by Liz Jasper
Their good cop/bad cop, or rather sympathy/screw ‘em, routine had its usual cheering effect. I took a grateful sip of coffee. Well, not too grateful. “God this stuff is worse than I remembered,” I said with a grimace.
“Had to get it from the lounge,” Carol explained, apologetically. The cafeteria put out an industrial-sized urn of coffee on the terrace for the teachers at morning break and at lunch. Anyone who wanted caffeine at odd times was stuck with whatever was left in the coffee maker in the faculty lounge. It was barely tolerable if you caught it fresh brewed but more often than not, you were stuck with a noxious bitter syrup that had been condensing on the burner for hours.
Becky hitched a leg on a lab bench after automatically checking first to make sure it was clean. “So what’s with this disease you’ve contracted?”
“Sun sensitivity,” I said dismissively. “What’s with your hair?”
She shrugged. “Grandparents. They’re pretty old school.”
“She does this every year. Goes conservative for a few weeks,” Carol said.
“Re-ally,” I said, intrigued by this unexpected display of conformity. I tried to imagine Becky in a twin set and failed.
“It’s just hair,” Becky said impatiently. “Stop trying to change the subject.”
I gave in and explained Dr. Nagata’s diagnosis and that he had prescribed no sun exposure. “And I mean zero. I’m taking a great risk here, only wearing SPF five thousand, inside, with the curtains drawn, on the shaded side of the building. “I held up the mask disgustedly with one finger, as if it smelled, and admitted I would have to wear it that afternoon when the sun hit my west-facing classroom.
Becky was horrified and gave Carol a meaningful look that said “Do something!”
Carol did. “I have the computer room reserved this week, but I don’t really need it today. Why don’t you teach your afternoon classes in there until we figure out a longer term solution—if you’re not doing a lab or anything that needs space?”
It was a windowless room down the hall with a whiteboard and room for twenty. “No, that’s perfect, thank you.” My eyes got suspiciously bright and I reached for a tissue to dab them. I swear, I’d been a weepy mess since I’d contracted that stinking skin allergy.
Carol pretended she didn’t notice and turned the conversation away from me. “Have you been following the articles about the missing woman?”
“I don’t think so. What articles?” I said.
“Ooh, I did,” Becky said, shivering theatrically. “I read about it on the plane. Creepy!”
Carol said, “A woman reported missing around the holidays was last seen at that restaurant we went to for our department dinner—”
“The same night we were there!” Becky said.
Carol nodded. “She was last seen talking to some man with dark hair.”
I felt sick. My hand moved automatically to my neck, fingering the bandage hidden under my turtleneck. The wound wasn’t healing well. I really should have showed it to Dr. Nagata when I’d had the chance, but I had been too embarrassed to discuss how I’d gotten it in front of my mother. I chided myself for being paranoid. It wasn’t even infected, just healing slowly, doubtlessly because of my skin problem.
“Did they give a description?” I asked.
“I think they said she was tall, with brown hair,” Carol said, misunderstanding who I meant.
“Don’t worry,” Becky said dryly, watching me. “It wasn’t Hot Man. The description didn’t match and no one could have forgotten what he looked like. Speaking of Hot Man…what happened that night?”
Before I could form an answer, the bell rang signaling the end of the break. “Saved by the bell,” Becky said, giving me a knowing look. She opened the door to the roaring wave of students clambering upstairs for third period science. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch up on that subject later. I want all the details,” she said, and followed Carol out.
At lunchtime I ate one of my emergency energy bars at my desk, flushing out the meal with tap water from the sink in the back of my room, and some crackers left over from a lab. I knew I was being cowardly, but I’d suffered through gawking and questions from three classes worth of students already, and didn’t feel the need to prove anything by submitting myself to more gawking and questions from my colleagues.
When I was sure the hall was empty, I took out my grade book and ducked across to the computer room with the virtuous intention of updating my grading program. After a few tedious minutes of entering grades, however, I gave in to my curiosity and went online to read about the missing girl.
Becky had been right, the description of the man didn’t sound like Will. It was a very generic description of a dark-haired man, and I agreed with her opinion that no witness—no female, anyway—could have forgotten Will. I breathed a sigh of relief. He might have been a little out there for me, but at least I hadn’t made out with a felon.
The science department always met the first Monday of the month, holiday or no holiday. When classes were over, we duly assembled with varying displays of stoicism, grumbling or noble suffering, except for Roger who seemed particularly excited today, doubtlessly with the anticipated pleasure of cutting short my indifferent career. Carol came in last, late and out of breath. She gave me a surreptitious wink as she assumed her usual position on my left, and then studiously ignored me as Roger opened the meeting.
“The first order of business,” Roger began after a glance at his typewritten agenda, “is, once again, the supplies budget. I remind you that all receipts must be turned in before the semester ends. That’s two weeks, people. I encourage you all to order now what supplies you will need for the third quarter.”
Frustrated, I closed my eyes and counted to ten. It was abundantly clear Roger had filed me under New Business; he was going to make me wait until the end of the meeting. Torturing me that way was just the sort of power abuse he delighted in. If he was lucky, we’d run out of time before we could discuss me. I’d either have to suffer for another month or be the reason why everyone had to reconvene another day, conveniently ensuring enough animosity toward me that he could push forward whatever draconian plan he devised.
My discomfort must have been apparent, for Carol put a restraining hand on my arm under the table.
“Roger,” she said briskly, in the firm, no-nonsense voice that made her students sit up and listen, “I think we are all clear on the budget issue by now. I move we discuss the emergency issue of how to accommodate Jo’s disability.”
Roger’s heavy eyebrows formed a deep V over his small black eyes. He raised his voice a little and replied irritably, “New Business is always discussed at the end of the meeting, Carol.”
“Pressing issues preempt Continuing Business, and are discussed at the beginning of the meeting, Roger,” she corrected.
“I’m with Carol,” Becky said. “I move to table the budget discussion so we can figure out a way to help Jo.”
Grandmotherly Mary Mudget looked up from her knitting. Mary taught seventh grade science and, despite a rather crisp demeanor, was the sort of teacher so beloved her students came back to visit her years later. The emerging pale pink sweater was for one of their progeny. She fixed Roger with a stern look. “Second.”
Bob’s handsome blond head jerked up as he pulled his attention away from the coaching diagram hidden in his notebook. “What’s wrong with Jo?”
I was getting tired of being talked about as if I were a pesky line item in the budget. “I’ve got a sun allergy,” I said. “I can’t be exposed to any sunlight, even through a window, or I get all red and crusty.”
“It is not appropriate to discuss one’s personal medical issues in the department meeting—”
“No way, man, that sucks!” Bob said sympathetically, ignoring Roger. “Even if you wear sunscreen?”
“Even if I slather myself in a thick white coating of zinc oxide.”
“That’s awful! So you can’t even bike to work anymore or a
nything?”
“Bob, Jo, can you please continue your personal discussions after the meeting?” Roger said. The fluorescent track lighting turned Roger’s olive complexion a sickly green and he looked even more like a swamp thing than usual as he glared at us.
“This is more important than the stupid budget, Roger,” Bob said.
“Yeah,” piped in Kendra, putting down her own coaching diagrams.
Touched by (nearly) everyone’s concern, I looked away and blinked a few times, willing myself not to show weakness in front of Roger.
“Jo’s room is fine in the morning, I think,” Carol said, taking control of the meeting, “until around eleven when the sun hits that part of the building.”
“She can switch rooms with me,” offered Alan. “I’m on the other side of the building and have the opposite sun pattern.” Alan was the rather studious African-American physics teacher. He taught just across the hall from me, but I didn’t know him very well. He kept to himself. Carol says it’s because he’s avoiding all eye contact until the open season for college letters of recommendations is over.
“Impractical,” Roger said dismissively. “Her room’s not set up for physics labs.”
“Why not my room then,” Kendra said.
“Her rooms not set up for physical science labs either,” Roger said, looking almost cheerful. He seemed to enjoy shooting down ideas.
I began to panic in earnest. On my salary, I could barely afford my tiny apartment, and had no savings to speak of. If I lost this job, I’d have to move back in with my parents.
Unexpectedly, it was not Carol or Becky, but Mary Mudget who leapt to my rescue, the knight with the iron-gray bun. “Well then, why doesn’t Jo teach biology in the afternoon? The semester ends in two weeks; it will hardly be a continuation issue, and she does have a degree in the subject.” She spoke mildly, as if we were discussing nothing more important than our spring vacation plans, her knitting needles clicking away in a blur of pink Angora. “Taking over my seventh grade classes is a little tricky because earth science is not my forte, but she could certainly switch with Bob and teach tenth grade biology.”
Roger gaped at her. He taught a mix of seventh and ninth grade science, showing his commitment to both Upper and Lower School and his versatility as a teacher. Because self-promotion comes as naturally as breathing to Roger, this had all been made clear to me within five minutes of meeting him. However, despite all the self-aggrandizing pomp, everyone knows he wants biology, the plum of high school science, but that was Bob’s job. Bob had a Ph.D. from Berkeley. Don’t ask me what Bob was doing teaching high school with those credentials. If I had ‘em, I’d be out of there faster than you can say “big paycheck”.
The idea that I, a green teacher, would get Roger’s coveted biology class turned the man’s face a deeper shade of red than my own sun-damaged one. “No!” he burst out. “It is inappropriate. The students, the parents…” he sputtered angrily.
“I think Roger’s right,” Carol said. She pitched her voice a little louder to cover my gasp of surprise. “It would be best for Jo’s students if she continued to teach them.”
Well that was something, I thought. At least she had implied I was a good teacher as she let me down.
She pulled some photocopied pages from her notebook and handed a copy to Roger. “I have three estimates for true blackout curtains for Jo’s room. They don’t let in any visible light and block a hundred percent of UV rays. But they do let air circulate.”
“Amazing what these new materials can do,” murmured Mary Mudget.
Roger frowned and tossed the estimates on the table. “Too expensive,” he said dismissively.
“Actually,” Carol said with smile that was just this side of a smirk, “they’re not. We have money in Jo’s budget for half, and Maxine will pitch in the balance from the Middle School President’s discretionary fund.”
“It’s about time someone could teach Astronomy properly in that room,” said Mary Mudget approvingly. “It’s always been too light in there to do constellations and eclipses properly.”
And with that, before Roger or I knew what had happened, we had fixed my problem.
An hour later, after the meeting had adjourned, Becky and Carol followed me into my room, “to measure the windows”.
I began rifling through my junk drawer for a tape measure, but Carol stopped me with a gentle hand on my wrist. “Don’t bother. They’ve already been measured and I sent in the order as soon as I got Maxine’s okay.” Her eyes twinkled a little wickedly, but it may just have been the light reflecting off her glasses. “We even sprang for rush delivery, since you start eclipses this week. They should arrive in two days.”
I pushed my junk drawer shut and threw my arms around Carol.
“It wasn’t just me,” Carol said grinning happily. “Mary helped box in Roger with that little dog and pony show.”
“I helped too,” Becky said, “by shutting up. And I want you to know how much a sacrifice it was to let Mary say the part about your teaching high school bio.”
I was so elated by the news that not even wearing the face mask could bring me down. Instead of waiting until dark like I had planned, I put on the awful mask and followed Becky and Carol out. Between the flu and my sun allergies, I hadn’t been outside much during the day and just seeing the sun yellowing near the horizon, casting gold highlights onto the silvery blue water, cheered me enormously. For the first time since Dr. Nakata had delivered the bad news, I felt that things were going to work out okay.
The drive home was short and pretty. Bayshore Academy occupies the tip of a flat finger of land that runs along the ocean, beach on one side, bay on the other. The school had been built for pennies back when Long Beach was an unfashionable, flood-prone backwater. Its simple stucco buildings had probably been considered cheap and déclassé at the time, but I found the contrast of their near blinding whiteness against their red tiled roofs rather elegant and I adore the flowers everyone seems to plant against stucco—big, bright spills of magenta bougainvillea, tall, reaching columns of purple-blue morning glories, and fat hedges of yellow daisies and fragrant mock orange.
I live three miles down the beach in a cute little neighborhood of sweet little cottage-style beach homes that, thanks to the recent real estate boom, now go for a cool million. I didn’t live in one of those. I lived in a tiny apartment on one of the crowded apartment-row streets tacked on the outskirts of the sweet little neighborhood.
I had to fight for a parking spot four blocks away, and by the time I made it up to my apartment I was giddy with hunger. I dumped my book bag at the foot of my desk and made a beeline for the fridge. After a quick inventory, I discarded plans for a healthy salad and made myself a giant, rare roast beef and horseradish sandwich that I inhaled standing over the sink.
I flopped on my old tweedy loveseat in a post-prandial stupor and snuggled down under an afghan knit by my grandmother to watch the second half of an old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie. It was a rare night that I didn’t have papers to grade and I planned to enjoy it. When the movie was over, I flipped lazily through the channels and settled on the local news.
The networks had gotten hold of a picture of the missing woman. When they showed it, I got up in surprise and moved closer to the screen. They had called her a brunette in the Internet article I’d read at lunch, but she wasn’t, not really. Her hair was auburn, a very dark red. She was tall, about my height, about my weight. Had another reporter covered the story, he or she might have described her differently. They might have described me.
A chill ran through my limbs, taking my happy mood with it. I grabbed my heavy flashlight from the bookshelf and did a quick intruder-check of the apartment, turning on all the lights as I went.
There was no one there but me. Of course. I settled back down on the couch for about a second before I jumped back up and turned off all the lights.
I huddled in the dark for a half hour wondering anxiously if
the flickering of the TV was too obvious a sign I was home before sanity was restored. I gave myself a good tongue lashing for being so ridiculous. My fear wasn’t born of anything more dangerous than self-pity. I had been spending too much time hiding indoors lately and it was taking its toll. So I couldn’t go outside in the daylight. So I had to drive to work instead of biking, or running along the beach. So did most people! Sitting inside fretting and feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t change anything. I needed to get out of my apartment and exercise something other than my imagination. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. It was perfectly safe, certainly no worse than sitting alone and scared in a dark apartment.
Full of bravado, and calmed by the number of dog-walking families out and about, I ran full-out for two miles before I turned around and jogged back at a more sane pace, taking a different route for variety’s sake. As I turned down a side street to approach my apartment from the other direction, I saw a small, four-door car that looked terrifyingly familiar. I crossed the street to get a closer look. It was, as I had suspected, a blue Jetta. It had a bike rack on top.
But this time I wasn’t scared. I was furious.
I took some deep breaths and told myself to calm down, to approach this rationally, to think it through before I plunged a foot into his door and caused damage I couldn’t afford. I didn’t even know if this car belonged to Gavin Raines. But if it did—and I thought it did—what in blue blazes was he doing here?
As if in answer, the description of the purported Long Beach Abductor popped into my head—about six feet tall, dark hair, brown eyes. Gavin, I remembered, had grey eyes, not brown, but that was an easy mistake to make in a dimly lit restaurant, on par with dark red hair being recalled as brown. I leaned down and quickly read the license plate, made just visible by a distant street light, and committed it to memory. Just in case. Then I ran the short distance back to my apartment and locked myself in.
