by Lisa Wingate
I waited until he was finished, I knocked on the door as if I’d just come in. “I wanted you to know I’m out of here. I’ll make sure the front door’s locked.”
“Sounds good.” Setting the sax in a chair, he stood up and stretched. “Hey, I’m working on getting some instruments for your after-school program. I’ve got some kids who need community service hours, so Keiler’s helping them refit some of the ones in the closet that need only minor repairs. No sense in that stuff sitting around, and it’s good for the kids to know how their instruments work. Stafford probably won’t be nuts about the idea, but I can push it through the superintendent’s office. Pays to know the right people.”
“Thanks,” I said, pleasantly surprised to find Verhaden taking the initiative on my behalf. “You can’t imagine how much the instruments will be appreciated. The Jumpkids director says she has plenty of kids interested in learning to play, but they haven’t been able to pursue it because of the costs. Hopefully, now she’ll be able to find a few volunteers to give lessons.” Glancing toward what used to be the flute section in the corner of the room, I remembered my very short career in instrumental music at Harrington. “I could teach flute.”
“You were about the worst flute player I ever had,” Verhaden scoffed. “I might be able to help out with some tutors. Let me talk to a few people at the high school. It’s the kind of community service project our kids should be doing.”
“I agree completely.” I stopped just short of jumping onto my soapbox about Harrington kids being constructive in the community.
Shaking his head, Verhaden picked up the sax again. “You’re a hopeless idealist, Costell,” he said, then positioned his fingers on the instrument. “Go home, already. Have a good evening.”
“You, too.” I turned away as soulful notes again filled the room.
On the drive home, I thought about Mr. Verhaden, sitting in the empty band hall. When did he change from rugged idealist to weary music director? Did he surrender little by little, or did he wake up one day and realize the tide at Harrington had turned so far that he could no longer swim against it? Did he think of his lost dreams when he sat playing soulful notes on his saxophone? Was that why he wanted to help provide instruments and instructors for the Jumpkids program?
Whatever the reason, I was grateful. As I exited the highway in Overland Park, I called Karen on her cell phone to discuss the possibilities and to ask her about Dell singing for Bett’s wedding. She seemed excited about both ideas, and Dell was amenable to performing as a wedding soloist, so I made plans to deliver Bett’s CD to her the next day at school, so that Dell could practice the music over the weekend, and then next week with her vocal music teacher.
“There will be more time after tomorrow, when the grading period is over,” Karen said, lowering her voice in a way that told me she had moved away from Dell. “She and Keiler have been studying like crazy, and then a couple of nights, this friend of hers, Barry, came to Jumpkids with us, and the two of them studied; then he rode home with us. Turns out, he lives not far away from here. It’s great to see her with a friend her own age. It never occurred to me that it wasn’t normal for her to be hanging around adults and Jumpkids all the time.
I chuckled into the phone. For a kid with so many life changes this past year, I think Dell’s doing really well. She’s a tough little nut.”
“I hope her grades come out all right.” Karen sounded worried. “She’s been working so hard. I’m trying not to hover or make too big a deal of it, so that if the report card is a disappointment, she won’t think it’s the end of the world.”
“That’s good.” I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn’t been able to keep up with Dell’s situation this week as much as I’d wanted to. “Grades will be in the computer by Monday, so I can check and see how she ended up. I know she did well on all of her tests this week, so that will help. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to do more for her the last few days. The principal’s been out with the flu all week, and it has turned into a pretty insane few days.” I wanted to spill the whole story, to unload it on somebody older and wiser, but a Harrington parent was not the person to tell. “Thank God Keiler came along when he did.”
Karen laughed softly. “For a man without a plan, Keiler does a pretty good job of showing up when he’s needed. You’ll find that out about him.”
“I already have.”
“Speaking of being needed,” Karen went on, “with Mrs. Mindia still out with the flu, we’ve missed you at Jumpkids. I’ve been having to teach dance, and let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight.”
“I bet you’re great at it,” I joked.
“Hardly. Any chance you’ll be back next week?” Her voice rose hopefully, as in, Please, please, please? Say yes. “I hate to beg, but I will.”
Laughter bubbled in my throat, light and effervescent. Once again, I had that warm feeling of being valued and accepted, of friendship. I realized that other than Bett, I hadn’t had a close friend in years. I’d driven them away a bit at a time, slowly increasing the distance between myself and other people as my secret became more dire and harder to hide. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to help next week. I’ve really missed it, and by the time the principal gets back, I’m going to need stress relief.” That was true in more ways than one. “I’m sure he’ll be back by next week, and I’ll be finishing up a big grant proposal this weekend. After that, I’ll have more time in the afternoons.”
“Sounds good, but seriously, though, no pressure. We’re happy to have you whenever you can work it in,” Karen replied graciously, letting me off the hook. “Unlike Keiler, you do have a life.”
“Thank goodness Keiler doesn’t have a life.”
Karen paused contemplatively, as if she suspected more than just professional gratitude in the comment. “I think Keiler’s glad he came along when he did. He’s really enjoying the teaching, or … ahem … something about that school.” Her voice rose with a hint of, Girlfriend, I’ve got a secret. Then she seemed to change her mind and finished with, “It suits him, anyway.”
I felt myself blushing in the dark, alone in my car. “I’m glad,” was the only reply I could think of.
We said good-bye as I pulled into my parents’ driveway. Bett’s car was parked in the extra space, and when I went inside, she was sitting in the living room with Mom and Dad, finishing a powwow about catering. All three of them looked as exhausted as I felt.
“Hi, sweetheart!” Mom said. “How was your day?”
I was momentarily stunned. Not one word about whether I’d eaten dinner, or whether I was hungry? Just, How was your day? “Strange,” I said finally. “Kind of far-side-of-the-moon strange.” Setting down my briefcase, I sank onto the sofa.
Dad lowered his Wall Street Journal, which he’d no doubt been hiding behind as Mom and Bett hashed out wedding details. “Tough day at school?”
All three of them turned to me with expressions of genuine interest, and the need to talk about the week’s events welled up so strongly that I couldn’t force it down. The next thing I knew, I was spilling the entire story—everything from hiring Keiler as an algebra substitute on Monday, to Cameron having a meltdown in the hall on Thursday, and then contacting his parents.
“I hope I did the right thing, calling his father.” Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes momentarily. “There’s so much potential in that kid—too much to throw away because he’s having a tough time with his folks’ divorce.”
“Of course you did the right thing.” Mom’s tone was so indignant that I looked at her in surprise. She was sitting forward in her chair, her back stiff, her chin raised defensively. “You did exactly the right thing. The man should know what’s going on with his son. That is your job—to look after the well-being of the kids.” She sounded as if she were ready to pick up a Just Say No banner and crusade through the halls of Harrington right along with me. Her eyes met mine, and I realized she had a personal interest in the matter—me. My mother cared about
the problems at Harrington, because I cared about the problems at Harrington.
“Sounds like that principal hasn’t been minding his shop too well,” Dad chimed in, and when I glanced at him, he punctuated with an authoritative nod. “First sign of a poor manager—more interested in covering up issues than solving them. Not a creative problem solver. Can’t think through the solutions, see?” Dad pointed a finger at me. “That’s when new blood is needed. That’s when a young go-getter with fresh ideas can really make a difference.”
“Dad’s right,” Bett concurred. “There’s no way you could turn your back on a situation like that. It would be wrong. You’re not the kind of person who settles for halfway. That’s what made you so good at dance. You’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Thanks,” I said, swelling with emotion as I looked from Bett, to Dad, to Mom. My family, solidly behind me.
In spite of everything that had happened that day, I felt myself filling with air, catching a new wind, so that it seemed as if I could sail out into the world and take on anything.
Chapter 21
I left for Harrington early on Friday morning, after waking at three a.m., nervous and out of sorts, and then tossing and turning until four thirty. Finally, I gave up and worked on the grant application. By five thirty, I’d come to a standstill related to construction dates, square footage, and seating capacity of the school’s existing performance hall. Those facts would be contained in documents somewhere in the school’s basement file room, so I packed up the application materials, showered, dressed, ate some toast, left a note for Mom and Dad, and headed for work in a wintry predawn haze.
On the horizon, a thunderstorm rumbled as I traveled downtown. Without the usual stress of rush-hour traffic and cars darting in and out, the drive was peaceful, but my mind was swirling and churning like the early-spring thunderheads on the horizon. A vague sense of unease cast a pall over the morning, as if something had gone wrong overnight, and I just didn’t know it yet.
I conjured a haunting vision of Cameron having slipped away from his mom’s house and done something stupid. I tried to banish the idea, as if thinking something so awful might make it a reality, but I knew the knot in my stomach wouldn’t loosen until Cameron came up the front steps this morning, hopefully with his father.
Stafford’s not going to like your contacting a board member to tell him his kid was high at school, a voice in my head warned. Better be prepared to explain that …
A litany of potential responses and results ran through my head as I role-played the conversation with Stafford. Pulling into the school parking lot and turning off the engine, I stopped to consider the dialog in my head. I was doing exactly what I hated most—trying to modify and mollify, and make the situation less dire than it was. I sounded like Stafford or the school nurse, making excuses, intent on covering my backside in case things got messy.
Stop it, I told myself as I climbed out of my car, waved at the campus security officer near the gate, and walked up the stairs to the front door. You did the right thing. You did the only thing you could. Inside, one of the custodians was running the polisher on the hallway floor, so I descended the steps and went in the basement entry to the file room to search for the documentation I needed for the grant. After an hour of digging through old files, scanning school informational brochures, school maps, and construction blueprints, I finally had most of the required information. Outside, the parking lot was filling up with cars, and overhead, the hallway was coming to life.
Glancing at my watch, I hurried up the back stairs to the main hall, put my things in my office, and stationed myself at the front door. If Cameron’s father brought him in early, as he usually did, I wanted to catch him. Keiler was making his way up the steps with a box containing paper airplanes. Holding the door open, I frowned quizzically at his cargo.
“Homework.” Nodding toward the paper airplanes, he flashed a broad grin. “Math can be fun.”
“Pfff,” I scoffed. “You’ll have to save that line for the students. I can’t remember anything having to do with math ever being fun.”
He leaned close to me. “You’ve never had Big Bad Bradford for math. Today we’re going to calculate the volume, surface area, and linear dimensions of the school, in Jelly Bellies.” Pulling a huge sack of jelly beans out of his box, he winked. “Then, of course, we’re going to eat them. These kids will do just about anything for candy.”
I laughed. “When you figure out all the Jelly Belly totals, let me know. Maybe I can use some of that information on my grant application.”
“You got it,” he replied. “Just tell me what you want to know, and we’ll figure out a way to convert it to jelly beans… . I hope. Some of my ideas work out better than others.”
I glanced into the box of assorted paper airplanes, some of which had elaborate designs and complex decorations. Obviously, the kids had put a great deal of time into their projects. “Looks like this one worked out pretty well.”
He shrugged, silently saying, Yeah, what can I say—I’m good. “The principal liked them.”
I frowned, confused. “You’ve met Mr. Stafford?”
Nodding, he tucked the jelly beans back into his box. “Yeah. Bumped into him a half hour or so ago, on my way in with the first box of paper airplanes. I had to run over to the Jumpkids office and get this box out of Karen’s car. Not easy carrying boxes on a Harley. There are some times when I miss the green Hornet.”
I suddenly lost all desire to chat about paper airplanes and jelly beans. Looking over my shoulder toward the office, I wondered where Mr. Stafford was now. “I’d better go. Have a great day, Keiler. Good luck with the jelly beans.”
“I’ll let you know how it turns out.” He headed off down the hall, whistling the melody to “Yellow Submarine”.
Taking a deep breath, I peeked into the administration office. Mrs. Jorgenson glanced up from her computer, and her expression sent a cold lump down my throat.
“Where’s Mr. Stafford?” I asked.
“In his office with someone.” She gave a meaningful look over the top of her glasses. “And he does not want to be disturbed. I don’t know who he went in there with, because I was down getting the coffee machine started, but a minute ago, I tried to put through a call to him, and he bit my head off.” Leaning across the desk, she crooked a finger, motioning me closer. “He’s still not feeling too well. He didn’t look at all well this morning. If I were you, I’d make myself scarce until he either gets better or goes home.”
Nodding reluctantly, I turned to leave the office. “All right. If you see Cameron Ansler, will you let me know?”
Mrs. Jorgenson tilted her head to one side, her brows drawing together. “Oh, he’s already here. I saw him in the hallway, down by the teacher’s lounge. Said he was headed to retake some test from yesterday.” Leaning across her desk again, she caught my gaze and whispered, “He looked a lot better.”
My mind raced to assimilate the barrage of information. “Cameron’s already here?” I repeated, and she nodded. “And he’s making up a test from yesterday?” She nodded again, and I stood trying to figure out how all of this could be taking place before school hours, considering that the problem had come up only yesterday afternoon. “Did his parents come in with him?”
She raised both hands, palms up. “Don’t know. Didn’t see. Like I said, I was down the hall.” Picking up a pen, she jotted something on a sticky note. I had a feeling she knew more than she was willing to say.
Glancing at Stafford’s door, I wondered what might be happening and whether it had anything to do with the principal’s sudden reappearance from sick leave.
The phone rang, and Mrs. Jorgenson seized it, clearly glad to have an excuse to send me on my way. She gave a quick smile and an uncomfortable finger wave before she started into a phone conversation about a student who was absent with the flu.
Outside, the front hall was filling up with kids rushing to their lockers, now that they had finally
been allowed through the doors. Somewhere in the main corridor, Mrs. Morris was hollering, “No running! Stop that running! Young man, you go right back down the steps and …” Her voice was absorbed by the hum as I made my way around the corner to my office.
Barry passed by and waved. “Hey, Ms. C. Have you seen Dell?”
“Not so far today.”
With an impish grin, he hiked up his droopy pants while walking backward. “Don’t worry; I’ll find her,” he said, with more enthusiasm than I’d ever seen him show toward anything. “I bet she’s down in the vocal room, practicing. Girl’s ensemble was supposed to come in early this morning and work on the Spring Fling music.”
“Could be.” In spite of the way the day was going, Barry’s happy-morning face made me smile. “When you see her, tell her I have a CD to give her—the solo music for my sister’s wedding.”
He stood blocking traffic, oblivious as other students squeezed by with backpacks and instruments, giving him dirty looks. “Am I gonna get an invitation?”
“To the wedding?” Why in the world would Barry want to go to my sister’s wedding?
“Yeah … I just wondered.” Glancing down at his shoes, he reddened and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.
Suddenly, I understood. Dell would be at the wedding. I wondered what Bett would say, but, then, knowing her, she probably wouldn’t care. “The invitations are kind of informal, but you’re welcome to come. Maybe you could ride over with Dell and her parents.”
His posture straightened and he took on the joyful glow of a young man with a serious crush. “Cool. I’ll ask my mom.”
“Sounds good.”
He stood smiling at me a moment longer, as if transfixed by dreamy-eyed visions of himself and Dell together. Another eighth grader passed by with a drum, knocking Barry sideways and jolting him from fantasyland. “I could take the CD to Dell for you.” His eyebrows rose hopefully. Ah, a reason to track down Dell …
