A Hideous Beauty (2 page)

I liked this man.

With matching strides we walked in silence for a moment, then he said, “You've come a long way since your microwave-soup days, Austin. The Oval Office. Air Force One. The G-8 Summit in Paris. Few men get to see the things you've seen.”

“I'm glad someone was listening to my speech.”

Mendoza gave me a sideways glance. “Was school assembly behavior all that different when you attended?”

“I guess not,” I admitted. “We once had a conductor stop his
orchestra mid-symphony because we started batting a beach ball in the stands.”

Mendoza nodded. “Some are better than others. Last month we had a band . . . a rhythm group, actually. They beat on trash cans, banged lids, swished brooms, that sort of thing. They were good. The students loved them.”

“So you're saying if I want to make a hit with teenagers, I need to bang trash can lids together.”

“Of course not,” Mendoza scoffed. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “But it wouldn't hurt.”

“I'll take that under advisement.”

“Seriously, Grant—long after the din of trash can lids fades away, what you have done will be remembered and revered. The Pulitzer Prize, son! They don't hand those out in Cracker Jack boxes!”

“Seems I've heard that somewhere before.”

“You are, without a doubt, the most famous alumnus this school has produced.”

I thanked him as humbly as I could. But, truth was, I'd traveled the width of the country to hear those words. If only Myles Shepherd had heard them, my day would have been complete.

“Coming back here,” Mendoza continued, “after all the exotic places you've been, all the famous people you've met, this must seem rather mundane to you.”

“I don't know,” I replied. “Singing Hills High will always be a part of who I am.”

Mendoza pulled up in front of a door labeled
FACULTY.
He offered his hand again. “I'm glad I had this chance to chat with you, Mr. Austin. Something to tell my grandchildren someday.”

Before letting go, I said, “Tell me, Mr. Mendoza, is Myles Shepherd still in the same classroom?”

“Shepherd? Sure. First room on the last wing.”

I thanked him and continued down the corridor, my spirits
much improved. There's something satisfying about hearing a teacher respectfully calling you “Mister.” I made a mental note to send Mendoza a copy of my book.

Upon reaching the last wing, I peered through the louvered windows and caught my own reflection. I was grinning like a man about to burst at the seams. And why not? I'd waited a decade for this day to arrive and I wanted to savor every second of it.

This morning, as I dressed for the assembly, I told myself I wasn't going to gloat, that I was going to take the high road. But now that I was here, all I had in my head were low-road thoughts.

I peered into the room. It was empty. In the front right a door stood open. The teacher's office. A light spilled out from inside.

Shepherd was in there.

I was almost surprised. It would have been just like him to deprive me of my moment of triumph.

The door was unlocked. I let myself in.

The threshold proved to be a time portal. As I walked between the rows of desks I was seventeen again with books under my arm and worries swirling in my head that I'd forgotten to do my homework.

I trod the same scuffed, green-tile floor that I'd stared at while straining to remember answers to test questions. Even the assignment on the chalkboard could have been one I'd copied down years ago—

Chapters 45–47 for Thursday

TERM PAPERS DUE IN TWO WEEKS!!!

I ran my fingertips across the top of a desk. Suddenly, the past gave way to a single thought.

Mundane.

Mendoza had pegged it, hadn't he? The room. The studies. The students. The repetitious routine. All of it was ordinary. Commonplace. Mundane.

I couldn't believe that for years I had allowed myself to be haunted by Myles Shepherd's teaching success. For what? For this? Look at it! Shepherd's grand kingdom consisted of nothing more than row after row of graffiti-marred desks with chewing gum stuck to the undersides.

“Grant? Is that you?”

I approached the office door of my old nemesis and poked my head inside. My first impression? Cramped. Books defined the decor. Books squeezed vertically and horizontally into every inch of shelf space. Books stacked on top of shelves, on chairs, on the floor, on other books. In the center of the room a gray metal desk dominated the floor space. Binders and folders of every color formed what looked like a New York city block of towers. On the working part of the desk was a small stack of papers that were being graded. The top sheet was heavily slashed with red marks.

“Grant! Welcome to my snuggery!” Myles Shepherd half rose from his chair. He extended his hand across the desk. His grip had no more warmth than that of a car salesman.

“Sit! Sit!” he cried. “Just move those books anywhere.”

He motioned to two student chairs with identical book towers. I managed to relocate one of them to the floor without toppling it or setting off an avalanche.

I situated the chair in front of the desk and sat. The chair was smaller than it looked. I felt like Papa Bear sitting in Baby Bear's chair.

Looking down on me, Shepherd made no attempt to hide his amusement. I didn't care. There was only one Pulitzer Prize–winning author in this room and it wasn't him.

“So, you took the time to stop by,” Shepherd said. “I wasn't sure you would, now that you're famous.”

“And miss this opportunity to see you? I've been looking forward to it.” And that was the truth. “You're looking good, Myles.”

It was an understatement. He looked great. Tanned. Fit. Not only had he not lost any hair, but his neatly trimmed style looked fuller and thicker than it had in high school.

He still had that killer combination of pale blue eyes and dimpled smile that turned women's knees to butter. The cleft in his chin sealed the deal. He looked more like a movie celebrity than a high school teacher. He was one of those guys who looked better in person than in his publicity pictures.

A tweed sports coat was draped over the back of his chair. Blue oxford sleeves rolled midway up his muscular forearms. His collar was unbuttoned and his red tie loose.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he said.

He swiveled around so that the back of his chair was facing me. I could hear three-ring binders toppling. When he swiveled back, he was holding a thick book which he plopped onto his desk. I recognized it instantly.

Lionheart: The R. Lloyd Douglas Story
by Grant Austin.

Instinctively I reached to autograph it, then stopped myself. I settled back into my undersized chair.

Let him ask.

“Have you read it?”

Shepherd replied by picking up the book and thumbing through it. He took his time, pausing at every chapter.

He took so long my attention wandered to the display on the wall behind him. He'd hung his master's degree from Yale along with three framed news clippings—

M
YLES
S
HEPHERD
T
URNS
D
OWN
Y
ALE
O
FFER

TO
T
EACH AT
L
OCAL
H
IGH
S
CHOOL

M
YLES
S
HEPHERD:

C
ALIFORNIA
T
EACHER OF THE
Y
EAR

P
ARADE
M
AGAZINE

T
RENDY
T
EACHER
I
NSPIRES
T
EENS:

M
YLES
S
HEPHERD
, R
OLE
M
ODEL
E
XTRAORDINAIRE

Something familiar caught my attention. Prominently displayed on top of a mustard-yellow file cabinet was a tennis trophy—Most Valuable Player.

On the night of the award ceremony Coach Walker confided in me that his decision to give the award to Myles had largely been a coin toss. Myles had edged me out. That's the way it had always been between us.

I couldn't help but wonder if the trophy normally resided atop the file cabinet or if Myles had placed it there in anticipation of my visit.

As I continued to look around, I felt that there was something odd about the room. At first I couldn't put my finger on it. Then I did.

Conspicuously absent was any kind of student homage to Shepherd. For an award-winning teacher, that struck me as odd. There were no pictures of Shepherd surrounded by laughing students. No nostalgic teacher plaques or knickknacks, the kind gift stores sell by the case at graduation time. In fact, there were no apple-for-the-teacher mementos of any kind.

“Your book is certainly getting you a lot of attention,” Shepherd said, breaking into my thoughts. “The
New York Times
bestseller list, for what? Three weeks now?”

“Thirteen weeks.”

“Thirteen! Are you sure?”

“Thirteen. Trust me. An author knows. And you still haven't answered my question. Have you read it?”

Shepherd paused in his page-thumbing. He silently read a sentence or two and grinned. “It's pedantic,” he said, “but adequate for our purposes.”

“Pedantic?” I blurted, louder than intended.

“Unimaginative, pedestrian, bookish—”

“I know what ‘pedantic' means.”

“Sorry. Teacher's habit.”

But he wasn't sorry. He'd baited me and I'd bit.

Shepherd slapped shut the cover and tossed the book onto the desk, this time back-cover up. I found myself staring at myself and wincing. I'm one of those guys who doesn't look as good as his publicity picture.

“What exactly about the book do you find pedantic?”

Shepherd smiled that smug, insufferable smile of his. “Jana looked good at the assembly this morning, don't you think?” he said.

The change of topic blindsided me. “Jana? Jana was here?”

“You didn't see her?” Shepherd sniffed. “Given your past involvement, I would have thought she'd get an exclusive interview.”

“Last I heard she was in Chicago.”

“KTSD. For about a year now.”

“Local station . . . that would explain it. The White House staff handles all media arrangements. They give preference to the national networks.”

“So much for old friends, huh?”

I ignored the cheap shot. My thoughts were on Jana. The last time I saw her was the day she walked out on me. I was a cad. She cried. Since then we'd exchanged an occasional e-mail, but nothing recently.

Shepherd slapped my book with the flat of his hand. “You know what amazes me about historians?” he said, changing the subject again. “The way they interpret events to suit their own purposes. Doesn't that strike you as dishonest?”

I didn't hear him. I was still wading in nostalgic waters.

“Of course,” Shepherd pressed, “you could make a case for the argument that all recorded history is essentially a collection of legends, half-truths, and lies.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don't get me wrong. I'm sure you did the best you could given your limited access and understanding of the forces at work.”

I'd had enough of this.

“Sour grapes, Myles?” I snapped. “It's beneath you. You know fully well that for a project of this scope I had to be granted complete access both to records and to people. My research was extensive. I've logged hundreds of hours interviewing the president, his family, his staff, and world leaders. My work is meticulously documented.”

Shepherd chuckled. “Don't get defensive, old boy. I'm sure you dutifully read the documents that were set before you and recorded everything they wanted you to record. It's not your fault it's all a lie.”

That did it. Even if he asked for my autograph, he wasn't going to get it.

“Give me one example of a lie,” I demanded.

Shepherd gazed at something in the distance as though he hadn't heard me. “Actually,” he said, “we're quite pleased with the finished product, and with you. You've done exactly what we've expected of you.”

I was on the edge of my seat, spoiling for a fight, if only Shepherd would settle on a topic long enough for me to take a swing. “That's the second time you've inferred you had something to do with the publication of my book.”

Shepherd smiled.

His smile had a history, one that jangled my giblets and caused my flesh to crawl. It wasn't your garden-variety grin, more like the smile of a gladiator looking down on his vanquished opponent just as he is about to deliver the coup de grâce.

I associate his smile with our sophomore year. The school was going through a chess craze. Guys carried miniature boards with magnetic pieces around in their pockets. We'd play chess before school, after school, and at lunch. When we thought we could get away with it, we played during class, passing the game back and forth across the aisle like lovesick girls passing notes. I remember one time seeing two guys standing in the showers after gym finishing a game.

On three occasions I sat across a chessboard from Myles Shepherd. The thing I remember most about our games—other than the fact that I lost all three—was the moment I knew I was going to lose. I would remove my hand from a piece after making a move. Myles would lean over the board and say, “Maybe you see something I don't . . .”

Then, he would smile that smile.

That smile was a torpedo with my name on it. Had I been a ship, rats would have been jumping overboard.

But things were different now, I told myself. We were no longer sophomores and this wasn't a chess game, and maybe Myles thought he knew something I didn't, but I wasn't about to concede anything.