by June Shaw
Gazes swerved from me to Roxy, and then me again. Some teenagers looked disappointed, some reassured. The sleeping boy sat up, appearing wide-awake.
“Ugh,” Roxy sighed. Her elbows crooked out, and her cheek struck her desk. Roxy’s arm shoved her test to the floor. She readjusted her head against her bent arms.
This was school? Where was the anticipation of learning? Where was school spirit? What in the hell had happened to kids? Of course someone in this school could badly harm another person. The anger broiling inside me let me know I could smack someone’s hind side for sure.
I turned away from Roxy, reeled in animosity, and decided to look for pleasant youths. I meandered around desks, pausing near some and drawing stares. I offered smiles and was warmed at receiving a few. Every test except one had been turned in when the bell rang. “Hey Roxy,” a boy called, slapping her back on his way out, “class is over.”
Roxy’s arm whipped around to punch whoever hit her. She saw the room vacated except for me and uttered, “Shit.”
I decided now wasn’t the time to teach her alternate terms. As she stood, I said, “Don’t forget your test.” Roxy stared at me, and my gaze shifted to the floor, to that piece of paper, which was about to earn her an F. She muttered a word starting with the same letter and grabbed the test. Flinging it on Mr. Burdell’s desk, she stormed out.
The release of my breath felt extra peaceful. But Kat was friends with that girl? I yearned to curl up in a bed. I’d lose myself in a novel, one that would make me smile, for this day seemed barren of humor. In a classroom was not where I wanted to remain. How could today’s teachers cope with these potentially violent kids day after day? These teenagers were certainly not, as I’d hoped, vacuums waiting to be filled with knowledge.
One recollection made me grateful. I wasn’t expected to fill their hungry minds with how to use hammers and drills. Mr. Burdell had done that. Bless Mr. Burdell. The next class came, and without incident, took their tests. They left, and I awaited my final group of students.
“Hey,” a big fellow shifting into the room said, “aren’t you the woman who came here in that old mail truck?”
I stood straight, awaiting his jeer. “I am.”
While other teens hustled in behind, the fellow raised his massive hand. It went for mine. “Neat wheels!” He slapped my palm. With a broad grin, he announced, “Hey everybody, this lady’s cool. She’s got that goofy green mail truck.”
Teens commented with smiles. I smiled in return, getting ready to end the day on a positive note. This was a great group. They knew distinction when they saw it. I introduced myself and gave out papers. Sledge was coming in the door. I blocked him and said, “You were already in here today.”
He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pocket, and my heart skipped a beat. Would he pull out a weapon? He lifted thick shoulders and dropped them. “Stupid teacher kicked me out of class. She told me to come sit in old man Burdell’s room.” Sledge nudged past me and slunk to a desk in the rear.
My comfort had left. I dropped into the teacher’s chair. I wanted out of here. If I ever considered being in a classroom again, I would kick myself silly. I’d never even drive near a school.
But then there was Kat. She was here. And although I hadn’t really spoken to her—because she’d avoided me, which especially hurt—she was attending classes. Her grades should improve. But she had come into that restroom with Roxy.
My fingers tap-danced on the desk. Two people involved with this school had died this week. Could the deaths be connected? If the custodian was murdered, I could already give a list of suspects. Sledge, now giving me dark-eyed stares, topped my list. Roxy could hurt someone. That ferocious-looking coach and his tiny sidekick in the office always looked like they might kill. But who had a motive? Or an opportunity?
Did anyone here know a man died? Did anybody care?
Kat did. The death occurred after school, she’d told me. I kept a watchful eye on Sledge and wondered who else might have been here at that time. The police were still questioning people. They’d find out. Same for the substitute lady, who’d been shot near her home.
I pulled out keys for the classroom, restroom, and whatever the third was for. I would be ready to leave.
My eyes swerved back to the keys I held. Would the school have been locked when the custodian died? If so, then who else had access to this building? Some of the people in charge. The principal. Vice-principal Anne Little, whose mouth had done that nervous twitch; anyone whose main duty entailed hiring people to sub with these students must have a violent streak. Band directors usually had keys to get into buildings. So did coaches. Probably other teachers.
I peered at my three keys, each a different size and shape. I hadn’t been given a key for the main building, but what about regular teachers? Other custodians? Anything was possible, I determined, glad I didn’t have to prove who, if anyone, had done the killing.
I closed my hand around the keys and stared at Sledge, who watched me. Papers rustled, and erasures sounded. My belly rumbled, needing food. I could call Cajun Delights and ask if they’d bring me some.
No, then Gil would know I’d come and stuck my nose in police business.
Maybe a pizza place? I studied the poster of a large saw and worked hard to avoid thinking of eating. I tapped my foot, running my gaze over students who were writing. Only a few minutes left. I grinned, realizing I never had to do this again. The room was silent when “The Mexican Hat Dance” played.
Students jumped. “What’s that?” “Who’s got the phone on?” they asked. Heads swiveled. “Somebody’s mamma’s calling.” “A drug deal,” they blurted.
“It’s just my…go back to what you were doing,” I told them. Grabbing my purse, I scooted out the door. “Yes?” I whispered into my handset, poking my head in the room so the students could see I was still watching.
“Hello, Cealie.” Gil’s baritone voice warmed me to my toes.
Chapter 7
Hearing Gil on my phone made me move away from the classroom door.
I glanced back through it and spied a girl with wavy auburn hair already sliding a notebook out from her desk. She saw me and shoved her notebook back.
“I thought you might give me a call,” Gil said.
I smiled. Normality. “How’d you reach me?” I turned away from students. Who cared what they were doing? This was my life.
“You kept the same number, didn’t you?” Sex appeal reverberated in his tone.
I was beginning to feel things I didn’t deem appropriate while I was filling my role as a teacher. I glanced into the room. Eyes shifted away from others’ test papers. With regret, I told Gil, “I can’t talk now.”
“Oh, caught you at a bad time.”
“You might say that.” I moved inside the room, my stare daring anyone to cheat.
“Then I’ll let you go.” Gil sounded disappointed. I liked that. What I really wanted was to sit back and chat with him until the last bell rang, the final student left, and I could sip a tall strawberry daiquiri. Two or three would be even better.
Inquisitive teen faces turned to mine. “This really isn’t a good time,” I told Gil.
“Call if you get a free minute? I’ll be at the restaurant.”
Yum, Gil and food.
I smiled the rest of the period, which passed quickly. If Sledge stared at me, I missed it. I gazed at the wall and my inner eye showed me Gil. I was hungry. Gil was sturdy. Still well-muscled. He was at his restaurant, awaiting my call. The dismissal bell rang, and with smugness, I told the class ’bye. Once they’d gone out, I straightened all the desks, picked wadded paper off the floor, and found a cheat sheet. Some desks held candy wrappers. Wads of gum clung beneath desktops. I hauled a small trash can around the room, tossing in all the rubbish, but not the used gum. The room still didn’t look appealing when I left it.
“How’d you make out?” Abby Jeansonne asked, as we met coming out of our classrooms.
“It wasn’t too bad.” I rolled my eyes to let her know I was kidding.
She picked one key from her ring filled with oodles of them, locked her room, and went off. I was forgetting that classrooms now needed locking; for what, I couldn’t earlier imagine. Now I knew. It was to keep out cheaters, thieves, and maybe killers. I locked Jack Burdell’s door. I needed to return my keys to the office and pass on what Sledge’s friend had said about him and the dead man. Better yet, I’d see the detectives again and tell them.
The central corridor was empty, except for cans and containers on the floor. A girl emerged from the restroom, and I went in it to see if by chance I’d find Kat. I didn’t. I did find the office. Glancing at the custodian’s obituary, I shuddered. Grant Labruzzo had been nice looking. But his expressive eyes were now shut and would never open again.
I passed beside annoyed students to get behind the counter. Coach was back, again ranting on a phone. “Those damn kids!” he snapped, hanging up. I somehow knew the small red-faced woman with huge black hair would emerge. She did, and I nudged close to a girl standing near me and asked the woman’s name.
“Miss Gird,” the girl snarled.
Coach and Miss Gird looked like they could’ve ripped off a person’s head. Could either, while angry, shove a small man over a balcony railing? Easily. Their killer vibes permeated this area.
The bell rang to end seventh period. Hannah Hendrick passed through the office, heading toward a rear hall. She saw me and her tense face brightened. “Mrs. Gunther,” she said, coming over, “how was today for you?”
I considered telling the principal a lie. “It went,” I said with a grin.
Hannah’s bemused expression told me she understood. I spied some staff members, but not Anne Little. I’d have to tell the principal what Sledge’s buddy said. I handed Hannah my three keys. She thanked me, and before I could say more, students roared in through the door. A sour-faced boy yelled to Cynthia Petre that they all needed to use the phone. Their bus had taken off and left them behind. I didn’t blame the driver. An unhappy adult accompanied a male student through the door. Hannah touched my arm and said, “May I speak with you a minute?”
“Of course.”
She gave the angry people another once-over. While I followed where Hannah led, she told me a vice-principal would handle the situation with those students. The boss-lady escorted me through a narrow rear corridor past open doors. Inside small rooms, men and women looked overworked. Some pondered over papers, some spoke to students. The custodian’s obituary was taped near a room labeled Vice-Principal Tom Reynolds. Reynolds, the thin man who’d accompanied Hannah to the funeral, sat inside this room. He listened to a long-haired boy complaining, and the boss pointed to the next door. “My office,” she said.
Ah, headquarters. I felt special. I half expected to see push-button controls. Panels that would cordon off scary areas. Weapons for crowd control.
Hannah’s spacious office held flowers, portraits, cougar pictures. “Please sit down.” She waved a hand to a dainty chair and dropped into a nicer one, but not the leather chair behind her desk. “I asked you to come in here because it was getting so loud out there.”
“It does get rowdy.”
“And would you believe, it’s sometimes quiet?”
I merely grinned. Hey, I could be happy. I wouldn’t have to return here. And Gil was out there, awaiting my call. My stomach made a noise sounding like a cheer.
Anne Little swooped into the room. “I gave Ms. Hendrick the keys,” I said, expecting that Anne had come after me. “And I need to tell you both something.”
Anne nodded absently. She was carrying the spirit stick. “Hannah,” she said, “could you come out here a minute? Trouble with a parent.”
“I’ll be right back,” Hannah told me. She left with Anne, and I checked out her office.
Silk flowers in yellow and lagoon blue stood in a vase on a side table. I recognized the real flowers on her desk as tulips. Frames on her walls held pictures of cougars: some fierce, some whimsical. Photos showed Hannah with students: her arm around a homecoming queen, she handed trophies to other teens.
Nostalgia swept through me. As a child, I’d often wondered what mysterious items the principal and teachers kept away from our eyes. In high school my teachers and principal had me file papers. I then saw all their photos, spindly plants, and messy papers, destroying all my exotic imaginings. Just like the tragic events from this week had surely destroyed Kat’s. But she had been here already, with some knowledge of the nasty creatures in this place. How sad. My schools had contained more innocence. So had the private school where I’d taught.
When Hannah returned, I was eyeing a picture of her standing beside a boy in a track uniform. He looked familiar. He’d come into my morning class and fallen asleep. “Your son?” I asked.
“My cousin.”
“He looks fairly young for that.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Not that you’re old.”
“Actually, my cousin’s son.” She seemed to disregard my blunder and returned to her chair.
“I have cousins, too.” I grinned and then frowned, remembering the one who’d sent an e-mail. Why had Stevie wanted me?
Hannah’s tulips drooped a little, making me think of Minnie on my kitchen counter. “Did you grow those flowers?” I asked, ready to glean knowledge about raising plants.
“I bought them.” She looked ready to say something else.
Anne Little interrupted. Walking in, she pointed the spirit stick at me. “Mrs. Gunther, you wanted to tell us something?”
“There’s this big guy,” I said, gazing from one woman to the other, “they call him Sledge.” Both of them nodded, so I went on. “He and I exchanged words, and then a friend of his said I mustn’t know what happened between Sledge and the janitor.”
The administrators peered at each other. I glanced at both of them and said, “Do you know anything that transpired between Sledge and the man who died here?”
Anne Little’s eyes swerved aside. Hannah leaned forward, clasping her hands on her lap. “Our custodian caught Sledge doing something inappropriate behind the main building.”
“Inappropriate?”
“He was kissing a girl and, well, fondling her.”
“She was fondling him back,” Anne Little blurted.
Hannah made a polite smile. “Anne gave them both after-school detention.”
“That doesn’t sound like a terrible punishment,” I said.
Anne took a deep breath. “But the detention made Sledge miss football practice, so Coach wouldn’t let him play in the last district game.”
“Was that a major problem?” I asked.
Hannah spread her hands. “Sledge thinks that was why he didn’t get an offer to play college football.”
I sat back. “Oh, a major overhaul of his future plans. Is Sledge that good an athlete?”
Hannah shrugged. “He and Coach Millet think so.”
“Coach Millet,” I said. “An older guy, wears a bulldog expression?”
The women grinned at each other. “I’ll get your information to the detectives,” Anne Little told me. “They stay around, investigating.”
She walked out, and then I remembered Abby Jeansonne’s comment. This time I excused myself from Hannah for a moment, entered the hall and said, “Mrs. Little, the custodian who died. He wasn’t murdered, was he?”
Her eyes widened with her startled expression. “Grant’s death was unfortunate. Certainly an accident.” She exhaled, tightening her grip on the spirit stick. “The police haven’t ruled out foul play yet. But they will.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“Yes. Well…” She spun and scurried toward the main office area.
I stood in place, wondering. Why had Abby Jeansonne told me to talk to Mrs. Little about the man’s death? What had this vice-principal told me that I hadn’t already surmised or could have easily learned? I needed to consider more but had to return
to Hannah’s office.
Hannah smiled when I entered and sat. “Mrs. Gunther, I wanted to talk to you because I know about the classes you had today.”
“You do?”
“I know Jack Burdell and…well let’s say he doesn’t have the choicest students. And he isn’t our top disciplinarian.”
“That explains some things.” I waited. I was famished. I wouldn’t tell Hannah I couldn’t find food in time. Was she going to offer me a bonus for spending an entire day with Jack Burdell’s students?
“But,” she said, “other classes aren’t the same.”
“No?” What good news.
“Well, a few are. But lots of them aren’t. The point I’m trying to make, Mrs. Gunther—”
“Call me Cealie.”
“Cealie.” She smiled broadly. “And you call me Hannah. But what I wanted to ask is…” Again that hesitation. Did she want me to guard the entire school? “Quite a few teachers will be out tomorrow.”
Uh-oh.
Hannah’s hazel eyes narrowed. “We’ve had so many problems lately trying to get substitutes. If you could only—”
My mind cut off her plea. I didn’t want to hear it. I was woman—not a teacher. I was no longer required to guard anyone. And what about Anne Little, whose main purpose now, she’d told me, was locating teacher replacements? Had she backed out of that chore, instead finding the handling of furious parents more appealing? My head swiveled while Hannah spoke. No way.
Her hand clasped mine. “I know Kat is your grandchild. She would be so pleased to see you here again.”
Kat. The magic word. “How do you know about her?” I asked.
“We get to know most of our students, especially the troublemakers and the honor students. You can be proud of that young woman.”
“Kat’s a sweetie.” My smile came and faded. “But that custodian’s death really got to her.”
“Tragic. It’s affected us all.”
