Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  A few more questions were answered. Finally, one teacher asked, “What can be done, Mitch?”

  Cassie glanced her way.

  The attractive young French teacher smiled up at him. “Can you help us help these kids?”

  “Yes, Sarah, I think I can.”

  Sarah? Mitch knew the French teacher’s name. How? A sudden stab of jealousy hit Cassie, battering the already weak defenses she’d kept in place since he’d walked out of her house on Friday night.

  A list of ten anti-gang measures came up on the screen. Mitch highlighted one in yellow. “The first important step is admitting there’s a potential for this problem at your school.” He hesitated a moment. “I know it’s not an easy thing to do. I respect Seth for acknowledging the danger.”

  Next, Mitch explained how teachers and all staff members needed to get smart and become aware of the gang symbols and paraphernalia. At this point, he stepped aside from the podium and called Seth up front. They demonstrated an elaborate handshake. With a self-effacing smile, Mitch looked at the group. “Don’t think we don’t feel stupid doing this.” The teachers laughed. Seth sat back down, and Mitch continued. “In all seriousness, that’s the handshake that they use now, but any suspicious hand signals should be noted.”

  “What do we do if we see it?” another teacher asked.

  “Bring the student immediately to the office. Or report him or her and the administration will track it down.”

  Mitch talked about identifying student leaders and getting them on the school’s side, which Bosco applauded as a great idea, of course. “Another thing you’ve done well is to identify at-risk students and provide for them so they have an equal chance of success. I’ve been participating in your program for five weeks now, and it’s one of the most effective ones I’ve seen.”

  He looked over at Cassie. Her breath caught in her throat at the meaningful glance. “A fourth point deals with my being here, too. The police department needs to work closely with the school. To give information, like this, of course, but even move to develop a positive relationship with the students who are vulnerable to gang activities. Statistics show that kids have more internal conflict at the prospect of joining a gang if they have a good relationship with the local police force.” He smiled engagingly and said, “I think it’s working, although I’m having trouble keeping up with the homework.” Again, the humor broke the considerable tension in the room.

  “Another thing you do well is not closing your doors at three o’clock. I’ve noticed a number of after school activities at Bayview Heights. Even letting kids just hang out in the halls to socialize or shoot the breeze with the staff is a good idea. There’s a lot of camaraderie among the faculty and kids here.”

  No thanks to people like Jerry Bosco, Cassie thought, who’d wanted the building closed to everyone but athletes and kids staying after for clubs and activities. Several teachers had fought to let the kids stay just to socialize. With the help of a teacher committee, Seth had launched a QRS program for after school: any kids could remain in the building as long as they adhered to behavior promoting Quiet, Respect and Safety.

  The last five gang-prevention techniques dealt with offering programs for transfer students, educating teachers and parents with inservice courses, finding good community role models and providing counseling for students on the edge. As with the rest of the content, Mitch praised what Bayview Heights High School already had in place and gave suggestions for those they did not.

  At four o’clock, when Mitch finished answering one of the many questions fired at him, Seth stood. “It’s late,” he said to the group. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your interest. I think you all recognize the gravity of the situation. I’m ending the formal part of the meeting now. If you want to stay around, have a cup of coffee with us and ask Mitch any more questions, please do so. The rest of you drive home carefully. The weather’s turned nasty.”

  Cassie stood up. Her emotions were mixed. She was still afraid for Johnny, and she still felt a more intimate approach would have been better. But professionally, she couldn’t deny that Mitch and Seth had done a great job.

  Seth grabbed her arm as she started for the door. “Cass?”

  She faced him.

  “You okay?”

  Tilting her chin, she said, “Yes, of course I am.” She looked at Mitch, who was surrounded by several teachers. “He did a good job.”

  “He told me you helped him learn how to give a good presentation.”

  “Ironic, huh?”

  Seth smiled. “Did you talk to Johnny?”

  “Yes. He’s okay with it.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Me, too.”

  Seth glanced toward the podium. “You going to stay and talk to Mitch?”

  Cassie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Can I do anything?” he asked.

  “No. I’m tired. I’m going home.”

  “No volleyball tonight?”

  Volleyball. Mitch. Her house, in front of the fire afterward. She bit her lip. “No. Not tonight. Goodbye, Seth.”

  Against her will, she took one last look at Mitch. Sarah McKay was handing him a cup of coffee and staring sweetly up at him. It was like rubbing salt in an open wound. To escape the image, Cassie turned and headed for the door.

  She didn’t see Mitch’s gaze follow her as she walked out of the library.

  Chapter Nine

  On Tuesday morning, Mitch barged through the school entrance tired and irritable. He’d overslept and was late because he’d tossed and turned a good part of the night, trying to escape the sad look on Cassie’s face during the faculty meeting. He wasn’t ready to see her today, with his defenses lowered by fatigue.

  Class was underway when he stepped through the doorway. He froze. All around the room were images straight out of his worst nightmare. He watched as eleven kids in Cassie’s class went from object to object—inspecting each one. It took a minute for her voice to penetrate his shocked brain.

  “All of this is authentic memorabilia from the Vietnam War. For four weeks we’ll be studying the art, literature and music of war, focusing first on Vietnam, because it’s probably the most relevant to you.”

  Still standing in the doorway, Mitch scanned the obscene reminders that decorated her room. A flak jacket, several helmets, maps of Southeast Asia, shells, flags, an M-16. God, she even had a claymore mine. The last time he’d seen the highly explosive weapon, which flung shrapnel in the direction of the enemy, it had gotten turned around and he and his squad were diving for cover. Where the hell had she unearthed these things?

  When she finished telling them they had ten minutes to “get a feel” for the stuff, she headed for her desk and saw him. His mind registered that her face looked pale and drawn today, but his eyes strayed to the war artifacts.

  “Good morning, Captain,” she said coolly.

  “Ms. Smith.” Shaking off the trance, he came into the room. He was bone-deep cold and shivered as he removed his coat.

  She cocked her head, stared at him hard. “Are you all right?”

  Taking in a deep breath, he nodded. “You?”

  “You mean about the faculty meeting yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m fine.” Her words were clipped, her tone short. So this was how it was going to be. Over the weekend, he’d accepted that they were going nowhere, so it didn’t come as a surprise. It just seemed harder to take this morning, given the ghosts that were staring back at him from all corners of the room.

  “How did the kids do with the announcement?”

  “All right. Joe DeFazio isn’t here today.”

  “Johnny?”

  “He did okay.” She glanced over where the boy was examining a map of Vietnam. “Actually, he seems unusually intrigued by this introduction to our new unit.”

  Mitch swallowed hard. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “I’ve been collecting it
for years. I always go into a war unit after the alienation unit, and this is the result of ten years of collection from pawn shops, novelty stores, people who’ve come and talked and left things with us.”

  He nodded. People who’ve come and talked. Vets fell into two categories: those who couldn’t talk about their experiences, and those who had to. Most psychologists agreed that the latter were healthier. It seemed an oxymoron to Mitch—a healthy war veteran. But hell, people had to deal with the demons as best they could.

  “Mitch, are you sure you’re okay? You look ill.”

  “I’m just tired.” He had to turn away from the sympathy in her eyes. He was too raw today to begin with, and now, bombarded by his past, he wasn’t even sure he could get through the next couple of hours.

  Take it one day at a time, Mitch, the VA counselor had advised. Somehow, he’d managed twenty-five years of living with the horror he’d seen, the crimes he himself had perpetrated. As he hung up his coat, he closed his eyes to stop a vision of one of those crimes—the bloodied bodies of the Viet Cong soldiers, piled high, ready for burning. His gun had put too many of them there.

  Shaking off the memory, he got his journal from the cabinet and took a seat in the back as Cassie said, “All right, everybody. Today you’re going to write on this.” She passed out to each of them what Mitch thought was a business card. On the square paper, however, was typed, “Join the Marines. Travel to exotic lands, meet interesting and exciting new people, and kill them.”

  There were nervous chuckles around the room, then the kids quieted. And began to write.

  Mitch stared at the blank paper. Journal writing. This aspect of the class had been tough for him. He’d written with the kids each day, but it had been surface stuff. He hadn’t gotten into what he was really feeling and he’d never mentioned his war experiences. Hell, he’d only ever talked about them to counselors, and a few times to Kurt when he couldn’t deal with the pain alone. Write about it now? Never in a million years.

  He hadn’t realized Cassie was at his desk. “Not writing today, Captain?”

  “Just thinking.” He peered up into eyes he’d thought at one time he might want to share the horror of Vietnam with. Not now. He picked up his pen as she walked on to see what Peterson was doing. At the top of his page, Mitch wrote, “Do not read.” He scribbled, “I can’t do this. I can’t write about the war. I can’t even think about it. Except for the nightmares, it’s not even a part of me anymore. Maybe I can write about this card. I have a lot of feelings about how kids get sucked in. How they go over there not knowing what the hell’s going to happen to them.” And so it went. For ten minutes he skirted any references to himself and wrote around the issue. But the writing was more personal, with more feeling than anything he’d done so far.

  When it was time to share, he moaned. He watched the kids pair up. Mike Youngblood asked to be with Cassie, so Mitch got a break there. Though she was angry and upset with him, he could tell that she’d noticed something more was going on with him than the fight they’d had. He didn’t want to give her further evidence of his state of mind.

  “Looks like it’s you and me left, Captain.”

  Mitch stared up at Battaglia. Damn!

  The boy plunked down on the desk next to him. “Wanna tell me what you think of the card?”

  Sitting back, Mitch crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look relaxed. “I think it’s true. Recruiters suck young kids in when they have no idea what they’ll be doing in war.”

  Battaglia stared off into space for a minute. “You think so? I can’t understand why anybody would join. It’d screw up the rest of his life.”

  Something in his tone alerted Mitch. There was a concern, a sympathy—something—lacing the boy’s words.

  “You don’t always know at eighteen what’s best for you,” Mitch answered honestly.

  Sharp, suspicious eyes leveled on Mitch. “Yeah, so I’ve heard today.” Battaglia scowled. “You talk to Cassie?”

  “Briefly. Why?”

  “She looks sad. Has looked that way since Friday. I thought maybe you could cheer her up.”

  “I think you’ve got a better chance of doing that than I do.” He held Battaglia’s gaze. “I’m glad to see you here today.”

  The boy glanced around the room at the war stuff. “I’m not so glad I came. Especially today.”

  Cassie watched Johnny and Mitch out of the corner of her eye. What were they talking about? Both looked so serious. God, she hoped Mitch didn’t do anything to push Johnny over the edge. And vice versa. Something was wrong with Mitch. He was so somber. She supposed it could be the tension between them because of the gang issue. She could still hear him whisper, Reconsider, Cass, please.

  She had—a thousand times since Friday. Only he didn’t know it, and never would.

  “All right, let’s talk about the card as a group.” After they’d shared their thoughts, she said, “Vietnam is a war many of us can relate to. How many of you know someone who was in Southeast Asia?”

  She let the kids tell their stories. Arga’s and Tara’s uncles, and Jen’s father. Several neighbors. Even Peterson’s older step-brother.

  “Think anyone would like to come in and talk to us about this?”

  “Not my dad,” Jen said. “He don’t ever talk about it.”

  “How old is your Dad, Jen?”

  “Forty-nine. He was in at the end. Really screwed him up.”

  “My uncle might.” Arga spoke softly. “He told me stories. They’re really bad.”

  “Why don’t you ask him if he’d speak to our class? Anyone else have any connection to this war?”

  She looked around the room, her gaze falling on Johnny and Mitch. Something about their faces—a similar look about them...

  Class ended before she could figure it out.

  The kids left, and Mitch gathered his things as the next group filed in. His shoulders were tense, his body ramrod straight.

  “Mitch?” Cassie said as he headed for the closet.

  Continuing past her, he grabbed his coat, shrugged into it and turned to face her—ready to bolt. “Yeah?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  For a minute, a look of naked pain crossed his face. Then it was gone. “I’m fine, Ms. Smith. Just as always.”

  With that mysterious comment, he left.

  * * *

  Mitch found himself at Kurt’s clinic on Thursday of that week. He’d endured three days of studying the war, and he couldn’t handle the pain alone anymore.

  First there had been the music: Billy Joel’s “Goodnight Saigon” and George Michael’s “Mother’s Pride.” As he listened to Joel’s accurate description of the camaraderie among the soldiers, their dependence on one another in the foreign countryside, Mitch remembered an incident. He was marching through the jungle. He was in the middle of the line, as usual. His buddy, Stillman, had been at the point. Mitch had tackled him from behind, but not in time to dodge the sniper’s bullet. Stillman had gone home early, paralyzed from the waist down.

  But Michael’s song got to Mitch even more. Cassie had made what she called a song scrapbook: pictures she’d drawn or cut out of magazines, representing the lyrics. She’d shown them on an overhead screen while she played the song, asking the kids to jot down the images that were most powerful. Mitch had watched the screen in silence—all those children scarred by war, all those families torn apart. He felt wounds open that he’d thought closed for good. The picture of one small Vietnamese boy tightened the fist around Mitch’s heart so much he’d had to get up and leave the room. He’d made a silly excuse when he’d returned just before the end of class.

  So he’d sought out his brother. As he came through the door into the entry-reception area of the clinic, a young woman bustled in behind him.

  “Hi,” she said, looking up at him with wide brown eyes peeking out from under shaggy bangs. She shook her coat off, hung it in a makeshift closet and smiled. “I’m Meg Mancini, a
pre-med student. You’re Kurt’s brother.”

  “How do you know me?” Mitch asked.

  “Kurt has a picture of you two on his desk.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Johnny’s talked about you.”

  “Battaglia?”

  She glanced to the far side of the room. “Speak of the devil, as my dad says.”

  Johnny came out of the clinic’s inner door. “Devil? Me? Mary Margaret, how unkind.” The teasing drained from his voice when he spotted Mitch. “Hello, Captain Lansing.”

  “Mr. Battaglia.”

  “Here to see your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s in with an emergency.”

  “You can wait in his office, Captain Lansing,” said a familiar-looking nurse behind the receptionist desk.

  “Thank you.” Mitch turned to the young woman next to him. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Mancini.” He walked through the door, conscious of two pairs of dark eyes on his back.

  Johnny felt a slight hand on his arm. “He doesn’t seem like such a monster.”

  A monster? Johnny remembered the captain’s strange behavior this week. Because Johnny didn’t want to think about Cassie’s class and what they were studying, he looked away from the door. He felt his heart turn over at the tender concern in Ms. Mancini’s eyes.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, winking. “Take me, for instance. I look like a punk. You’d never know I was so smart.”

  Mary Margaret smiled. “You look like Andy Garcia. My favorite actor.”

  “Your favorite, huh?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Uh-oh. I can see I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother warned me about guys like you.”

  “Why, Mary Margaret, are you flirting with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  As she headed into the clinic, he grasped the back of her sweater. “Wait a second. I want to ask you something.” He tugged her to the far corner of the entry area. “Let me take you home tonight.”

  Her brown eyes widened. “I don’t think so, Johnny.”

  “Why?”

  “I...” She blushed, and turned half away from him. “I’m not like most other girls...I’m...”