Drenched in Light (9 page)

Tapping his pen against the wooden door frame, he gazed at the trim board, following the sound, then regarding me solemnly. “Don’t get too involved with the Jordan girl.” He crossed his arms above the bubble of his stomach, drummed the pen on his chest. I had the sense that he hadn’t stopped by to ask me about the grant application, but to talk to me about Dell. Or more specifically, to warn me off.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” But I was afraid I did. He was telling me to let Mrs. Morris have her way—that he agreed with her point of view. “It
is
my job to help these kids.” My reply came out sounding surprisingly territorial.

Mr. Stafford drew back, eyeing me down his bulbous nose. Clearly, the burst of attitude surprised him, too. “Play the crusader here, and you’ll end up getting your head cut off, Julia.” His use of my first name told me that we were down to bare knuckles now. “Some admissions committee members stuck their feet in it, getting that kid in here, and when it doesn’t work out, they’re going to be looking for a scapegoat. You don’t want to be the one they blame.”

I gaped at him in complete mortification and disbelief. “So, it’s better if I don’t get involved. Is that what you’re saying? I should look the other way and let a kid fail?”

If the question bothered him, he didn’t show it. “I’m saying it’s a high-profile issue, especially now that Morris has her nose in it. And if it comes down to her or you . . .” He looked me over in a way that made me feel two inches tall and hopelessly blond. “They aren’t going to side with you.”

Blood rushed to my face, and I felt my back stiffen. His expression, his tone of voice, and the way he continued calmly tapping the pen against his fleshy chest told me much more than I wanted to know. Suddenly, I understood why a failed dancer with lackluster grad school grades could get a counselor’s job, even one that had come up unexpectedly during semester break, at a school like Harrington. I was supposed to be the cute, blond patsy who would complacently fill out forms and write grant applications month after month, while happily accepting the status quo.

“Well, it won’t be an issue if Dell’s grades come up to a passing level,” I said, turning my attention to my papers to hide the fact that I was fuming.

“She can’t make the grades,” he replied flatly. “She’s got an unusual talent in music. That’s it. Other than that, she doesn’t have the stuff.”

“I guess time will tell.” I pretended not to catch his meaning. Stabbing my pen into the grant application, I started writing, determined not to look up as he shuffled away, his shadow receding slowly from my desk until finally it disappeared.

D
uring lunch break I went to the teacher’s lounge, where, as usual, I picked at a cafeteria salad while listening to teachers talk about their trials and triumphs of the day. Halfway through the period, Mrs. Morris walked past the door, headed for the cafeteria line with her cronies. Tossing my salad in the trash, I went back to my office and started surfing the Web sites Sergeant Reuper had recommended.

After lunch, one of the math teachers went home sick, and I taught algebra for two periods, which was largely a joke, and the kids knew it. When they asked questions, all I could say was, “Well, let’s look in the book,” which, as far as I could tell, was written in Greek. Whatever math I’d taken in college had long since left me.

I noticed some things while I was in the classroom—small details I’d never picked up on before. Even though it was unusually warm in the classroom, kids in the back had sweatshirt hoods pulled over their heads—a sign to watch for, the drug prevention Web sites said. Kids could lay their heads on the desks and use the hood as a tent to trap the vapors of Magic Marker ink, glue, an open bottle of correction fluid, a rag or cotton ball soaked in dry-cleaning solution or electronic-contact cleaner. They carried the rags hidden in Ziploc bags, candy containers, plastic pencil boxes, lipstick tubes. Hard to believe, but apparently true.

Halfway through class, one of my students asked to go to the bathroom to blow his nose and became agitated when I suggested he grab a Kleenex off the bookshelf and wait until after class. Again, signs of possible drug use—runny noses and kids who desperately wanted to hang out in the restroom, where they could light up a joint, snort a powdered form of meth, or huff solvents from deodorant or hair spray cans. Sometimes they’d even smoke meth or crack through tiny pipes disguised as ink pens, belt buckles, or eyeliner pencils.

In the back, two girls were covertly investigating the scent of a flavored lip gloss. Probably innocent, but possibly the tube contained more than makeup. When I walked by, they quickly hid the lip gloss; then one of them grabbed her purse and pulled it into her lap—another sign, hype-possessiveness toward personal belongings.

“If I see that lip gloss again, it’s mine,” I said, and they looked surprised, then denied having it.

In the front row, the middle school student council vice president, Cameron Ansler, had a zoned-out look and an unusual case of the sniffles.

Passing by his desk, I tapped his notebook to get him back on task. “Everything all right, Cameron?” I asked, and he nodded, hunching over his paper.

“Yes, ma’am.” He was, as usual, polite but distant. “I’m just tired.”

“Don’t stay up so late,” I advised, and he laughed.

“Sure, Ms. C,” he replied, then started back to work, his cheek resting on his free hand, and his eyes drifting closed until he jerked, woke up, then tried to refocus on his paper.

“You sure you’re all right?” I asked, passing by again.

“Sure.” He smiled, as if falling asleep at his desk were perfectly normal.

Maybe it was. Adolescents didn’t keep regular hours, especially these days, when they had cable TV, Internet service, and video games in their rooms. Teenage behavior was unpredictable at best; mood swings, sullenness, fatigue, withdrawal, strange fashion choices, like wearing a hood in a warm room, were all perfectly normal.

Or maybe not. How would I know? How would I ever separate everyday teenage behavior from warning signs? If I started questioning kids, parents would find out, there would be complaints, and Mr. Stafford would have a conniption.

If I left things alone, some of these kids might end up where I had—in the hospital, or worse, tangled in a web of guilt and lies, saddled with a lifetime addiction.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, I watched them, wondering what was going on in their minds, what their lives were like. They were here at Harrington because they were exceptional, because they had extraordinary potential in art, music, theater, dance.

Yet being extraordinary didn’t stop them from having ordinary problems.

They deserved a real counselor, one who knew how to read the signs. The only experience I had with teenagers was with students in the university’s college-bound gifted and talented program, where the kids were high school juniors and seniors, mature beyond their years, serious about their futures, working to rack up college credits before they finished high school. The classes were small. The students were studious, competitive about grades and potential scholarships. They didn’t have time to chitchat over lip gloss or fall asleep at their desks. But here at Harrington, among kids who were still trying to navigate the pitfalls of adolescence, and years away from worrying about college, things were different, and I was woefully unprepared.

By the time the substitute teacher finally arrived, and I turned over the classroom, I had a sense that, in taking the position at Harrington, I’d stepped into quicksand up to my neck. My parents were right—I wasn’t ready to handle such a complicated and demanding job. I could barely keep my own life on an even keel.

Sister Margaret’s voice was in my head as I walked back to my office.
“When life provides mountains, God provides the strength to climb.”

If God had anything to do with my getting the counselor’s job at Harrington, He certainly had a fine sense of humor, or irony, or both.

Back in my office, I closed the door and spent the rest of the afternoon working on the matching-funds application for the new performing arts center. Suddenly, the tedium of writing grants seemed refreshingly manageable and predictable, a part of my job I could handle. Even if I wasn’t much of a drug prevention czar, I was a pretty good writer.

If the grant application was successful, I’d be a hero. Mr. Stafford would be overjoyed. The superintendent, the central administration, and the school board would be pleased. Everyone would be content with my job performance for the semester, and I wouldn’t have to do a single thing about the possible drug problem at Harrington.

Except turn my head.

My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the clock. Four forty already. Dad’s daily babysitting-Julia call. He was a few minutes early this afternoon.

We went through the usual niceties; then Dad got down to business. “Mom wanted me to ask how your day went. She’s worried that you haven’t called Bett.”

Ohhhh . . . my sister’s wedding and pregnancy.
Hard to believe, but I’d completely forgotten about it in the rush of the day.

Dad went on talking. “Mom thought maybe we’d all go out to dinner at the club, or down in Westport. I could circle by the school and pick you up. We can get your car later on this weekend. They’ll lock it up in the school parking lot, won’t they?” He didn’t mention that neither the country club nor Westport was anywhere close to Harrington. Apparently, Mom and Dad were worried that I was too distraught over Bett’s news to drive myself home tonight.

“No, that’s all right. . . .” I paused, searching for an excuse that, without hurting anyone’s feelings, would prevent Dad from coming over to pick me up. Shifting my DayMinder on the desk, I unearthed several messages from Mom, as well as Dell’s torn spiral notebook papers.
The Jumpkids program tonight . . .
I started putting things in my briefcase. “You know what, Dad, I can’t. I . . . I already made a commitment for this afternoon. But, listen, we can all do dinner this weekend. I’ll call Bett right now, I promise. I tried earlier, but the day got busy and I just forgot about it. Tell Mom I’m sorry.” I imagined her at home, pacing the floor, calling Bett every little while, trying to find out whether I had checked in.

“A commitment . . .” Dad, now suspicious, fished discreetly for an explanation. Had it been Mom on the phone, she would have come right out and demanded answers. “Well . . . how long will it take? We could have dinner after—”

“I’m not sure how long,” I admitted, “but I think supper’s included.”
Might as well go ahead and explain. You’ll never get off the phone otherwise.
“I’m going by an after-school arts program a few blocks from here. One of my students invited me, and it sounds like it lasts through supper.”

“You’re going to stay down in
that
neighborhood until after dark?” The tone was just right for,
Now listen here, young lady, we’ll have no more of this nonsense.

Slipping on my blazer and grabbing my briefcase, I started toward the door. A ladybug was roosting on the jamb, in exactly the right position to be compacted by the latch. I urged it onto my finger and carried it into the hall. My random act of kindness for the afternoon. Sister Margaret’s instructions were never to let a day go by without at least one.

“Dad, until a few years ago,
Grandma
lived in this neighborhood,” I pointed out, as I hurried past the administration office and out the front door. As was typical on Friday afternoon, the place was a ghost town. Everyone, including Mr. Stafford, hit the door at four twenty-nine, so as to be at their cars and driving off the lot at four thirty, quitting time, officially.

Sensing the fresh air from the front doors, the ladybug fanned its red wings, showing the diaphanous black skirt underneath before it flew away as I exited the building and hurried down the steps.

“That neighborhood’s not what it used to be.” Dad’s voice disappeared into static, then cleared again. For a moment, I thought he was going to insist on accompanying me to wherever I was going.

“Dad, I’ll be fine.” The tone was more petulant than I’d intended, and with a sigh, I added, “Thanks for worrying about me, but it’s OK. I won’t be by myself. The mother of one of my students runs this program. They’re at this school every Friday. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” Call waiting beeped as I climbed into my car and cranked the engine to get the heater started. “Listen, Dad, that’s my call waiting. It’s probably Bett, so I’m going to sign off. I’ll see you later on. Don’t wait around for me, all right? You and Mom go out if you want to. I’ll be fine.”

“Call us when you start for home.”

“All right,” I replied, relieved that the conversation was finally over. “Love you.” Then I hit the button to answer the other line.

“Julia?” Bett said quietly, like an explosives expert hovering near a bomb, trying to decide which wire to cut. “Everything OK?”