Halfway down the stairs, I pause to eavesdrop. I gather from their voices that Sloan and Grandma share the living room couch while they peruse my bare-assed baby pictures.
“Oooh,” Grandma trills. “Look at that angry little face! But isn’t she adorable in her tutu?”
I know the picture they’re talking about. A head taller than the other little girls, I stand frozen in first position glaring angrily at the camera. After my numerous threats and bribes, Grandma relented and removed it from its place of honor on the mantle.
I clomp down the remaining stairs and say, “I’d just fallen on my butt for the third time in ten minutes. That’s why I look mad.”
Sloan and Grandma turn at the sound of my voice. They sit side by side on the couch drinking coffee and chatting amiably as they pore over my lurid photographic history. Empty pie plates sit on the coffee table. All traces of the break-in have been cleared away. I shake my head in wonder. It’s like the burglary is a wonderful excuse for coffee and pie.
“Allegra didn’t take to ballet,” Grandma says. “It was her mother’s idea. You’ve heard of Allegra Kent, the famous ballerina?”
Sloan shakes his head.
On dragging feet, I join the party. I plop down on an overstuffed ottoman and watch Grandma do her thing. She glances at me then leans toward Sloan. “Allegra’s mother, Diane, is my daughter-in-law, not my daughter.”
She waits for Sloan’s nod.
“Diane saw Allegra Kent dance when she was a little girl and was determined to make our Allegra into a ballerina. Well, obviously …”
I grit my teeth as the familiar story of my rebellious childhood unfolds. The story ends as it always does. “My son, of course, realized Allegra was miserable.”
“Not until I was ten.” I’m surprised to feel the resentment still simmering beneath the surface.
Sloan gives me a quizzical look. “No brothers or sisters?”
“Mother didn’t want to risk another disappointment.”
“Allegra! How can you say that? You’ve never been a disappointment.” Grandma puts the album aside, bounds off the couch, and gathers me into a hug before disappearing into the kitchen. Sloan raises an eyebrow and pats the spot Grandma abandoned. I shake my head and stay put.
“Scared to get too close to me, huh? Don’t blame you. Can’t deny the chemistry.”
I roll my eyes.
After a lengthy pause, Sloan says, “So, about your date tonight…”
“It wasn’t a date,” I protest. “He wanted to take all of us to dinner.”
“Not-a-date.” Sloan gives me a frosty smile. “You have a lot of those.”
Remembering Friday night and my parsing of words, I have the good grace to blush. “Oh, it wasn’t like that at all.”
His grin grows warmer.
“Why are you here anyway?” I ask.
“Saw the lights.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.” He looks thoughtful. “Weird break-in. Nothing of value gone.”
He moves to the ottoman, nudging me with a hip to make room for his big frame. I scoot over to the edge. He puts an arm around my shoulders and hauls me back. He puts his lips to my ear, and I give a little involuntary shiver. “Spill it, Al. What were they looking for?”
I try to ignore the heat rising between us. “I think it’s related to Sara Stepanek. I made some notes about the stuff we found. The burglar took them. It’s the only thing missing.”
I purposely omit my suspicions about Michael and the key. Searching for the storage unit has given Nick a sense of purpose. I voice my concern that Nick might be in danger now that the thief has my notes.
Sloan’s grip tightens. “Does he have Sara’s things?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m worried.”
He releases me and stands. “Take me there.”
I hear Dodie on the stairs. “Nick wants to talk to you,” she calls.
I hear him wheezing before I put the phone to my ear. “Guess what I just found out?” His voice is shrill with excitement.
I glance at Sloan and go into the kitchen. I want to know what Nick’s found but not how he found it. Nick amuses himself by hacking into so-called secure sites. I don’t think Susan knows, and I sure don’t want Sloan to know.
“I checked out Robinson Hunt’s Social Security number. He died in 1992 at the age of thirty,” Nick tells me.
“So our Robinson Hunt…”
“Stole his identity.”
Chapter 15
While Nick and I talk, Dodie tells Sloan she’ll pick up the stuff and lock them in the Myers’ Clinic safe. Unable to buck the tide that is Dodie on a mission, Sloan agrees. With Dodie gone and Grandma having her nightly bubble bath, Sloan and I are alone.
“Need any help up there?” He points toward my apartment. Trust Sloan not to miss an opportunity.
“I’m good,” I say, walking him to the door. It’s late, and the last week of school’s a doozy. I need sleep.
“You sure?” He moves in close.
“Positive.”
He runs a finger across my lower lip. I shiver. He looks triumphant. “See ya,” he says.
“If you’re lucky.”
“Oh, I have a feeling I will be.”
With a mixture of relief and disappointment, I watch him drive away.
Monday
Thankfully the weather gods cooperate, and our string of warm, sunny days ends. I rejoice in the dark, scudding clouds and gusty winds that blow through Vista Valley. My female students, yielding to the rainy weather, abandon their skimpy summer clothes in favor of sweatshirts and jeans. My guys, without the titillation of exposed female flesh, toil over their final essays, busy as little worker bees whose queen is unavailable.
After school, I’ve just finished reading “What I Learned in Juvie,” by Jimmy Felthouse, and started on Janie Morrison’s epistle, “Why I Hate My Mother’s Fourth Husband,” when I remember Sara’s essays.
I drop what I’m doing and retrieve the plastic tote that holds Sara’s work. Each folder is neatly labeled by quarters. The first-, second-, and third-quarter folders are plump with completed work; the fourth quarter, light by comparison.
I open the first-quarter folder and thumb through the contents, pausing to read through Sara’s essay on the Westward Expansion.
During the first quarter, I scrawled a big red “A+” and “Well done!” at the top of Sara’s essay. Using tidy, perfectly formed penmanship, she’d written an informative, well-organized essay complete with drawings of covered wagons and attacking Indians.
I pick up the fourth-quarter folder and pluck out an essay dated April 18. Because we added several bird feeders outside our classroom windows about that time, the topic is now backyard birds. Sara’s grade slipped to a B-. The title’s scrawled in jagged, gothic letters: “Magpies: Baby Killers of the Bird World.”
I groan and rub my suddenly aching temples. Why didn’t I pick up on Sara’s emotionally charged language, the deterioration in her penmanship?
The essay starts in an ordinary fashion but quickly morphs into something quite different. Her points are poorly organized, her thoughts disjointed. The writing is ragged and uneven, some words so faint I can barely read them, and others so heavily scored they look etched with a sharpened dagger. Sara’s fragile emotional state is splattered across the white paper in lurid purple ink.
After a brief description of the bird’s habitat, Sara launches into the magpie’s reputed penchant for robbing other birds’ nests. The words “destroys eggs” and “kill nestlings” are written in large print and underlined with a vivid slash.
The last paragraph is the most disturbing.
Sara wrote, “By learning about the black-billed magpie, I discovered something very important about myself. Everybody hates magpies because they raid the nests of other birds, killing the babies or eating the eggs. Could anything be worse? Yes! It is far worse to destroy a life because it is merely inconvenient. Such an act is e
vil. Magpies are following their instincts. But people have the ability to make choices. A person who commits a grave sin must seek redemption.”
One last sentence, “I hope it’s not too late,” is scrawled at the bottom of the page like an afterthought. The words are poorly formed, the o’s and a’s open at the top. Sara embellished her essay with a sprinkling of tiny teardrops that rained down the left margin and merged into the last sentence. A trail of tears. A blurred smudge appears below the final I, as if a real tear fell to the page. Like an epitaph.
I stare at the words I wrote across the top of the page. “Not your best work,” and I’m ashamed. Sara was literally crying out for help, and I missed it.
A sudden gust of wind throws a spattering of rain across the windows. A tiny whirlwind sweeps down the sidewalk, picking up pebbles and discarded candy wrappers. The birds have abandoned their feeders and taken shelter in the row of flowering plums that stand as a living barrier between the school yard and the bus garage. The treetops whip back and forth violently. I hope the birds are safely tucked away from the storm.
Where did Sara go for shelter? Is she outside shivering in the rain? Shacked up with her boyfriend, as Sloan suggests? Seeking redemption for what she feels is an unforgivable transgression?
My thoughts lead me back to Robinson Hunt.
I’ve just clicked my cell phone off after making an appointment to see Reverend Hunt when a burst of static comes through the intercom.
Sally screeches, “Miss Thome! Are you there?”
“Yes, Sally.”
“Dr. Langley would like to see you immediately.”
I feel a little thrill of alarm, a reaction dating back to my rebellious youth and frequent trips to the principal’s office.
Steady, girl, I think as I trot down the hall. R.D.’s my colleague, not a daddy figure waiting to give me a chewing out. I hope.
Sally is crouched over her computer, fingers flying, bun bobbing. She glances up at me, bares her teeth in a brief smile, and waves me into R.D.’s office.
Sally smiling? I have to know why. I return her phony smile and stumble into her desk, dislodging a stack of papers that tumbles to the floor.
“Oops, sorry.” I move around the desk to help her.
She hisses, “Leave it!”
The smile disappears, replaced by the pinched frown of disapproval she normally wears. When she bends over to pick up the papers, I cop a look at the computer screen and see the reason for her glee. She’s imputing a “plan of improvement,” the euphemistically titled document resulting from an unsatisfactory teacher evaluation. The last step before a teacher is terminated. “Not a team player” seemed to be the predominant theme. Sally’s head pops up before I can find the name of the poor sap about to be canned.
“He’s waiting,” she barks, jerking her head toward R.D.’s door.
R.D. sits behind his desk, resplendent in a plum-colored V-necked sweater over a lavender dress shirt and gray slacks. His hands grip a personnel folder, presumably mine. I feel a prickle of apprehension even though I’ve had nothing but glowing evaluations from R.D. in the past.
Each year, in fact, R.D. tiptoes into my room, spreads his handkerchief on a chair before he sits down, and leaves after five minutes of observation. He’s happy as long as I keep my hooligans under control and away from public view. Why would this year be any different?
“Close the door, and have a seat,” R.D. says, flipping open the folder. Frowning, he bends over it, examining the contents. I swallow hard and sit down.
After a significant pause, he looks up. “We need to finalize your evaluation. Look this over, and sign it.”
He slides the evaluation form across his desk, folds his arms, and swivels his chair around to gaze out the window.
I read through the document quickly. The words leap off the page and punch me in the gut.
In part, it says, “Ms. Thome must address some serious issues if she is to continue as a teacher at Vista Valley High School. Her room is messy, and her students are often rowdy and out of control. Because our community expects results, test scores are of the utmost importance. Her students consistently perform at an unacceptable level.”
I stare at R.D.’s back and let my fury build.
“This is bullshit, R.D., and you know it!” My voice is shrill with rage.
R.D. swivels around. His brow is knit in consternation. “Language, Ms. Thome. You’re not exactly improving your position here. I’m your superior, and I’d appreciate a civil discourse.”
“I can’t believe what I’m reading,” I say. “My room is messy? What does that have to do with my teaching methods?”
Without breaking eye contact, I toss the form back on his desk. “I’m not signing this. Last year you gave me the highest marks possible. What’s changed?”
R.D. starts to answer, when, after a discreet tap on the door, Sally enters and hands him a sheet of paper. Omigod! The “plan of improvement.” The poor sap is me!
I spend the next twenty-four hours in a blue funk, reeling in disbelief, avoiding my friends and family. Something in R.D.’s message sends me spinning back in time.
In high school, I honed my reputation as a rebel, mostly because it gave my mother screaming fits. Dad, a pharmaceutical salesman, was away for days at a time. He’d return home to find the two women in his life slamming doors and hurling verbal firebombs. Trying to placate his wife without alienating his daughter proved to be mission impossible. No wonder he looked so happy walking out the door, suitcase in hand.
It all changed my senior year in high school when my mother found a malignant lump in her breast. During one of our bitter exchanges, she said it was my fault—the cancer—that the stress I put her through caused it. What did I know? I was a kid. I thought she was going to die, so I believed her. Exit bad Allegra.
In retrospect, I know my mother did me a favor.
I buckled down, improved my grades, and was admitted to college. On the other hand, the guilt I took on has been my constant companion over the years. I even married Harley because my mother was impressed by his West Point credentials. And, oh, yes, Mom’s alive and well, having vanquished the big C. She and Dad went to Marriage Encounter and travel the country in their humongous motor coach. And, according to Grandma Sybil, who knows about these things, they keep the big rig rockin.’ Eewww!
Even though I know R.D. is pitching bullshit, I begin to doubt myself. Maybe I’m not cut out for teaching. Maybe I shouldn’t have divorced Harley. Maybe my mom’s right.
I deserve a great big kick in the ass for all the hell I put her through. Will my debt never be discharged?
Tuesday
Such is my screwed-up state of mind Tuesday night, when I attend Vista Valley’s graduation ceremony. Though my heart is lifted by my seniors’ joy on their special night, I can’t shake the blues.
Traditionally, the staff gathers at Brewski’s to celebrate the end of school, even though lower classmen will be with us for another day. Since R.D. never darkens the door of Brewski’s, I allow Marcy to twist my arm.
“Just keep Donny Thorndyke away from me,” I mutter as we pass through Brewski’s main entrance.
“Ah-LEG-ra! Over here!”
Too late my brain screams, “Retreat!”
“Who’s the hunk?” Marcy asks as Better Buy Trent trots over to us, a lascivious smile upon his face.
“All yours,” I murmur, making the introductions.
After castigating me for not returning his call when we’re obviously soul mates, Trent is placated by Marcy’s promise to dance with him later. So much for devotion.
We join our colleagues in the lounge. Three long tables are pushed together. Donny and his pals sit at one end, Marcy and I at the other. As we settle in, Donny sets his beer down, points at me, and says something to his buddies who smirk and chuckle.
When our wine is delivered, Marcy lifts her glass and whispers “Here’s to Donny and his asshole friends. May they trip over their
swinging dicks, crash to the floor, and scramble what’s left of their tiny brains.”
I grin in spite of myself and lift my glass in response. “One of your best curses ever.”
We clink, then crisscross arms, and sip our wine. At last, I feel R.D.’s words lose their sting. It’s so simple. He’s wrong. I’m not. I vow silently to call my union rep first thing Wednesday morning.
When Trent and one of his friends track us down to make good on Marcy’s promise, I beg off, claiming I have a pressing date with the ladies’ room. Though my black mood has lifted, I’m not up for the traditional Brewski mating ritual.
I linger in the bathroom, checking the mirror to see if the hag-ridden creature hiding deep inside has made an appearance. When the song ends, I slip out the door and come face to face with Donny Thorndyke. Before I can react, he grabs my arm and pulls me into the alcove leading to the men’s room.
I try to jerk away. “Let go of me, Donny! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
His grip tightens, and he leans in until his face is inches from mine. His breath is hot and smells of bourbon.
“We need to talk.” He peers at me through small, hate-filled eyes.
I will myself to be calm, to deal with Donny as I would Vlad’s pursuit of my ankles. I take a deep breath and let it out. “So talk.”
“I warned you, babe.” He presses me back against the wall. “Who do you think R.D. needs more: a winning football coach or a ditzy do-gooder working with a bunch of retards?”
Offended on so many levels, I’m rendered speechless, my mouth opening and closing like a landlocked trout.
“Let me put it this way,” he says. The corner of his mouth lifts in a jerky, humorless smile. “You’re on a plan of improvement. I’m not.”
I stomp hard on his foot with a spike heel. He swears and releases me. Raising his hands, he backs away. As he retreats, I advance, step for step. When he stops, I stab a finger in his chest. “Don’t think you can bully me. I’m going to the union with this.”
My voice, choked with fury and frustration, sounds like that of a stranger.
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 11
