Drenched in Light (34 page)

Outside in the hall, someone was slamming lockers. Everyone should have been in class, so I probably needed to check on it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Mrs. Stevens. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need to in the future.”

“Certainly, we will. Thank you Ms. Costell.” She said good-bye, and I slapped the phone into the cradle. In the hall there was yelling, or wailing. Long, mournful sounds echoed through the corridor, and by the time I made it to my door, the hall was filling with chaotic noise as kids spilled out classroom doorways, trying to see what was going on, while teachers hollered for them to get back in their seats. Somewhere, Mrs. Morris was screeching, “Return to your rooms, all of you! Class is still in session! Anyone I see in this hallway will be going to detention!”

Near my office, an art class with a substitute teacher had bolted into the corridor, so that I couldn’t see what was happening farther down. “Back in class,” I hollered, herding them toward the door. “Back in your seats.” They retreated to the doorway as the sub tried in vain to restart the lesson.

Shooing more kids toward their rooms, I cleared the hallway until I could see the source of the commotion. Halfway down, Cameron was standing with his back against his locker, slowly banging his head on the door, moaning something about a history grade, and his father, and how he couldn’t take this anymore. “You’re such a screwup. You’re such a screwup!” he wailed, the words loose and slurred. “You should just kill yourself and get it over with. You’re such a screwup. . . .”

Mrs. Morris was standing in front of him, one hand on her hip and the other pointing toward a classroom, saying, “You will stop this right now, young man. Back to your class this instant, or I am calling your parents.” Beside her, the eighth-grade history instructor, a quiet, mousy second-year teacher who had constant discipline difficulties, stood dumbfounded, while other staff members delivered questioning glances from their doorways, uncertain whether to interfere, or let the history teacher and Mrs. Morris handle the situation.

“What’s going on?” the geography teacher asked as I passed.

“No idea,” I admitted. “I’m sure we can handle it, though.”

“OK,” she replied doubtfully, glancing toward Mr. Stafford’s office, probably wishing he were there. “I’m here if you need me.”

At the opposite end of the hall, Keiler rounded the corner, hobbling toward Cameron and Mrs. Morris as fast as he could.

“Call ’em. Call my parents. They won’t care,” Cameron wailed, emitting a string of expletives that set Mrs. Morris on fire. “They don’t care.” His head fell back with a metallic crash, and he slowly slid down his locker until he landed on the floor with his head in his hands, sobbing.

Mrs. Morris stood over him, her fists braced on her hat-rack hips. “Now, you listen to me, young man. That is enough of this foolishness. . . .”

Keiler reached Cameron just before I did. Sidestepping Mrs. Morris, he squatted down in front of the lockers. “Come on, Cam. You don’t want to do this—not here. Let’s go to the counselor’s office and talk about it, all right?” He laid a hand on Cameron’s shoulder, and Cam looked up, his eyes unfocused and dilated, filled with an inner desperation.

“I flunked my test,” he cried, his head crashing against the lockers and rolling miserably back and forth. “I forgot it was today. I just . . . forgot. My dad’s gonna kill me. He’s gonna say it was because I was at my mom’s.”

Keiler gave Cameron’s shoulder a squeeze and a little shake. “It’s one history test in the eighth grade, Cam. It’s not the end of the world.”

“My dad’s gonna kill me.”

Sitting back on his heels, Keiler rested his hands on his knees, determined to stay there, squatted on the floor, as long as it took. “That doesn’t seem real likely, Cam. Your dad’s got . . . what . . . fourteen years invested in you? I doubt if he’s gonna off you now.”

Cameron blinked, his head bobbing as he tried to focus. “You don’t . . . know my da-ad.” The words were slushy, his eyes falling partway closed.

“You probably don’t either, at this point,” Keiler said gently. “Messed up like this, you don’t have a clue what’s real and what’s coming out of the purple haze. What are you using today, Cam? You coming down off something?”

“No.” Cameron sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’m just havin’ a bad day.”

“Cameron,” I said, squatting down also, aware that kids and teachers were still watching, seeing and hearing everything that was going on. “Why don’t we go talk about this in my office? There’s no sense sitting out here.”

“Darned straight,” Keiler agreed, sliding a hand under Cameron’s arm. “Why have a bad day in front of everybody? That’ll only make it harder to get dates.”

Cameron laughed drowsily. “Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Bradford.”

Standing up, Keiler dragged Cameron with him. “OK, big guy, let’s try to shape up and look good for the girls, now,” he joked, and Cameron laughed again, then hung his head, probably aware, somewhere in the fog, that everyone had seen him crash and burn.

Keiler glanced back over his shoulder. “Can someone check on my class? They’re supposed to be doing a study sheet.”

“I’ll handle it,” Mrs. Morris barked. “I’m on planning period, anyway.”

“Thanks, Ada,” Keiler replied, and I could have fallen over from shock. Mrs. Morris had a first name? And Keiler knew it?

Even Cameron, as out of it as he was, didn’t miss Keiler’s unheard-of slip. “Bore-us Morris’s got a name?” he asked, way too loudly. Then he proceeded to sing, “Aaaa-da, Aaaa-da,” in a way that made the word echo down the hall.

Glancing sideways at me, Keiler frowned sympathetically. “Doubt if he’s going to have a very good day in Accelerated English class tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. After this, Cameron would be on Mrs. Morris’s hit list, whether his dad was on the school board or not. Catching my breath as we moved down the hall, I mopped the nervous perspiration from my forehead.
Good God, what a day . . .

When we reached the administration office, Mrs. Jorgenson was waiting outside the door, repeatedly tapping the tips of her fingers together, then pressing them against her lips, as if she didn’t know what to do next.

“You’d better call Mr. Stafford,” I said as we passed. “He should decide how to handle this.”

Mrs. Jorgenson winced. “I tried, but no one was home. Could be he’s gone to the doctor or something.”

I vacillated as Keiler led Cameron into my office. I had no idea what the school’s policy was on an issue like this, and if I did the wrong thing, it would be my head when Stafford found out. A situation of this type required careful handling, especially with a high-profile kid like Cameron. “Ask Mr. Verhaden—”

“Gone to that contest with the jazz ensemble,” she cut me off.

Isn’t anybody in charge here
? I wanted to scream.
Think, Julia, think. What would Stafford do?
I knew the answer to that question, of course. Stafford would try to minimize the situation. I didn’t want to be responsible for letting Cameron off the hook; nor did I want to open a can of worms while Stafford was gone. “Call the principal’s office at the high school. See if Dr. Lee or Mr. Fortier can come over.”

“I can try, but last I heard they were both gone to the district office—budget meetings, again. They’re trying to convince the central administration that we need to go back to having a full-time assistant principal. Mr. Stafford’s been calling in every few hours to see how it’s going. I’m sure he’ll call again soon”—her brows lifted hopefully—“if you can just wait.”

Wait. And do . . . what? Let the kid pass out in my office?
Wrapping my fingers around my neck, I had the strangest urge to squeeze off the blood flow to my brain and sink into a peaceful darkness. Only because Mrs. Jorgenson was looking at me expectantly did I feel forced to come up with a plan. “Let me know as soon as you find someone. In the meantime, call the nurse and tell her we’re bringing him down there. She’ll need to monitor him to make sure he’s all right. Call his parents to come get him.”

Mrs. Jorgenson swallowed visibly, tipping her head to peer at me over the top of her reading glasses. “You want me to call the
parents?”

“Yes.” Why was she was gaping at me like I’d just blasted off for Jupiter? “This is definitely a situation in which the parents should be notified. Their kid just went off his rocker in the school hallway.”

“But he didn’t . . . hurt anyone, or anything,” she stammered. “He didn’t really even” raising both hands in a gesture that said,
Whatcha gonna do? Kids will be kids,
she finished with—“break any school rules or anything. Well, maybe not being in the classroom when he was supposed to, and causing a little disruption in the hall, but that’s usually something we would just . . . handle.” She checked the clock on the wall. “Especially this late in the day. School’s out in an hour and a half.”

I stared at her with my mouth hanging open.
Let me get this straight—you want me to leave a kid in my office, having a drug-induced meltdown for an hour and a half, so you won’t have to make a phone call?
“Mrs. Jorgenson, that kid is coming down off something and he’s crashing hard. His emotions are out of control, and he doesn’t even realize what’s going on.”

She clicked her tongue against her teeth sympathetically. “Well, you know, he takes medication for ADD and depression, and once in a while, what with all the confusion with his folks, his mom says he gets his pills confused. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

What, are you nuts?
I thought
. Has the whole world gone crazy but me?
If I let this go, and something happened to Cameron, I would never forgive myself. “Call his parents. Both of them.”

“Mr. Stafford should be checking in anytime. . . .”

“Call his parents,”
I repeated. “Tell them he’s had an emotional outburst at school, and we need to talk to them. If Staff . . . Mr. Stafford checks in, make sure he knows what’s going on.”

“All ri-hight.” She sighed, as if I’d just burdened her to the max; then she turned around and headed for her desk.

In my office, Keiler was leaning against the file cabinet, while Cameron sagged in a chair, his eyes glazed over. The storm of high emotion seemed to have dissipated, and now he was sinking into sleep.

“How are you feeling, Cameron?” I asked.

“Not so good.” Clamping a hand to his head, he moaned softly. “I’m so . . . I’m so . . .” His eyes fell partway closed; then he pulled them open again. “I’m so stooo-pid.”

“You’re not stupid, Cameron, but I think you’ve probably done something stupid. I think there are some things going on in your life you need to deal with, but drugs aren’t the way.”

His eyes opened, blinking in half-time. “I don’t got”—sighing, he looked away—“issues. I just . . . just . . . did some . . . mixed up my med-uhhh-cations. Tha’s all.”

Bracing his hands on his knees, Keiler leaned closer. “You’re on a whole lot more than ADD medications, Cam.” The usual easygoing tone was gone. This voice left no room for argument. “You’re talking to the guy who’s seen it all, dude. Why don’t you tell me what your poison is today? Got a pretty good case of the sniffles going on there. You crashing off a little ice, or you been huffing something?”

Cam blinked again, his mood ricocheting from defensive to contrite as his eyes fell closed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford. I didn’t . . . did-did-didn’t mean to—”

The nurse stepped in the door, and Cameron dragged his eyes open, giving her a lopsided smile. “Hey, Mrs. Harper.”

Mrs. Harper, looking no different in her white skirt and bouffant hairdo than she had when I was in school, breezed into the office in her usual no-nonsense manner. “Did ya mess up your medications again, Cameron?” she barked. The question was obviously rhetorical. She’d already made up her mind.

“Yeah,” Cameron mumbled. “ ’M, sorry.”

“ ’Sall right.” Snaking a meaty hand under his armpit, she hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes. “C’mon. You can lie down in my office. Your mom’s on her way to getcha.”

“Why don’t you just leave him here?” I suggested, touching her arm. “Cameron has some things he needs to talk about, and then when his mom comes, the three of us can have a chat.”

Glaring at my hand as if she were considering biting it off, Mrs. Harper jerked Cameron toward the door. “Nope. This happened a time or two last semester—didn’t it, Cameron? Mom’s instructions are to take him to the nurse’s office and let him lie down, and not to call Dad. It’s just a mix-up with his meds. No point starting a family wrangle over it. Dad doesn’t like him on the ADD meds and antidepressants in the first place.”

“We’ve already called both of his parents.”
And if we haven’t, I’m going to.
“Both of them should be aware of what happened today.”

“Nope.” Mrs. Harper moved her patient efficiently toward the door. “We only call the custodial parent, unless the custodial parent’s not available. Mrs. Jorgenson checked with me to be sure, and that’s what I told her. This week his mom is custodial. Cameron doesn’t change until Thursday night after supper, so technically he’s with Mom until tonight.”

“In this case, I think—”

Holding up a hand, she flashed the stop sign.
Talk to the hand.
“We don’t get in the middle of disagreements between parents, divorced or whatever, Ms. Costell. Not our job.” In a sweep of white fabric and antiseptic odor, they were gone.

I groaned in frustration, falling into my chair so hard it spun completely around. “I hate this place! Oh, God, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. This place is driving me crazy.”

“Only takes one barnyard cat to stir up an entire flock of chickens,” Keiler observed wryly.

“I don’t want to stir things up.” I let my arms fall limp on the desk. “I just want to come to work, do a good job, go home. I don’t want to think about Harrington night and day, but I also don’t want to shuffle kids along, ignoring everything, as long as they keep it together on the surface.” I was on a roll, and the words were tumbling out like high tide crashing over the seawall. “I won’t be the one who teaches these kids that there’s no room for anything less than perfect—that the way to succeed is to stuff everything down and let it eat you up on the inside. I did that for years here, and I know there were staff members who realized there was something wrong with me, who probably even suspected that I was cultivating an eating disorder. I can’t tell you how many times Mrs. Harper found me throwing up in the bathroom, and she ignored it. Geez, not so many years ago, I was the kid passed out in her office, and all she did was pat me on the head and give me Kool-Aid. How can they watch these kids sinking and not throw out a lifeline?” I realized I’d just spilled my whole story to Keiler, and I didn’t even care. I was so frustrated, I felt like exploding.