by June Shaw
His buddy with a square build nodded toward me and spoke, his voice loud. “I guess she doesn’t know what happened to that janitor who messed with you, huh, Sledge?”
Trembles replaced my earlier jitters. Behind me, a new group of teens headed in. A girl wearing a silver nose ring came close. “Who’re you?” she said.
“Mrs. Gunther.” I looked into the hall for Kat. And to make sure Sledge wasn’t lurking. I didn’t see him or my grandchild. I backed in to meet the class. “I’m taking your teacher’s place, and I’ll be giving you your test.” How confident I felt, now knowing what I would do.
The teenagers groaned. The girl with a nose clamp said, “That’s not fair. I didn’t think we’d have it today since he wasn’t gonna be here. I didn’t study.”
“That’s your problem,” a boy told her. He turned to me. “Are you gonna call roll?”
I skimmed the desktop. No roll book. “Not today.”
With little ado, everyone started the test. I wanted to find out more about Jayne Ackers but didn’t think it appropriate to question students about the murdered woman. Did any of them know something about Sledge and the dead man? Probably not wise to ask that either. I walked beside desks and stood watching a seemingly intelligent young man fill in numbers. He turned his face up to mine. Nice-looking youth. Annoyed face. “Sorry,” I said, vacating his space.
Class ended without incident, and before I walked to the door, more teens came in. This group sat in silence. I gave my spiel, and they took tests, making no comments. Maybe today’s students weren’t too bad, I considered. Except for Sledge and his entourage. What had his buddy meant about the janitor? Was he saying Sledge killed the man?
I needed to pass on what I’d heard, just as soon as I could get back to the office. In the meantime, I had to watch these kids. I scanned them. Most appeared clean-cut, with decent hair. Boys wore light-colored shirts, and girls had their bodies covered, no boobs or bottoms showing.
Legs, I jotted on a scrap of paper. Then I wrote Gil. Mmmm. I was only thinking of his restaurant and getting hungry, I told myself. I stood up and strolled between desks. Returning to my chair, I waited. Did people really get paid to do this? Other names came—Kat, Grant Labruzzo, Jayne Ackers, Sledge. I needed to go to the restroom. That last name made me know it for sure. Where was the ladies’ room, and when did we go? Surely I couldn’t leave students alone while they took tests. I crossed my legs and swung them. Staring at the large wall clock, I tried to rush it and pondered.
Could a teenager have murdered the custodian? Of course some kids killed others, but what motive would a student have for killing a man who cleaned the school? After I gave an administrator my information about Sledge, Kat’s favorite teacher would be cleared. Then Kat would have no problem finishing her last semester. I mentally patted my shoulder for solving her troubling situation.
A bell rang, and students waited until I dismissed them. “Have a nice afternoon,” I said, my bladder ready to burst. Kids vacated the room. I waited. Peered down the short hall and saw no one. I stepped across the hall to another classroom, where a woman possibly a few years younger than me sat at a desk, scribbling. She glanced up, reddish-black bangs shielding the top portion of her eyes. “Hi, I’m Cealie Gunther,” I said, “and I’m subbing for Mr. Burdell. Nobody’s coming now?” I scanned her room, devoid of students but filled with brand new desks. Lagoon blue curtains hung on her shiny windows.
“It’s lunchtime,” she said.
“Wonderful. And after lunch, what do we have? Another class or two?”
She held up four fingers.
“Four more classes!” I couldn’t fathom having so many personalities to contend with.
“Well, you have three classes like me and then seventh period off for parent conferences and planning. I’m Abby Jeansonne. I teach physics.”
“You have my utmost admiration. The sciences weren’t my best subjects.”
“They aren’t for many people.” Abby’s face pinched up. “Jack Burdell’s shop is outside. It’s being worked on, so they put him and his goons in this hall. I can’t wait until they’re outside again.” Abby sprang up and neared me, her loose dress sweeping the floor. “You heard what happened here?”
“What happened?”
“To the janitor.”
“I heard he died. That was terrible.” But now someone was about to talk to me about the incident.
Abby’s mouth puckered so much I was afraid she would kiss me. “Not just died. He was murdered!”
My head jerked back. “Are you sure?”
Flamingo-colored fingernails shielded her face from eavesdroppers who may’ve hidden behind walls. “The police are sure—You know,” she said secretively.
I nodded. “Murder.”
Her bangs shifted, and I saw one brown eye. The eye winked. “Somebody shoved him off that balcony in the auditorium.”
I shuddered, imagining anyone even being up there. My twelve-year-old cousin Eddie had tried to shove me off our movie theater’s balcony when I was seven. I arrived home afterward still whimpering, and Eddie told our parents he’d only been playing. Maybe so, but my child’s mind had panicked, and the apprehension never totally let go of me. Another of the reasons I sometimes tried to avoid relatives.
Abby drew back her shoulders. She wore a shapeless denim dress, the red schoolhouse embroidered on its bosom looking elementary for this setting and for someone her age. I fought the pain in my bladder and spoke as though we were colleagues. “Are police still around?”
She did the flapping-bangs nod. “Two detectives. Plainclothes.”
Ah. I’d figured. “Do you have any idea who would have killed the man?”
Abby jabbed a finger toward the hall. “Talk to Anne Little. She’s one of those.”
“One of those?” I said.
Abby nodded, and before I could ask one of those what, she’d walked me out and withdrawn to her classroom. She shut her door.
Contemplating her words, I strode to the main corridor. The inmates were in tumult again, but a scan through the area let me locate a well-dressed man. He was darkly tanned and wasn’t yelling for help. He wielded a weapon for crowd control, so I felt safe walking through. “Smart idea,” I said, indicating the long stick in his hand. It was wrapped in blue and yellow school colors, the stick I’d seen leaning inside the office window.
“Our spirit stick,” he said. “Different grades win it when they yell the loudest at pep rallies. And sometimes we carry it to show the kids our school spirit.” He smirked.
I took the stick, surprised by its weight. “This is heavy.” I swung it and watched its long blue fringes shake. Giving the stick back, I introduced myself and said, “I saw you in the office. You looked like the only calm person there.”
“I’m a guidance counselor,” he said, as though that title explained his unruffled demeanor. “Harry Wren.” Harry turned to the students, his gaze daring them to act up.
The groups seemed friendlier, probably because they were feeding themselves. I enjoyed whiffs of their nachos and pizza and chocolates. Many students held throwaway plates and guzzled food as quickly as my car with the biggest tank had sucked up gas. Fewer people were out than before, and I could walk through the hall without having an elbow strike my head. I could also look for Kat. First I needed to find the right facilities.
I saw a girl who’d been quiet in my class and asked directions to a restroom. Her face withdrew inside her Buster Brown haircut. She pointed toward what I supposed was a door hidden behind a clump of teens.
“No,” a girl near her said. “That one’s for us. She needs the teachers’ one.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but it really doesn’t matter. This one should do fine.”
The room smelled of hair spray and smoke that created a misty dome. Squeals of alarm sounded, and someone announced, “A lady’s in here.”
Four toilets flushed at one time. Tendrils of smoke drifted above closed stalls. Since
no one was smoking in front of me, I felt duty-free of taking charge of this conduct, which must freely occur. I entered a stall, found the lock broken, and read who loved whom and who was a whore, a word all of the writers had misspelled.
Emerging from the cubicle, I considered that I might begin my afternoon classes with a brief spelling lesson: “Ho is something Sir Lancelot might have yelled, like ‘Onward, ho!’ The word is not a noun.”
I saw Kat. She came through the door behind three other girls. Excited, I called, “Hi, Kat.”
She ducked her head, made an about-face, and rushed out.
Chapter 6
The girls that Kat had followed into the restroom stopped and stared at me. “Hello,” I said, my granddaughter’s behavior making me troubled. I needed her friends here to explain. They all spun and went back out without doing whatever it was they’d intended.
I left the restroom and scanned the wide hall. Some teens lounged against walls and talked softly. Others hustled along and yelled. No sign of Kat. Had she come into the restroom to smoke? Or worse, had my presence embarrassed her?
I wandered around, looking for my grandchild. Some halls I found were labeled Mathematics, Science, English, Business, Computers, and Swimming Pool. Other pathways weren’t named. The scent of fast foods reached my nostrils, my stomach responding with a twitch. It was late morning, much earlier than I normally ate lunch, but my slice of bread had evaporated eons ago. I’d have to feed the gnawing in my belly before worrying more about Kat or getting my information about Sledge to Anne Little. And Abby Jeansonne had said I should question Mrs. Little about the murder.
“Which way is the cafeteria?” I asked a hefty guy cramming a whole folded slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth. He gurgled, and I followed to where he pointed, until my nose began leading the way. The aroma of fried chicken and homemade rolls didn’t escape me. A bell clanged, and I wondered what it meant now. Why were some kids withdrawing?
The cafeteria hall had almost emptied, and I was happy to easily make my way through. A young woman who came through an exterior door was so tall she could have eaten her lunch on top of my head. I realized she was the same person with the quiet voice who had initially guided me to the office. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for helping me out yesterday. Today I’m subbing. I’m Cealie Gunther.”
“Hello.” She patted down her fluffy blond waves. “It’s so windy out there. Now I’ve got duty hair.”
“Duty hair?” I grinned, and so did she.
“This is what hair looks like after you’ve had duty outdoors on a windy day. We had an accident a few days ago, and since then, all teachers have to pull duty. We’re monitoring all activities here more closely.” Her shoulder-length hair set off a flawless complexion and eyes the color of copper. She was slender, and the bodice of her knit top lay almost flat, yet little nubs poked up. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
A woman who chose not to put on underwear for work? I admired her for making that choice. “I’m Marisa Hernandez,” she said.
Kat’s mentor! I reached out and pumped her hand. “So nice to meet you,” I said, needing to talk with her about Kat.
“Whose place are you taking? If you’re coming this way, I’ll walk with you.”
“I’m subbing for Jack Burdell, but I’m not sure which direction the room is now.”
“Oh, then we won’t be heading the same way. You’ll go down that corridor to the right, turn right again, and then left.”
“Thanks. I’m going to eat first. How about joining me?”
“That bell meant our final lunch period was over. The cafeteria’s closed.” Marisa Hernandez sauntered off, and facts clicked in my mind. She was Kat’s beloved teacher. And a murder suspect. The hem of her skirt swept muscular calves, her arms swung loosely, and I wondered. Could those dangling arms and long hands have shoved a man off a balcony?
And what did she mean—lunch was over?
Students had disappeared from my hall. I shoved the cafeteria door open, and the fried-chicken smell greeted me. Scores of round tables sat empty. I spied covered food bins but no ladies with hairnets in the area. I could grab a drumstick and gobble it while making my way back to class. But then I’d be greasy and need a drink. It might not be prudent to watch a class taking a test while I gnawed on a leg bone.
I turned, feeling my belly button striving to reach my backbone. Immediately across the hall I faced double doors, the word above them capturing my attention—Auditorium. That was where the custodian died.
I scooted to the doors and grabbed a handle. Pulling slowly, I found the first door locked. The second door sucked open.
Darkness and even blacker shadows stretched inside. The room’s absolute quiet engulfed me like a shroud. The balcony was somewhere above. And below it, the space where Grant Labruzzo had lain lifeless.
An icy chill made my arms tremble. I let the door go and scooted away. I needed to release the tension in my jaw and teach a class. Digging orange Tic Tacs out of my purse, I chewed them. Two men stood ahead, both wearing suits and dress shirts without ties. Their commanding stance and take-everything-in demeanor made me decide they were detectives. The tall one looked older. He was hairless, with black-rimmed eyeglasses and a thick waistline. The younger one was brown-skinned. His shoulders were wide, his hair short, his waist trim. I could tell them what Sledge’s buddy mentioned about Sledge and the dead man.
I started toward them, but the older cop stopped me with his stare, his gaze nailing me as though I had done something wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened that auditorium door. Police might still be checking out that room. Or classes might have started. Since I wasn’t in my room yet, my students could be rioting.
What happened when a teacher or sub didn’t show up for class? Imagining the damage my worst students could inflict on a room or other students, I took off at a trot. My gaze skimmed halls, my breath catching in my throat. Suppose I couldn’t find room 111 from this direction? I angled down another hall, where Abby Jeansonne’s voice greeted me. She stood outside her door, angrily eyeing her room and mine. “I was afraid you had run out on us and were going to leave the afternoon groups all alone,” she said.
A backward sweep of my hand dismissed the idea. “No way.” Not unless I could get away with it. Then I could pursue Kat. What was happening with her?
I couldn’t just sneak away. I’d have to come back around these people for graduation. I hoped.
Both of our classrooms were quiet. I glanced in Abby’s room. Colorful physics posters and framed pictures hung on her walls. Sunlight slanted across her quietly seated students. Slits of light fell on Sledge, his mean-eyed gaze freezing against mine.
My returned stare told him “I know what you’re thinking.” At that moment, I really did believe he could kill someone. Me.
“We can get to work now, class,” Abby said, her voice breaking the spell between Sledge and me. I rushed inside my room.
Students looked like they’d been hit with a stun gun. What I surmised were three males and one female had cheeks down on their desks. “Wake up. Wake up,” I said, strolling down rows and tapping my fingers on desktops. A boy with a small mustache drew his head up and fixed his glassy eyes on me. Then like some great magnet pulled it, his head fell. He was snoring by the time I handed out papers.
All but the sleeping boy started their tests. These students must be working on credits for graduation, but if naptime was more important to that fellow, so be it. He was old enough to make his own decisions about his final average.
Just like Kat?
I hated to think she might make an unwise choice now that she was so close to the end. But Kat had agreed to come to school today, and she was attending classes, preparing for finals. Surely she’d decide to take them to keep her grades up. I had planned on checking into what happened to that custodian, but now I didn’t have to. The police would determine what took place. And if Kat’s friend Miss Hernandez was involved, Kat would have to learn to live wi
th that fact.
I headed for the teacher’s chair when a girl waved to call me. I went to her, hoping she wouldn’t ask about building things. A glance at her paper told me her name was Roxy. She’d written no last name. The smell of stale smoke clung to Roxy’s stringy hair. “You called Kat,” she said, and I recognized her as one of girls who’d gone in and out of the restroom.
“Yes,” I said, excited, hoping I’d found an ally, “she’s my grandchild.”
“Your grandchild? Damn, how old are you anyway?”
Faces throughout the room turned up. The sleeping boy let out a snort.
If I’d been a person to get embarrassed, I would have now. A smart retort blasted to mind, but I stuffed it. I was too mature, but not too old, to trade quips with a student. Age doesn’t matter! Just don’t ask what mine is, or you’ll make me a liar, I might tell her. And almost as much as I hated depression, I abhorred telling untruths. But sometimes I needed to resort to telling them—with crossed fingers. “Young lady,” I said, ignoring other stares, “I won’t humor you with an answer. But I will tell you it’s not proper to address a person that way, especially an adult.”
Roxy’s cheek tightened, pulling up an edge of her lip. Pencil-thin plucked eyebrows formed teepees above her eyes that appeared navy blue. An offset edge near one iris revealed that she wore colored contacts.
I shared stares with Roxy, my peripheral vision seeing smirks of the teens anticipating the fun of our encounter escalating. How often did teachers today have to go through this?
Roxy opened thin lips that she’d painted brown. She inhaled, and I knew smart words were about to come out. Her lips formed the letter F.
“Don’t,” I warned.
She took deep breaths, her expression saying she was trying to decide whether to continue this contest. Her hands spread on her desk, and her palms pressed on its grainy wood. She looked ready to shove herself up.
And then what?
I walked away. If Roxy was going to fight me, she’d have to come over to the next row. But I could certainly imagine her throwing down desks to reach me. “All right, class,” I said, brazenly turning my back to her, “get busy with your tests. You don’t have much time left.”
