Defiant Heart (8 page)

Jon steered the bike into the lot and picked his way carefully across the uneven gravel surface to the front of the building, where he found a rack in which a half dozen other bicycles of myriad colors and styles had already been parked. After placing his bike in the rack, he shrugged off the knapsack, retrieved its contents, and hung it from the handlebar. He then followed a group of students up the broad steps to the large double doors.

In the vestibule just inside, Jon found a series of tables had been set up around the edges of the large entryway. He located the table with the letters “K‌—‌M” taped above it. Seated behind it was a wiry, athletic looking man who, at the moment, was sharing a laugh with two boys standing to the side of the table.

A line of students had formed in front of the table, and they were waiting for the man to finish his conversation with the two boys. Jon stepped up to the back of the queue and looked at his surroundings.

Light banter, punctuated by occasional outbursts, echoed off the tiled floor and marbled walls with a natural amplification that made a sound much louder than it would have been in a more open area. The faces of some of the students, particularly the younger ones, reflected varying levels of anxiety, but, for the most part, there was a sense of gaiety. It was not so different, Jon reflected, from his old school. He found that, by squinting and blocking out all but the general shapes in the milling crowd, he could believe he was back in Glen Cove.

As he reopened his eyes and focused, he was surprised to see another pair of eyes staring back at him from across the room. They were a pale, iridescent blue, almost transparent. Eyes like Jon had never seen before. They were so mesmerizing, in fact, that it took Jon a second to realize they belonged to the girl with the tousled blond hair, the one he’d seen on the Fourth of July. She stood calmly looking at him. Not in a judgmental way. Not in a curious way, either. She was just looking at him.

They both stood that way for a long moment, eyes locked. Then someone near the girl said something, and she turned, laughing as she did.

A movement next to him drew Jon’s attention. A boy about Jon’s age was gesturing with one hand. He pointed past Jon and said, “Line’s moving.”

Jon saw that, indeed, the line had grown shorter. In fact, there was only one student ahead of him, and she was just turning away from the table with an envelope in her hand. Jon took a step forward. Suddenly, something very large and solid was in the space between Jon and the table, and Jon was staggering sideways, his lunch bag and school supplies falling in a scattered pattern on the hard floor. Jon was able to catch himself before he also hit the floor, his right hand reaching out in an instinctive gesture and grazing the tiles as he shuffled his feet to avoid falling. As he regained his balance and straightened, he found himself looking up into the face of the blond boy he’d first seen on the Fourth of July. The boy was at least ten inches taller than Jon, and, with his broad shoulders and sturdy build, he towered over him.

“You don’t mind if I cut in, do you?” Without waiting for a reply, he added, “Of course you don’t,” and turned his back on Jon.

Without thinking, Jon tensed and was about to take a step toward the bigger boy when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning reflexively, he saw the face of the student who’d previously spoken to him. It was a ruddy face, with full cheeks dotted by freckles. The boy increased his grip on Jon’s shoulder and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

“Nice pick,” he heard a voice say, and, turning, he realized it was the man behind the table who was speaking. “But watch that rear foot sliding over. Wherever it is, plant it before the contact. Then, when you lean into the defender, don’t make it so obvious.”

The blond laughed and said, “Hi ya, Spitz,”

“King, good to see you,” the man replied. “Been workin’ out like I told you?”

“You bet.”

Jon kneeled and collected his belongings from the floor. When he stood again and faced the table, the giant was sauntering away. The man seated behind the table gestured impatiently.

“Name?” he barked.

“Meyer. Jonathon.”

“Meyer,” the man repeated, leafing through the box of envelopes on his table, until he found the right one.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, glancing up and, for the first time meeting Jon’s eyes. “You’re the new kid.” He leaned forward and looked at Jon more carefully. “You play basketball?”

Jon let the question dangle for a moment. Then, with as much calm as he could muster, he replied, “No.” And, after a beat, added, “Sir.”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he stared at Jon for a long moment. “Your loss,” the man said, finally, tossing the envelope down on the table in front of Jon.

#

From across the hall, Mary watched the exchange between the new boy and Vernon, and the reaction, or, more to the point, the non-reaction of the teacher, and it made her angry.

“I honestly don’t know who’s the bigger bully,” she said to Sam, without turning, “Vernon or Mr. Spitzman.”

“Oh, I get it,” Sam said. “You want to get run out of town on a rail, is that it?”

Mary looked at Sam. “No, that’s not it. I just think there’s too much importance placed on the basketball team. It’s great that the town has something to be excited about. And I’m all for school spirit. But sometimes I think people get a little too carried away. And,” she added quietly, “I don’t think much of Mr. Spitzman.”

“Well, he’s only the most successful coach we’ve ever had. Everyone’s saying we have a real chance this year to go to the state finals.”

“Believe it,” said a voice behind them, and they both turned as Billy Hamilton walked up, Gwenda at his side, her right arm linked protectively around Billy’s left.

“This is our year,” Billy said, proudly. “We’ve got all five starters returning. Most everybody else lost important players, including just about every school in our division. We can do something really special this year. Put Jackson on the map, maybe.”

Mary nodded. “That would be special,” she acknowledged.

Turning back, she watched as the new boy and Mr. Spitzman spoke. “Does anybody know who that guy is?”

Sam shook her head. “Never seen him before.”

“I do,” said Gwenda. “Missy Lambert told me he’s from back east. He moved here this summer to live with old Mrs. Wilson. Must be a relative or something. She said she saw him there when she was taking piano lessons.”

“He’s been working at your father’s store,” Billy added. “I noticed him a few weeks ago.”

Mary turned, surprised. “Really?”

Sam looked at Mary. “Your father never mentioned it?”

Mary gave Sam a sideways glance.

“Oh, right,” Sam said. “Never mind.”

“He’s in our class,” Gwenda said. “Or at least
our
class,” she amended, squeezing Billy’s arm and gesturing toward Sam. “Isn’t it great we’re all going to be in the same classroom again?”

“Yes,” Mary agreed. The Jackson High student body was so small that the seventh and eighth graders shared classes, as did the ninth and tenth, and the eleventh and twelfth graders. Early the previous year, Mary’s teachers had realized that, as a freshman, she’d been exposed to and had already mastered the sophomore curriculum. Their solution was to move her into the upper class, and she’d been separated from Sam and Gwenda. Now, that she was in twelfth grade, and other girls were in eleventh, they would once again be sharing the same classrooms.

Taking in the group, Mary smiled brightly and added, “This is definitely going to be a special year.”

#

The first thing Agnes Tremaine did after entering her classroom was check the contents of the two boxes that had been left on the floor by her desk. Satisfied that the boxes contained the correct number of books, she took a seat at the desk, opened her leather folio and extracted a stack of papers. On top was a master roll. In addition to her normal task of teaching English for each of the six grades at Jackson High, she would be serving this year as the home room teacher for the combined eleventh and twelfth graders.

She scanned the list of students and noted a couple she did not expect to see in her classroom, if at all, until later in the semester. They were boys who lived on farms well outside of town and would almost certainly not appear until after the corn harvest was in.

The names on the list she knew well. This was Agnes’ eighth year teaching at Jackson, a job she’d taken shortly after her graduation from Bryn Mawr. She had taught each of these students from the seventh grade on. There was only one unfamiliar name: Jonathon Meyer, the transfer from New York. She had been given a copy of his transcript, and he appeared to be a very good student. He was one of the two subjects occupying her thoughts this first morning of school.

The other was Mary Dahlgren. What was she going to do with Mary this year?

That Mary was a superb student was beyond question. The problem, or, better yet, the challenge, Agnes reflected, was going to be finding a way to keep Mary engaged. The year before, Mary had devoured not only the readings for the eleventh graders, but she’d taken it upon herself to read each of the works on the twelfth grade reading list. When she had sat for her final exam the previous spring, she’d done something unprecedented, taking both the eleventh and twelfth grade exams at the same time. Moreover‌—‌and, frankly, this had come as no surprise to Agnes‌—‌Mary had posted the highest scores on each exam. And it wasn’t even close.

Over the summer, Agnes had corresponded with Julius Crittendon, the former superintendent of the school district. Dr. Crittendon had taken a keen interest in Mary’s progress, and, even though he’d moved on to a new position in California, he had expressed a desire to remain engaged in her advancement.

From her stack of papers, Agnes withdrew the reading list that Dr. Crittendon had compiled. His suggestion to Agnes had been to put Mary on a course of independent study, utilizing the works on the list. It was quite an impressive collection of books. Some of them even Agnes had not read, and she was looking forward to the challenge.

She scanned the list again. Among them, Joyce, Dostoyevsky, Austen, Wilde, Tolstoy, Wharton, Brontë. The last name made Agnes chuckle. Not because it didn’t belong on the list. Of course it did. But Dr. Crittendon, who should have known better, had listed Emily Brontë as the author of
Jane Eyre
. That classic novel, however, had been written by Emily’s sister, Charlotte Brontë.

Activity at the door caught her attention, and she looked up as her students began to make their way into the classroom. She spotted Mary and called out to her. Mary said something briefly to Sam Parker, then turned and walked over to Agnes’ desk.

“Good morning, Miss Tremaine.”

“Good morning, Mary. Did you have a nice summer?”

“I did, thank you,”

Agnes was once again struck by just how poised and mature Mary acted. She actually seemed older than the other girls, though Agnes knew she was one of the youngest in the class.

“Mary, I’ve given some thought to your course of study this semester, and I’d like to show you a reading list I’ve compiled.”

She plucked the sheet from the top of the stack on her desk and held it out. With a curious smile, Mary accepted the sheet and began reading it. Over Mary’s shoulder, Agnes saw a face she did not recognize in the doorway. She was about to call out, when Mary said, “Excellent.”

“I’m sorry?” Agnes said, refocusing her attention.

“This is a great list of books,” Mary said, handing it back. “The only thing I would change is the entry for
Jane Eyre
. That was written by Charlotte Brontë, not Emily.”

Agnes began to say something, then stopped. She looked at Mary, who returned her gaze with a frank openness. “Mary, you’ve read all of these, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes, and I think they’re wonderful. I’ve got a couple of other suggestions, if you’re interested.”

Again, Agnes opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. She looked back at the list, then at Mary. Finally, she said, “Yes, let’s talk about that later.”

“Ok,” said Mary, cheerfully. “I’ll just grab a seat?”

Agnes nodded, and the girl turned and made her way down one of the aisles.

Shaking her head slowly, Agnes reached for another set of papers on her desk. This was the master reading list for each of the six grades that comprised the student body at Jackson. They were bound by a clip, and Agnes slipped the supplemental reading list she had shown to Mary behind the others.

Looking up, she made eye contact with the new boy whom she’d seen a moment earlier. He was standing just inside the doorway, looking uncertain. She beckoned for him to join her.

“You must be Jonathan.”

“Yes, ma’am. Jon. Jon Meyer.”

“Welcome to Jackson High, Jon. I’m Miss Tremaine, and I look forward to having you in my class. You’re with the eleventh graders, so you’ll want to take a seat on that side of the classroom,” and she indicated the side nearest the door.

Jon took a step in that direction, and Miss Tremaine said, “Jon, wait just a moment.” She held out the master reading lists. “The literature we’ll be studying this year builds on themes we’ve explored in prior years. Because you’re new to the school district, I don’t want you to be disadvantaged. Do you mind taking a moment to look at the lists here, and let me know what you have and haven’t read?”

“Of course,” Jon said, accepting the proffered pages.

Agnes was about to point out to Jon that he need only look at the first four pages, representing the reading lists for grades seven through ten, but she was distracted by a sudden loud noise. She looked up as the room went still and saw that everyone had turned in the direction of the far aisle, where Vernon King stood over a desk already occupied by another student. She could barely make out the curly hair of Charlie Morris behind a large canvas bag sitting on the top of the desk. Agnes guessed the noise she’d heard had been the bag being dropped on the desk with some force.

“I think this is going to be my desk this year,” Vernon said casually, looking at Charlie.