Drenched in Light (37 page)

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 . . .

“All right.” Stepping into my office, I took the CD from my briefcase.

Barry was at my door. “Thanks, Ms. C,” he said, then cleared his throat and added, “I mean, see you later on.”

“See you later.” I allowed myself the pleasure of watching him walk away, his shoulders straight and a lightness in his step. A new man, living in a new world, where there was a cute girl who actually knew his name. What could be better than that?

It was almost enough to rub the tarnish off the day. Almost.

The moment Mr. Stafford stepped into my office, halfway through second period, it became clear that the day was more than just tarnished. Stafford looked sick and tired, red faced and ready to bite off someone’s head. Mine.

Closing the door, he flung a hand in the air, stabbing a finger toward the front hall. “I’ve just been in my
office
for
over an hour
trying to calm down Cameron Ansler’s mother. She has been calling anyone and everyone, outraged that we have maligned her and made completely unwarranted accusations against Cameron. In her mind, this is all part of a plot to undermine her in the custody battle between herself and Cameron’s father. She’s talking about suing for slander. She called the superintendent at six a.m.,
at home,
saying that because of Mr. Ansler’s position on the school board, we were trying to aid him in gaining custody.” His hands moved emphatically in the air, then flopped to his sides. “What the h-e-double-went on around here yesterday?” The speech sent him staggering sideways, and he leaned against the back of a chair, coughing into his sleeve.

Offering him a tissue, I waited for him to catch his breath, and tried to get my head together.
Be calm. Be calm. You did the right thing.
When Stafford had finally regained control, he wheeled toward me with a murderous glare, then caught the back of the chair again. “I want to know what happened yesterday.”

“Cameron Ansler had a meltdown in the hall.” I hoped my voice sounded self-assured, determined, unwavering. The words felt like Jell-O in my mouth. “Not just a little meltdown, Mr. Stafford. He was out of his head. He didn’t know what he was saying, what he was doing. He barely knew where he was. He had no control over himself, and he was so drowsy that we couldn’t keep him lucid. He was coming down from something and crashing hard.”

Stafford began forming a reply before I’d even finished speaking. “Did he admit this to you?”

“Well, no but it was obv . . .”

He held up a hand. “The boy was having a bad day. His mother concurrs that he’d been to a birthday party with friends the night before and he forgot to study for a history test. When he got to class and discovered there was a test, he panicked. He got emotional.” Stafford’s body language added,
All perfectly normal—could happen to anybody
.

“Mr. Stafford”—I half stood from my seat—“this was not just a kid having a bad day. Cameron walked out of class, made it as far as his locker, and went crazy, screaming and crying and banging his head against the door. He was off the deep end.”

Lifting his chin, the principal cleared his throat, peering at me through the bottom of his glasses. “There was a mix-up with his ADD medications. His mother admits that occasionall—”

“Mr. Stafford.” I could feel my temper ratcheting up. I could not believe he was willing to swallow that load of hooey, and now he wanted me to quietly slink off to a corner and agree. “The kid’s mother lets him ride to school with some older student—Sebastian . . . something. This is not the first time I’ve seen Cameron come in looped, hopped up, under the influence, whatever you want to call it. It’s not the first time he’s stepped over the line. When he stays with his mom, he’s out of it. His behavior is bizarre and unpredictable. He’s either so hyperactive he can’t function, or so drowsy he can’t stay awake. When he’s with his father, Dad drives him to school and drops him at the door—no time to hang out or run around town with older kids. Cameron shows up sober. What does that say to you?”

“It could mean any number of things. Teenagers are volatile creatures.” Stafford pointed a finger at me again. “Your obsession with this drug issue has gone too far. You need to step back and gain perspective. This is a good kid with solid parental involvement. A school board member’s kid, for heaven’s sake.”

Standing up, I slammed my hands on the desk. “This kid is sinking down a well, and nobody’s pulling him up!” My voice reverberated around the office. Reining myself in, I pressed a hand to my forehead and closed my eyes momentarily, thinking,
Breathe, breathe, breathe. This isn’t doing any good
.

“You’re out of line!” Stafford bellowed. “You are a recent college graduate with only two months’ experience. I have been in school administration for over thirty years!” His protest filled the room, then died, and we stood in a stalemate.

I stared at my desktop—at the clutter of sticky notes, attendance sheets, grant paperwork. What was any of it worth if we couldn’t help these kids when they needed us? “Mr. Stafford.” I waited as he staggered sideways, slumping against the chair, exhausted. “I’m sorry if my decision was not the one you would have chosen. You weren’t here, and I dealt with the issue in a moment of crisis—”

“I explained to the Anslers that you are inexperienced.” He cut me off with a patronizing expression of sympathy. “I explained that, given the heat of the moment, and the fact that other members of the administration were unavailable, you were forced into a position for which you are unqualified, and as a result, made a novice error in judgment.” He smiled slightly, and I felt the invisible pat on the head, the silent,
Good girl, now how is the grant paperwork coming along?
“They seem to have calmed down, but they do expect an apology—both to the mother and to Cameron. Your accusations have been very upsetting to him.”

Gripping the sides of the desk, I leaned across, feeling myself come close to some boiling point I hadn’t approached in years. For so long, my temper had been tamped down by the idea that, since I’d screwed up my own life, I had no business giving advice to anyone else. Now, I was filled with righteous indignation. How dared he sweep this under the rug, smooth it over, and order me to do the same? What was wrong with him? Didn’t he care about these kids at all?

I met his eyes—tired, vacant eyes that reminded me of Mr. Verhaden’s. If there had ever been passion in Stafford’s soul, it was gone now. He looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere else but here. “I will
not
.” My fingers tightened, my elbows a shaking brace between my body and the wood. “I will not stand here and tell a student and his parents something I know is not true. Especially when the secret could kill him. I don’t have what it takes to do that.”
What does it take to do that?
I looked into Stafford’s face and tried to figure it out. “I won’t. I can’t. It’s wrong.”

Sighing, the principal rubbed his forehead, then drew the hand slowly downward, dragging droopy layers of skin so that his eyes sagged, red rimmed and weary. His stomach billowed with a long, raspy breath, then deflated again, and he coughed into his sleeve. Reaching up, he mopped his brow. “I suggest that you calm down and consider who you are talking to. Convictions are a wonderful thing, Ms. Costell, but the fact is that we can’t afford to operate in la-la land, here. In the real world . . .” He paused to cough again, and I took advantage of the conversational gap.

“In the real world, there’s a police stakeout just a few blocks from here, Mr. Stafford.” I motioned toward the window. “They’re taking down license plate numbers at the taco stands on Division Street.” The irony of that name suddenly hit me. “The taco stands sell drugs. Probably meth, weed, crack, buzz bombs, who knows? When the police net closes, some of our kids are going to be caught. We’ll be the ones who stood by and did nothing to prevent it.”

He raised his chin indignantly. “We do everything that is reasonable and customary in terms of drug prevention. We have search dogs; we provide student activities, antidrug curricula.” The words sounded rehearsed.

“We can’t turn a blind eye when the problem becomes real, Mr. Stafford. We have to do something.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he rocked back on his heels, then lost his balance and braced himself against the door frame like a plastic soldier, slightly melted. “There has never been a drug problem at Harrington, Ms. Costell,” he refuted, leveling a determined glare. “And there will not be. Not on my watch.”

Therein lay the rub, the heart of the matter, and I knew it. Stafford was only a few months from retirement. He didn’t want this problem; he didn’t have the energy for it. He wasn’t going to have it on his record. Period.

The only trouble was, the problem was coming to us, whether we wanted it or not. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stafford.” And in a way, I was. In spite of everything, I had sympathy for him, standing there sick with the flu, confronting such a huge issue at the end of what was probably a long and successful career. “But I won’t lie to Cameron or his parents.”

Lacing his fingers, the principal brought his hands to his mouth and blew into them, slowly shaking his head. “This isn’t the time to get on your high horse, Costell. Next year’s contracts, including yours, come up for renewal at the board meeting Monday night.” The threat in those words was unmistakable, the implication clear.
Make nice with Cameron’s parents, or else.

Outside in the corridor, the first bell rang, and shadows passed by the door. Glancing over his shoulder, Stafford softened, then turned back to me. “We can’t help these kids if we’re not here, Ms. Costell. We all have to play the game.”