by Cynthia Raye
“Sounds wonderful,” Ronni answered. “You do make the best I’ve ever tasted. You’ll have to tell me your secret.”
“Magicians never reveal their secrets, right?”
“Are you trying to tell me—”
“That I’m a magician? Well, no I’m not. In actuality, I’m a witch. But as everyone knows witches can perform magic too. I try to keep that a secret. Rose Regent, good witch of the South. Southern California, that is. The witch L. Frank Baum never mentioned in his Oz stories. And for which I feel a little hurt.”
“Ah, Rose.” Ronni answered, “I’m sorry. That must be a terrible feeling.”
“Oh, well, trials and tribulations.” She indicated a seat across from the small table where she sat on the front porch. “I’ll be back in a jiffy. Or maybe in my Lamborghini.”
“Didn’t know you had Lamborghini.”
“I do, along with my Rolls Royce and my classic VW Beetle. Keep them in the garage in my living room.”
“Wow, your living room must be a lot bigger than mine.”
“Infinitely larger. I am a witch, you know.” She stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Rose returned a moment later carrying a tray filled with delicious-looking cinnamon rolls, the aroma of which started Ronni’s stomach grumbling.
“Well, here we are,” Rose said as she placed the tray and a stack of napkins on the table and took her seat. “Now, I know something’s bothering you. I’m here to listen, if you like.” She grinned. “And no, I won’t charge my usual two- hundred-an-hour fee.” She picked up on of the rolls. “Seriously,” Rose said, “something’s bothering you. I could tell by your expression and body language.”
“It’s something that happened at school.” Ronni sighed. “There’s this one particular student. She’s in my acting class.”
“You’re having some sort of problem with her.”
“Not sure how to answer that,” Ronni said as she leaned back in the wrought-iron chair.” She shook her head. “Well, this girl seems to have everything: intelligence, looks, the whole package really.” She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Obviously, there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”
“There is. The faculty thinks of her as the ideal student, which I did too… until today.”
Rose looked contemplative as she took a bite of her cinnamon roll. “Something happened to change your mind.”
“Several things.” She told Rose about Sylvia’s trying to trip Millie. “Which at first I thought was an accident.”
“But something changed your mind.”
“Yes.” Ronni frowned. “After class, as I was getting ready to leave the auditorium, I heard a group of kids talking. It seems the girl—her name is Sylvia—is notorious among students for being…well, just plain mean. Calling people names, making fun of others for the way they look. For example, the girl she tried to trip?”
“Yes?”
“She’s self-conscious about being somewhat overweight. Sylvia obviously focuses right in on this and calls her Piggy. The thing is Sylvia has only one real friend.”
“I don’t understand,” Rose said.
“Actually, so far as I can tell she has this one friend and a group of ‘hangers on.’”
“Hangers on?” Rose looked puzzled.
“Girls who follow her everywhere. They practically worship Sylvia, try to imitate her. It’s like some sort of cult.”
“And they participate in the… what? The mean things she does?”
“To a degree, I guess,” Ronni answered and told her about the two girls giggling when they saw Millie crying.
“And you say the faculty doesn’t seem to be aware of this sort of behavior—from Sylvia?”
“Not at all.” She looked into Rose’s eyes. “I heard others talking sometimes about how they wish all students were like her and what a joy it is to have such an intelligent and wonderful student.”
“Hmmm. Looks like—if what you say really is the case—Sylvia is good at hiding her real self.”
“And it’s not just things like mocking other kids or trying to trip them. The students were talking about how she pushed one boy down a flight of stairs.‘Accidentally,’ of course. He broke an arm and his pelvis. This happened a few weeks ago. He was only just able to return to school today.”
“Wow!” Rose said. “And you’re the only one who seems to have noticed this behavior, I gather.”
“It seems that way…though I did talk to another teacher about it, Liz Lindquist. Sylvia is in one of her English classes. But Liz did seem a little skeptical about what I told her.”
“And you’re not sure about what to do about all this, right?”
“Right. Obviously, I just can’t let it go. If it’s true, it’s hard to tell what she might try with other students.” She sighed and shook her head. “I just don’t understand what would cause a person to behave as she does.”
Rose took a deep breath. “It could be a number of things. Some people just seem to get their kicks out of bullying others or ‘dissing’ them, as teenagers say.”
“But why?”
“Abuse at home. Falling in with the wrong crowd.”
“I’m sure the latter is not the case with Sylvia. As I implied, she’s pretty much a loner—except for the sycophants and her one friend.”
“Could it be the influence of this friend?” Rose shook her head. “Sometimes it’s as simple as hanging out with the wrong people.”
“I doubt it,” Ronni answered. “The friend is totally different. In fact, it stretches the imagination to accept that they are friends.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The friend’s name is Emma. And she’s simply a nice kid. Considerate of others, smart like everyone at the school. Attractive. The type that would always be cast as a good friend, a confidante.”
“And you think she’s not at all like Sylvia.”
“Night and day. So I would find it extremely hard to believe that Emma is influencing Sylvia…and pretty much the other way around. I can’t fathom Emma pretending to be such a goody-goody to hide a basic meanness. I don’t know anything about Sylvia’s home life, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she’s been abused in some way and wants to take it out on others.”
“Maybe you could try to find out. Ask around—other teachers, students who seem to know her. Of course, that may not be it, at all. For instance, there’s the bad seed theory—that some kids inherit the evil traits of a relative. There was a book, a movie, and a play about that decades ago. The name, in fact, is The Bad Seed.”
“I’ve heard of it; don’t know anything about it.”
“In a modified form, it is an accepted theory—not particularly that kids inherit ‘evil’ traits from their parents, but that sometimes kids are simply born with a propensity toward being abusive or mean or whatever. Some mental health workers accept this theory as fact. I’m not one of them. Others argue that it’s the result of ‘nurture,’ that is, nature versus nurture. Although that’s being talked about less and less in present times.”
“So you’re implying that negative behavior or negative traits such as Sylvia’s are not because people are born that way?”
Rose sighed and pursed her lips. “Maybe… but not exactly.
“Unacceptable behavior, if you will, is often the result of two different conditions—that is, sociopaths and psychopaths. And incidentally, the latter doesn’t always have to relate to negative behavior. Some people are able to take the traits associated with being a psychopath to do good, rather than evil. Often they’re loners, which seems to be partially true of Sylvia, at least from what you tell me. They’re manipulative and egotistical. In other words, they like to be in control. But the good ones, unlike Sylvia, it seems, can have a positive effect on others—as team leaders in medical research, for instance, or as positive forces in bringing about needed change. I know that’s pretty nonspecific, but I’m sure you know what I mean.”
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“I think so,” Ronni answered and frowned. “But you mentioned sociopaths, too. How are they different.”
“Sociopaths are molded by their environment, their encounters with the rest of the world,” Rose explained.
“So what’s the difference between the two?”
“Very simply,” Rose said and then laughed at herself. “I sound like a college professor giving a lecture, don’t I?”
“Well, if that’s the case, you’re a good teacher and a great lecturer.”
“Thank you.” Rose bowed her head and grinned. “But seriously, folks…”
“No, I’m really interested.”
“To put it simply, psychopaths are born; sociopaths are created. Their behavior, that is. In reaction to their environment. Fortunately, sociopaths can learn to change their behavior. Unfortunately, psychopaths are hopeless when it comes to a cure.”
“So what you’re saying, in effect,” Ronni answered, shaking her head, “is that in all probability Sylvia has traits of a psychopath and thus cannot help the way she behaves.”
“In a nutshell, yes, though I don’t like to deal in absolutes.” She shrugged. “You know, another reason she’s so mean could be that she wants to feel good about herself and for some reason doesn’t. Putting others down is a way to make her think she’s just as good as anyone else, which, of course, is the idea—to feel good about yourself. Just not in this way..”
“It would be better if it were something like that with Sylvia, wouldn’t it?” Ronni asked. “This sort of thing could be treated. If it’s a matter of lacking in self-esteem, seeing a mental health professional could work.”
“It could indeed,” Rose answered.
“I thought I would go in a little early tomorrow and talk to the head of the school about Sylvia. See if he has any suggestions.”
Chapter 4
The door to Dalton Hostetler’s office stood wide open.
“May I come in?” Ronni asked. It was the following morning, fifteen minutes before the start of class.
Hostetler, a slender man in his late fifties with iron-gray hair and blue eyes, looked up. “Of course. You’re always welcome. You know that.”
“Thank you.” She stepped inside the office—almost twice the size of hers. A row of file cabinets lined one wall. The desk behind which Hostetler sat was overwhelming, the largest she’d ever seen. Also glass-topped like hers, in graceful curves. Various other furniture sat around the room—two easy chairs, a sofa with a coffee table. It was a very comfortable-looking place.
“Take a seat,” Hostetler said. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”
Ronni smiled as she took a chair in front of the desk. “All coffee-ed out.”
“So did you have something in particular you want to discuss?”
Ronni felt a little anxious. She was, after all, about to puncture an illusion. She didn’t know what to expect. “It’s about one of the students.”
Hostetler smiled. “It usually is. So what’s the problem?”
“It’s Sylvia Hawkins,” Ronni answered.
“Sylvia! I’m surprised.” He didn’t seem especially concerned.
“I’m sure you are.”
“Tell me. What’s this about?”
“I heard some things yesterday, witnessed some things.”
“Involving Sylvia?”
“Yes,” Ronni answered, realizing she already was at a disadvantage. She was sure he would argue with what she was going to say, tell her she was wrong or that she was mistaken.
“So,” he said, his voice cool. “Tell me what this is all about.”
“Yesterday, Sylvia tripped Millie Petrosky as she was coming offstage after doing an exercise.”
“An accident, no doubt.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I think you’d better explain.”
This wasn’t going to work. Maybe she should just admit she was probably wrong and leave. But she couldn’t. Not if what the group of kids had said yesterday was true.
“Two separate groups of students lingered after class as I was gathering up all my material.”
“What about them?” he challenged.
His attitude was unfair. She knew that, but obviously it was the way it was going to be.
“You know Sylvia has a group of… followers, I suppose you could call them.”
He chuckled. “Girls who want to be just like her. But that’s pretty much impossible, isn’t it? People like Sylvia rarely come along.”
“At any rate, they stood in one aisle listening to what the other group was saying, their faces filled with exaggerated shock. Making exaggerated gesture, hands on hips things like that.”
“A trait of many teenage girls who like to dramatize everything, build it up much more than it deserves.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Ronni admitted.
“So there were the two groups, you said.”
“And Sylvia’s friend Emma Miller stood apart from both groups, looking from one to the other and frowning.”
“And you think that means something?”
“I think she was upset. Maybe because of the friendship with Sylvia and what the first group of students was saying.”
“And exactly what were they talking about?” His voice again sounded stern.
“In a word, Sylvia,” Ronni sighed. “Mr. Hostetler… Dalton, this isn’t what I’d like to be saying, but I thought I should at least tell you what I observed.”
“I’m listening.” Now, Dalton’s voice sounded almost defiant.
“They were talking about Sylvia. Saying things I found extremely hard to believe… until I saw proof later on.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The defiance had turned to anger, and finally to total nonacceptance.
“They were talking about the way in which Sylvia is pulling the wool over the faculty’s eyes, so to speak. In other words, she behaves very differently with teacher and staff than she does with other students.”
“In what way?” His voice sounded more neutral, more curious, as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the desktop.
“For one thing they say she deliberately pushed Justin Sears down the stairs, causing broken bones.”
“Poppycock. Jealousy. I’m sure that’s what it is. And for you to fall for something like that.” He was angry. “If that’s all you have to talk about—”
“They said she mocks other kids, bullies them, attacks their weak spots.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“She calls Millie Petrosky ‘Piggy’ and makes oinking sounds.”
“They’re making this up.” He started to stand.
“After school yesterday, as I was getting ready to go home, I came across Millie huddled into a corner on the second floor and sobbing.”
“Am I supposed to think Sylvia caused this?” Hostetler asked.
