Last I heard, you guys are back out on drug alley unless the team grade-point average goes up past zero.”

  “Why the fuck would I risk my football scholarship on a lame-ass scheme like this?”

  “What’s the good of a scholarship if you ain’t got no team.” Hey, good point, Eddie. I see the debate club in your future.

  “If you ask me,” Eddie continued, “I’m putting my pesos on Lady Naomi.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Naomi purred. “You know my name.”

  Oh, my god, what a royal bitch. Naomi’s tone dripped with self-importance and condescension. In her sphere of existence, Eddie was just an anonymous face relegated to the service entrance.

  Naomi issued a bored sigh. “Why would I take the test?”

  “Because, Naomi, rules don’t exist for you.” Right on, Eddie. You are one insightful guy.

  “Then I guess I’m free to go.” I heard Naomi’s chair drag across the institutional linoleum.

  And then a door slammed at a deafening level.

  “Zoe!”

  “Shit!” I popped off the wall like a rubber ball and rebounded into an overhead projector. “Geez, Bob. You scared the daylights out of me. Why did you slam the door?” Bob, my best school buddy, stood leaning against the classroom door smiling at me.

  “What the hell are you doing, Zoe?”

  “Shhh. I’m eavesdropping on my students. Quick, come here.” I made some room for Bob and filled him in on the stolen test. We caught the end of Anthony tearing apart Donald, the computer geek, when Bob suggested we do something more professional like get a cup of coffee.

  We headed over to the cafeteria, while I checked my watch and reminded Bob I had to scurry back in a half-hour to see if the test materialized. We grabbed our coffees and took a seat away from the crowd.

  “So you told them you were going to fail the whole class?”

  I shrugged innocently and sipped my coffee.

  “That’s harsh, Zo.”

  “I didn’t really think about the consequences.”

  “That works well if your last name is Machiavelli.” Bob started to crack up.

  “Thanks for your support and encouragement in my time of need.”

  “Okay, okay. What are you going to do?”

  “Well, if the test is returned, then I do nothing but thank the class for their honesty.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “That would be Plan B, right?” I asked Bob. “Yeah, well I don’t have one of those.”

  I left Bob in the cafeteria and headed back to the classroom.

  Guess what? No test in the room and no test in my mailbox.

  I RECAPPED all of this for Donna, including my conversation with Bob.

  “I like Bob. He’s good people,” Donna offered.

  “Yeah. You definitely need at least one confidant at work. I can tell Bob stupid shit like this and not feel bad about it.” I confirmed Donna’s assessment of Bob.

  In fact, Bob Carlin and I had started at Hudson on the same day, both of us newbies straight out of the business world. Bob, an attorney, had given up the faintest hope of ever making partner. The two of us had spent the last couple of years in complete cahoots, laughing about students, administrators, and the other profs around the campus. Bob had even crossed the great work divide and joined Donna and me for pizza night with the kids.

  “Who does Bob think took the test?” Donna asked me.

  “Funny—he didn’t say. He actually has a lot of the same students in his business law class, so he knows the crowd. I think lawyers are used to protecting their clients. He does think I need to come clean, however.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “Well, he knows I can’t really fail the whole class. But he’s afraid my poor judgment will get back to the administration, and I’ll be penalized for making a rash statement to the class.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, this falls under the banner of Classroom Management. An experienced teacher isn’t supposed to create a negative learning environment.”

  “Whoa. I feel a load of crap coming my way.” Donna started to chuckle.

  “Stop laughing. This is for real. A good teacher is supposed to defuse situations like this. Not instigate them. I’m telling you it was like a WWF pro-wrestling match in that classroom after I left.”

  “So Miguel the Mower held his own, huh?”

  “Yeah. Eddie is a good kid, but there is certainly some friction between the racial groups on campus.”

  “Wake up, honey. That’s old news in Westchester these days.”

  “True.” I pondered the students’ reactions. I have to admit I was amazed at how quickly the accusations took on an ethnic slant. Bob was right. This could get out of control, and my head would be the one on the chopping block. Bob had suggested I go right to the dean, and tell him what’d happened before the circumstances went any further. He said I should play up my inexperience, take the blame, and then promise that the situation would be remedied in a few days. Bob’s plan had some merits, I thought. Typically, a disgruntled student will head straight to the dean. And when a teacher really screws up, it is not unusual for a herd of students to pack the dean’s office to file a formal complaint. When I’d first started teaching, an unassuming professor had inadvertently used the wrong answer key to grade an exam. True was False and False was True, and so on and so forth. Well, you would have thought the students were protesting the Vietnam War.

  According to Bob, it’s always better to apologize before you actually get caught. However, if the whole thing simply blew over, my reputation would remain unscathed. In the world of academia, r
eputation is everything, and medieval-style rewards and punishments often surface. The teacher with the wrong answer key had ended up in a basement office. I recounted to Donna all the ways I could get screwed at work.

  “So, in addition to getting a verbal lashing, I’ll probably get a hideous schedule next semester. I’ll be assigned an eight a.m. class with a four-hour gap before the next one meets. Then I’ll be assigned rooms with zero acoustics and no air circulation. But the real threat is tenure. I could be asked to leave.”

  “Zoe, come on. That isn’t going to happen. You’re a great teacher.”

  “It could happen. But even if I get tenure, I’ll definitely be passed over for a promotion.”

  Donna and I went back and forth, trying to figure out which student had a motive to steal the test. In a while, however, a crackling from the baby monitor signaled that our time was up. I tossed a sleepy Randy into the car and headed home. Five o’clock. Not bad. Enough time to bathe Randy and throw some dinner together.

  I lugged Randy through the front door and rolled him onto the couch. Then I flicked on the TV and surfed to the Cartoon Network. Maybe Sponge Bob could revive Randy from his late afternoon slumber. As I whizzed past the news channels, an image of Hudson College caught my eye. I whizzed back and caught the end of a local report. A male student at Hudson had been jumped late in the day just off campus. The unidentified student was in serious condition at White Plains Hospital.

  I looked over at my answer machine. The light was blinking furiously. God, please tell me this didn’t involve Eddie. But the message from the dean’s secretary told me otherwise.

  I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a handful of animal crackers, and crammed them in a Ziploc baggie. Swooping up an utterly confused Randy and packing him back into the car, I headed straight for the hospital. So much for this whole thing blowing over.

  I artfully talked my way past hospital security, using Randy’s stroller as a bulldozer. The crazy mother routine comes in handy at times. I worked through the hospital labyrinth and ran straight into Dean White shifting his lanky six-foot frame uncomfortably outside Room 309.

  I cringed. Dean White was a decent man. When I’d interviewed for the position, he was one of my biggest supporters, despite my lack of prior teaching experience. The closer I got to him, the more I felt the connection between us eroding.

  “Is it Eddie?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is.” Dean White responded flatly. “Eddie actually asked for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “He said to tell you he didn’t take the test.” Dean White’s little forehead vein had reached full pumping potential.

  “And?”

  “And then he passed out.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “I think it would be better if we scheduled a meeting together tomorrow. I have to deal with the family now.” And with that, he turned and entered Eddie’s room.

  I chugged the stroller back down the hall, took out my cell, and punched in Bob’s home number. A nasty nurse started to come after me, pointing animatedly at the “No Cellphone” sign. Wasn’t a cellphone for emergencies? I gave her the finger and shoved the stroller into a stairwell.

  “Bob?”

  “Hey Zo, what’s up?”

  “I’m in White Plains Hospital.”

  “Crap!” I could feel Bob sit straight up, right through the phone. “Is it Randy?”

  “No, no. He’s fine.” I looked down at Randy resting comfortably in his stroller. “It’s Eddie Sanchez. Someone jumped him. It’s about the test.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s serious. He got the shit beat out of him. It was probably Rodney or maybe Anthony. Who knows?”

  “Zoe, you are screwed.”

  “I know. I know. Any suggestions?” I thought hard, with no result.

  “Well, first thing tomorrow, you need to call the teachers’ union. If the school administration takes action, then the union will give you legal representation.”

  “Geez, Bob. You’re giving me legal advice. I was just looking for a pep talk.”

  “No pep talk. Your job is in jeopardy. Call me after you talk to the union rep.”

  I closed my cellphone and sat down in the dirty stairwell.

  Randy handed me an animal cracker and patted me on the head. One impulsive move, and my life blows up. Go figure.

  THE next morning, I dropped off Randy at Donna’s house an hour earlier than usual. I already had a headache, and my stomach was upset.

  “Hey, sweetie! Did you come early for breakfast?” Donna passed me a gooey donut and fired up the coffee maker. I put down the donut and gave Donna the once over. She was still wearing her pajamas, if you could call them that. I tried not to stare, but the yards of lace, satin, and ribbon were a sight to behold. Quite a step up from my old T-shirts and sweat pants.

  I let out a heavy sigh and caught Donna’s attention. “Eddie’s in the hospital,” I said.

  Donna quickly sashayed over and led my paralyzed body to a kitchen chair. I started to blubber. The blubbering soon enough gave way to sobbing. Randy kept trying to shove the donut in my face. Funny, I thought. I guess every time he cried, I gave him a cookie to cheer him up. I took the donut just to get rid of him.

  “First off, the real problem is not the test.” Donna dragged a chair up next to mine and leaned into me. “The problem is the kids. The white kids resent the Asian kids because the Asians are taking all their scholarships. Both the whites and the Asians resent the black kids, and all three groups hate the Hispanics. The test just set off those tensions.”

  “I know, but people will only remember the test.”

  “Well, then we need to figure out who took the test and shift the blame to them. We’ll let the cops deal with whoever attacked Eddie.”

  “Okay.” I sat up and sniffled back some sugary snot. “Thanks. I guess I’ll call you from work and let you know what happens after I talk to the union.” I kissed Randy goodbye and set off to face the music.

  I DROVE the two miles to school at a snail’s pace, taking a detour through Kensico Cemetery just to cheer myself up. At least I wasn’t dead, I figured. The cemetery covered fifteen lush acres and had housed a myriad of Westchester families over the last century. The view was stunning, steep on a hill overlooking the great Kensico dam, a major reservoir serving Manhattan. I looked at the names on the older headstones from the car. Burns, Richardson, Mitchell, Goldfarb, Pagnelli. The landscape had clearly changed over the years. I wondered if Mr. Burns would mind when Mr. Vasquez moved into the next plot for eternity.

  I pulled into teachers’ parking with a good forty-five minutes to kill before my class. With plans to head straight to the teachers’ union offices, I tossed my bags in my office. Anthony caught me just as I was locking my door.

  “Hey, Prof!”

  “Hi, Anthony.”

  “So, Prof, you heard about Eddie?”

  “I did, Anthony. I called the hospital this morning and the floor nurse said he was resting comfortably.”

  “Cool. You know I didn’t take the test.”

  “I’m not sure it matters who took the test anymore.”

  “I know where I can get a copy of it,” he added coyly.

  “What?”

  “I said I know where I can get a copy of it.”

  I unlocked my office door and invited Anthony in. “Okay. What the fuck is going on? Are you here to blackmail me?”

  “What? No way.” Anthony was sincerely offended. “I’m trying to tell you that whoever took the test sold it to one of those online sites that sells term papers, tests, whatever. You know what I’m talking about.”

  I had, in fact, heard about these sites. Over the past few years, an electronic black market had not only surfaced, but had flourished. Students could search for pre-written term papers on topics ranging from opera to operations software. Stolen midterms and final exams sorted by school and course code were an easy click away. The site was a d
eath sentence for teachers. Developing a good test is hard. There are just so many multiple-choice questions in the world. A publicly available test bank kind of takes the mystery out of earning a grade.

  “What’s the test selling for?” I asked.

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “Fifty bucks? Great. My career is on the line for fifty bucks. Can I find out who sold it to the website?” I spun my chair around and looked out the window. How the hell had this happened to me? I swung back and faced Anthony.

  “Actually, it’s on the line for two hundred dollars. The website pays the seller a flat fee of two hundred dollars and then the site resells it at fifty dollars a copy. Anyway, it’s totally confidential, and no way will they talk to a teacher.”

  “That makes sense.” I looked at Anthony. I knew that face. Randy had the same one. It was the I really want to tell you something face. Like, I spilled a gallon of milk on the living room rug. I could usually break Randy in less than sixty seconds. Anthony might take little longer.

  “So?” I nudged.

  “Yeah, well.” Anthony squirmed a little. I could see he wanted to talk, but I’d have to let him stew awhile. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the little blue Microsoft Outlook box in the lower corner of my computer screen blinking new email messages at me. All from Donna. I counted at least three. With Donna, there is always a fine line between nagging and genuine concern. I turned my attention back to Anthony.

  “Come on, Anthony. You must be here for a reason. Help me out.”

  Anthony stretched his legs and got comfortable with his confession.

  “I couldn’t actually get them to reveal the seller, but the site lets you ask questions about the test. You know, like on eBay, how you can email the seller questions?”

  “Go on.”

  “So I asked the seller a bunch of questions. How old is the test? What textbook did the class use? Does the test include essays? A bunch of shit like that.”