by Kathryn Shay
She cocked her head. “Go ahead, Lester.”
Small brown eyes, which sometimes matched his small mind, narrowed on Joe. “Your nephew’s in the office again.”
Joe’s frown upgraded to a scowl.
Suzanna bit her lip. For some reason, it was reassuring to see Stonehouse brought down by one of the world’s greatest levelers—a teenager. It made him more human.
“What’s he done this time?” the counselor asked tightly.
“A fight. He says he was stopping a fight, but other kids say he started it. In any case, he threw a punch.”
“Who broke it up?” Suzanna asked.
“Kelsey Cunningham.”
Suzanna frowned. Not only was Kelsey her best teacher, she was also like a daughter to Suzanna, had been since Suzanna had taught her U.S. History and the girl had lived with them her senior year, when her father once again pulled the rug from under her and moved to New Haven. “Is she all right?”
“Yes. But mad as hell.” He mumbled, “Probably broke a fingernail.”
“Not funny, Lester.”
“I’ll be down as soon as I’m done here,” Joe said. “Let the kid cool his heels until then.”
“I’m suspending him. School policy for fighting.”
“What else is new?” Stonehouse closed the door and sank despairingly into his chair. “I rue the day I told my sister I’d take that boy for the rest of the year.”
“Raising kids is never easy.”
“How would you know? You’ve got the angel child of Fairholm.” He gave her a half-smile, making her realize how seldom she saw the gesture from him. And the nice things it did to his high cheekbones and square-cut jaw.
“He is a sweetie. I’m lucky.”
Joe’s face darkened. “It’s never luck when kids turn out well. It’s because they were raised right.”
“Why, thank you.” The compliment surprised her. This man had been miserly with his opinions, let alone any personal comments. His words made her flush.
He straightened abruptly. “Monday’s group is Kids of Single Parents.” He picked up a neatly typed list. She’d noticed his attention to detail before. “You have a lot of them.”
You, not we.
“Yes, we do. Most schools do, Joe.”
“I’m hoping to mix up the cliques this way.”
“May I see the list?”
He handed it to her. She was shocked to see Max Duchamp’s name halfway down. Along with Ben’s.
“Max is coming? That’s a surprise. I know his mother’s been dead since he was little. I guess you never get over it.”
“Old or new, parental wounds cut deep. Franzi’s father died just last year, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” She looked back down at the list and stopped cold. Oh, Lord, Josh’s name. She drew in a breath.
“Your son’s name is on there. Is that what you really wanted to know?” he asked, cutting to the chase.
She raised her chin. “Of course not. I’d never check up on him that way. I detest any kind of spying. He didn’t mention his plans to join this group, but I’ll tell him I found out—accidentally, of course—and we’ll discuss it if he wants to.”
Joe’s eyebrows arched, making her feel as if she had to defend herself. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the strained silence.
“It’s tough having a mother as a principal,” she said. “We have ground rules. Honesty is one. Noninterference is another.”
“Both seem to be your mantra, Suzanna.”
“Yes, they are.” She didn’t like the erratic beat of her heart at his use of her first name. “Now, show me the rest of your plans.”
He drew out a neatly typed sheet. “I’m considering a group for kids who are being bullied. It’s a problem these days, especially since these kids are always online.” He handed her the outline. “Another is a Boys’ Concerns group I’m hoping to start.”
“Only for boys? What about the girls?”
Stonehouse hesitated, just enough to make her think he was weighing his words. “Your staff already runs a couple of groups for girls. Anyway, there’s a lot of research about boys these days that says we don’t listen to them enough. That we should provide more opportunities to let them talk.”
“I wonder if we had more things like this, if Zach Riley...” She let the words trail off.
“Suicide’s a complicated issue.” His face softened. “And what if’s are normal. We should concentrate on the present, though.”
“I know. I’d like to see that research on boys.”
He studied her for a moment. It made her uncomfortable. Then he fished in the folder and drew out some papers downloaded from the Internet. “Here it is.”
Ignoring the unsettled feeling inside her, Suzanna leaned over and concentrated on the counselor’s articles.
o0o
Ready to spit nails, Joe drew in a deep breath and made his way to Wells’s office. The kid was supposed to keep a low profile. Before this was over, Joe was going to kill Ludzecky.
He’d reached the hall intersection when a woman coming around the corner bumped into him. “Oh, sorry,” he said.
“Joe.” It was Kelsey Cunningham.
He remembered Ludzecky’s comment when they first saw the pretty teacher’s profile, complete with picture. She was a beauty, though young. She didn’t yet have Suzanna’s inner poise—something that radiated from the principal’s face and in the way she moved. Classic, understated and appealing.
He cleared his throat, vaguely disturbed by his rumination. “Ms. Cunningham.”
She tossed back the bangs of her short, dark hair. “I was on my way to see your nephew.”
“I heard you broke up the fight.” His jaw hardened. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
They walked together, her long legs keeping stride easily, despite the slim skirt and heels she seemed to favor. “No, and you misunderstand what happened. Luke stepped in, trying to keep Smurf—Jimmy Smurfella—from getting beat up.”
Not again. The kid had a regular Sir Galahad complex. “I thought he started the fight.” Joe scowled again. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Kelsey smiled her Miss America smile. “He’s never any trouble for me in Government class or in Psychology.”
Surprise, surprise. “He likes history.”
“He knows more than I do about the setup of the government.”
No doubt about it, Joe was going to kill the kid for showing off.
They reached the office together; Luke glanced up from his studied slouch. His beard had grown just enough to be scruffy, and his hair grazed his collar. Today he was dressed in threadbare denims and a flannel shirt over a red T-shirt.
Gracefully, Kelsey sat down beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Not a good idea, in this day and age of sexual misconduct charges. But Joe had noticed that many of the teachers here were habitually demonstrative. Even Suzanna was always patting a student on the back or squeezing his arm.
“You okay, buddy?” Kelsey asked.
Massaging his jaw, Luke looked cow-eyed at the young teacher. “He got in a jab before I took him down.”
That surprised Joe. Secret Service agents were highly trained. He hoped Luke wasn’t losing his edge.
“Need to go to the nurse?” she asked.
“Nah. I’m suspended anyway.” He shot Joe a surly look. “Gonna send me home, Unc?”
“Yes. After we talk in my office.” He spoke to the secretary. “May I take him?”
“Sure. Lester says he’s out until the Student Court is held.”
“Freakin’ Nazi,” Luke grumbled under his breath.
Kelsey said, “I’ll straighten everything out, Luke. You shouldn’t be punished for helping.”
Luke stood. “Don’t bother, Teach. It’s cool. I got me a vacation.” Grinning, he followed Joe out of the assistant principal’s office.
o0o
In the confines of his “uncle’s” office, Luke sat on the de
sk while Joe paced. “I need a cigarette,” Luke said.
“There’s no smoking anywhere on school grounds.” A glare accompanied Joe’s glacial tone. “And you can ditch the James Dean act. Nobody’s here to see you.”
“Hey, you know the first rule of our operation. Never break cover. It’s why we had to live together.” Luke jerked Stone Man’s chain a bit more. “A rule monger like you should remember that.”
“What the hell happened? You’re supposed to be an angry kid, but keep a low profile.”
“Hey, I tried to ignore it. They were raggin’ on Smurfy boy, and then it got physical. The other kids say he’s picked on all the time, especially in gym class.”
“Who did it?”
Luke ducked his head. “Duchamp’s buddy, Rush Webster. And his sidekick Morton.”
Stonehouse snarled, “Oh, that’s fucking wonderful.” Maybe the guy didn’t have ice in his veins after all. “You’re supposed to be getting tight with the on-the-fringe kids, not alienating them.”
“I know. But I couldn’t stand by and let them take Smurf apart. Especially when Kelsey Cunningham was gonna jump in the fray. Geez, three-inch heels, tight skirt, and all.”
“Protecting females is what got you into trouble the last time, Agent Ludzecky.”
“That girl could have gotten raped.”
“You overreacted. She wasn’t in that much danger.”
Though it rankled, Luke didn’t let Stonehouse see he was affected. “Maybe I can use this fight.”
“How?”
“To get in better with Franzi’s group. He and Smurf are friends of a sort. They aren’t exactly best buddies with Duchamp’s gang.”
Stonehouse conceded that point with a nod of his head.
“I’m gonna ask Ben to come over to jam with the guitars.”
“Good idea,” Stonehouse said begrudgingly.
“Don’t strain yourself with the compliments, Unc.”
Stonehouse’s jaw hardened, “You’ve got to find a way to connect with Webster and Duchamp, too. And this Morton kid.”
“I will. Am I excused?” Luke asked belligerently.
“Get out of here.” He tossed Luke his keys and opened the door so others could hear. “Don’t bang up my car on the way home.”
“If you’d let me drive my own wheels...”
“You lost your car for the last infraction, Luke. No telling what I’ll have to do this time.”
Luke smirked for the counseling staff. “Break my legs?”
“Get out of here,” Stonehouse repeated, this time for show.
“My pleasure. Have a nice day, Unc.”
o0o
As the kids finished up the personality profiles, Kelsey Cunningham eased back onto her desk and tugged down her suede skirt. She was ever mindful of the suicide note Zach Riley had written—which still brought tears to her eyes.
And Ms. Cunningham, Zach had playfully penned. Please, watch those skirts. We’re only seventeen. Every red-blooded American male has trouble concentrating in your classroom as it is...
Such a waste, one she wouldn’t let happen again. All the students needed more attention and Kelsey promised herself daily to give it to each of them.
Starting with Luke Ludzecky.
The boy had become a major player at Fairholm High in the few weeks he’d been here. Several teachers remarked that he had charisma, underneath the adolescent bravado.
“Done!” Heather Haywood announced when she finished her work.
Kelsey shook her head, and Heather clapped a hand over her lips. “Sorry,” she mouthed.
From behind, Josh Quinn squeezed her shoulder. Suzanna had her hands full with that couple. Kelsey was putting her money on the mom in this case. Not only was Suzanna Quinn a top-notch principal, she was a first-rate mother—something Kelsey knew from personal experience.
The door flew open with a bang. Kelsey turned to see Max Duchamp stomping in. His poet’s face—long and thin and nearly delicate—was scowling. His dark hair brushed his collar, and was pulled back, revealing tumultuous brown eyes. Crossing the room, he headed for his seat.
“You forgot to sign in, Max.”
This was standard procedure for tardiness, so it wouldn’t interrupt instruction, and Kelsey could deal with the kid at the end of class. Max glared at her. She glared back. Students tended to think she was an airhead because of her looks.
Then, his whole demeanor changed. She called it his like me act. There was a softer side to Max, and once when she’d expressed her concern to Suzanna, the principal said he’d written in his English journal about his need to please his father. Something Kelsey knew intimately. “Sorry, Ms. C. They got my man.”
“I know. I was there.”
Max’s fist curled for a minute. The feral look in his eye chilled her. He was a kid who wasn’t always soft.
“There’s a Student Court tomorrow night to discuss it, Max.”
“As if it’ll go in our favor.”
She handed him the class work. He took it and trudged to his seat, his army boots—which complemented his camouflage shirt—scuffing along the carpet.
After a few more minutes, she spoke to the group. “All right, let’s talk about personality disorders.”
Twenty Psychology elective kids looked up at her. She was warmed by their interested faces, their desire to learn. “Any general comments first?”
“All the disorders seem to deal with over something.” This from Morgan Kane, a pretty blonde who wrote blisteringly cutting essays for the school newspaper.
Kelsey laughed. “They do indeed.” She pointed to the board. “Overachievers.” Like Kelsey herself. “Over-compensators.” Like Mike Wolfe, the baseball coach, who fed his insecure ego by getting women into bed. “Over-protectors.” Like Luke Ludzecky. “Why do you think so many people go overboard, so to speak?”
The kids chuckled at her pun.
“Society expects it.” This from Ben Franzi. “Look at TV shows like The Superheroes and People from Beyond. You have to be more than human.”
Ben’s reference to the occult program reminded Kelsey that a lot of teachers were worried about his and some of his friends’ interest in Wicca. He’d done his freshman project on it—a thoughtful, thorough portrayal of his views of the pagan religion—and Kelsey had read more about it after that. Though non-Judeo/Christian, the religion seemed solidly based in ethical principles and was not devil worship. Still, she worried about him.
“I think Ben’s right,” Morgan said. The two had been friends since they were eight years old and lived next door to each other.
“Gonna cast a spell on us like Carin or Willow?” Max asked snidely, referring to two of the characters on the shows Ben had mentioned. Kelsey had watched both programs a couple of times, just to keep up with the kids.
“Screw you, Duchamp.”
“Guys, that’s enough. Max, not an appropriate comment. Ben, watch your language.” She addressed the class. “Turn to the third page of the handout. It mentions Ben’s point about impossible standards and frames the concept in a different way.”
She was still thinking about impossible standards as she headed to the staff lounge to get some coffee. Glancing at her watch, a snazzy gold Gucci her father had given her for her thirtieth birthday, she sighed. Her father. Impossible standards. Ones she kept trying to live up to, despite all the things he’d done to manipulate her life.
“Hey, gorgeous, what’s the sigh for?”
Not slowing down, she glanced over into the smiling face of Mike Wolfe. The kids had a field day with his name, especially since they were aware of his rep with women. “Hi, Mike. I’m dying for some coffee, and I have to make a call at three.”
He sidled in close. “Not a guy, I hope.” Blue-as-the-Caribbean eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, smiled out from a face to die for. Talk about gorgeous. Too bad he knew it.
“Yep, as a matter of fact, it is.” She was phoning her father, but he didn’t have to know tha
t.
He clapped a hand over his heart, clad in a designer sweat suit. “You wound me, Sophia.” An old movie buff, he’d once told her she reminded him of Sophia Loren. It was hard not to be flattered. “Go out with me tomorrow night,” he wheedled, as he opened the door to the teachers’ lounge for her.
“Can’t. I have Student Court.”
“Is there any committee you’re not on? Any club you don’t head?”
“The chess team,” she joked. “Though I play.”
“Why am I not surprised?” They made their way to the front of the room. Drawing coffee for her—it smelled deliciously strong—he gave her a killer smile. “How about this weekend? I got tickets to something you’ll like Sunday night.”
“Really, what?” She sipped her coffee.
“The Wild Berries concert.”
Kelsey favored alternative music, an interest her father would disapprove of. Was that why she gravitated toward it? At thirty-one, was she still balking at him the way she had when she refused to move to New Haven with him, then insisted on becoming a high school teacher, which had caused World War III in their relationship?
“How’d you get tickets? They’re impossible to scrounge up.”
“I charmed—”
“Whoops. Sorry.” Tom Gannon bumped into Kelsey, spilling her coffee on her hand.
“Watch out, Gannon,” Mike barked.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, the older teacher blushed right to the roots of his receding hairline. “I apologize. Are you all right, Ms. Cunningham?” He addressed everybody—both teachers and students—formally.
“Yes, I’m fine, Tom,” Kelsey told him.
The man nodded, then circled around them.
“Creep,” Mike said when Tom was a few feet away.
“Shh, he’ll hear you.”
“Well, he is creepy. Everybody thinks so.”
Not everybody. Again, Zach Riley’s note came to mind. Mr. G.—lighten up. You’re so smart. You have so much to teach us. But you drive us too hard. Though he never talked to anyone about it, Tom must have suffered over that message after Zach died. All the teachers had regrets. Had they missed signs? If they’d taken more time with him, could they have prevented Zach’s suicide?
