Fat School Confidential (16 page)

   
And to what end?

   
But the thing that eclipsed Strumm’s departure from A.O.S. was Sheila Skolnick’s split. Communicated to staff via email, Sheila’s exit was sudden and without the fanfare one would expect regarding someone of her influence. The official word was that it was amicable. I smelled otherwise.

   
But fretting over departing staff and chance encounters were going to be the least of my problems.

   
By a long shot.

Chapter 10

Wendy

   
It began, like in all boarding school dramas, with an inter-departmental meeting.

   
It was the beginning of the fall semester, Two Thousand and Six.

   
Monday.

   
For the most part, the meeting had proceeded no differently than any other. We went down the list, bringing up issues that needed addressing. There was another break-in at the cafeteria. A case of Splenda went missing, as was a box of Viactiv. But the bigger news was the break-in at the culinary classroom. Baked goods were involved.

   
And then there were the individual student reports. One girl was allegedly giving a blowjob to her boyfriend by the pond.  She subsequently went on her third solo at A.O.S.—a new record. Rodriguez, sitting next to me, whispered, “But did she swallow?” Not reacting, I continued to glance straight ahead. I wanted to laugh, but this was a teenaged girl we were talking about. I knew full well he was joking, but still.

   
Another girl was caught in a girlfriend’s dorm room. In bed. Naked. And spooning.

   
Most of the boys’ stories were mild by comparison. Well, mild by any comparison. Charlie Ross, the terminally underachieving Gumby, was caught sleeping through morning activity for the hundredth time. He was due to ship home, so the consequences would be minimal, if anything. One other boy got in trouble—for tagging a bathroom of all things. He received a stumble and, for a few days at least, extra-mean looks from res staff.

   
This particular meeting’s agenda wasn’t limited to mere student misconduct. Tony Zepeda—one of A.O.S.’s res staff supervisors, and his wife, were fired overnight. Apparently, they cornered and verbally assaulted a female staffer who had a romantic interest in Tony. What was unclear was the extent of the romantic interest, whether or not anything was reciprocated, if sex was involved, et cetera. The altercation took place by the vineyard just before the night shift was to start.

   
So much for sour grapes.

   
I was already feeling uncomfortable listening to the prurient details of student shenanigans, but this? Across from Rodriguez and me sat Strumm’s smug replacement, Jeff Starks. Twenty-two or three-ish, he had a frat boy vibe and a reputation as a ladies’ man. Fresh from working one of Healthy Living’s summer camps, he himself lost one hundred pounds. At least, that was the info Rodriguez got from Carmen. Or so I was told. It went without saying Jeff was a recent college graduate and had zero experience teaching impressionable teenagers.

   
I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the dude.

   
Saving the best bit of intel for last, Bill and acting Clinical Director Cindy Anderson brought up a new student due to arrive on campus in a couple days.

   
Name: Wendy Barts.

   
Age: Seventeen.

   
Home state: Illinois.

   
Bill gave a curt little smile before gesturing to Cindy—svelte, blonde—who smiled back before ripping into Wendy’s dossier. Apparently, Wendy had quite a history. Raised by a single mother, she was trouble from the get go. By the time she entered adolescence, she pursued alcohol, drugs, and sex with equal abandon. Fatherless, she took solace in older men—much older men. Mom thought the best way for Wendy to stay out of trouble was to put her in a therapeutic boarding school. Hence, A.O.S.

   
Just before Wendy was due to arrive, the entire campus was abuzz in rumor spreading and posturing. Girls prepped themselves for catty confrontation. Boys prepped themselves for any kind of confrontation, preferably of the romantic kind. Yes, they were that desperate. The bullies and the bullied—all vying for Wendy’s love or loathing. A staff member must have tipped one of the students off on her impending arrival. But who?

   
Wendy arrived on campus mere days before her eighteenth birthday. At five foot nine, Wendy had, at least on paper, about thirty pounds to lose. Compared with the rest of the student population, she looked normal. With straight, jet-black hair, pale skin and pouty lips, Wendy cut an imposing figure. She could have passed as a younger, chubbier Joan Jett of Blackhearts fame. With near-perfect facial features, it didn’t take much to imagine that given a successful weight-loss, Wendy would be a heartbreaker.

   
I met her, like most of the rest of the faculty, in a class I was teaching. In this case, a film appreciation class. When we met, I didn’t think too much of the exchange at the time.

    “
You must be Wendy,” I said, casually shaking her hand.

    “
And you must be Mr. Rourke,” she replied. She had a warm, open smile that could have been translated the wrong way, I suppose. Despite the dossier that preceded her, she seemed like she wanted to be here, at A.O.S. The rebellious teen was nowhere to be found, at least not in my eyes.

   
I didn’t make much of that initial meeting. Maybe I did, but I wasn’t about to admit it to myself. I certainly wasn’t about to admit it to anyone else—especially Ellie.

   
On the day Wendy turned eighteen, she showed up to my film appreciation class a few minutes late. The opening credits had just begun. The movie: Logan’s Run. While most of the students could care less about a thirty-year-old movie that took place on a post-apocalyptic Earth, Wendy sat in rapt attention, her big green eyes staring at the screen.

   
By the time the feature was over, most of the kids had fallen asleep. On the contrary, Wendy was wide-awake and taking notes.

    “
That’s gotta be the most awesome movie ever!” she proclaimed. At first, I thought she was being sarcastic. But the fact that she was actually taking notes—pages of it—left me mystified.

   
She leaned up towards me, and without so much as a whisper, asked, “Are you a free spirit?”

   
My eyes darted across the room—did any of the other students hear that? What did she mean by “free spirit” anyway? As in being uninhibited or non-conforming? Didn’t she notice the wedding ring on my finger? What did she see in me? Was this her M.O. with men.

   
I tried not to read into Wendy’s motive. Not yet, at least. Besides, having had a history of reading too much into something, I didn’t want to jump the gun.

    “
I, …I really don’t know how to answer that.”

   
I was telling the truth. I often pondered that very question. I never felt like a free spirit. Troubled, yes—but free?

    “
Oh, come on,” Wendy replied.

   
But I wasn’t going to take the bait—if that was her intent. I flashed a polite, closed-mouth smile, more out of my discomfort and needing her to drop the subject than out of any want to lead her on.

   
Still, I found myself intrigued by her. By her line of questioning. By her playful persistence. What did it all mean? I was tempted to give her an answer. “Of course, Wendy, I am a free spirit. I want to make beautiful art. I want to be the happy-go-lucky writer/producer/director I’ve always dreamed of becoming. But I’m hopelessly trapped in this married, dumpy teacher’s exterior. Will you free me?”

   
But I held my tongue. I didn’t want to do or say anything I would regret later on. Besides, weren’t we all warned about Wendy? Keep your office doors open when meeting with her. Make sure you have another adult present when dealing with her. If she says or does anything questionable in the slightest, report the issue to your respective supervisor. We were made to understand that she was no typical student.

   
Wendy wasn’t like many of the other teen girls, who, by and large, spent an inordinate amount of time jockeying for the most negative attention possible. What was so different about her? Was it because she was now eighteen? Was it because she seemed, at least on the surface, to have a level head on her shoulders and thus could spar with the adult staff on a more mature basis?

   
Why was I devoting any time at all thinking about all of this?

   
Within days it seemed, Wendy grew tired of her academic advisor and requested me to take her under my wing. Even so, my involvement with her was going to be no different than it would be with any student on my caseload. I made it a point to meet with her on her assigned day and time—in my office—and the door always stayed open.

   
Having another adult present was unnecessary in my mind. Besides, weren’t the powers that be operating from a “blame the victim” mentality?

   
It didn’t seem odd that she wanted me as her academic advisor. It didn’t seem odd that she needed to complement her classes with independent study projects that I was the only qualified teacher to assist her with. It didn’t seem odd that she requested more time to meet one on one with me.

   
Who the hell was going to notice, anyway? Bill was in full micro-manager-mode, Mr. Mills was busy being principal, the rest of the teachers were ensconced in case and work-load-hell, the B.C.s were preoccupied with a load of another kind, and the rest of the staff were swamped with other issues.

   
Other than the addition of Wendy to my caseload, fall was getting to be a repeat of the previous school year. Unlike the near-banker’s hours I maintained during the summer, the present semester was ramping up in time spent on campus. At first, it was the routine of grading papers and lesson planning that kept me around. But something was going on after sundown in my office, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it. I knew staff was accessing my office. But who? Why was I so pissed off with anyone hanging out in my office while I was away anyway? Why was I so damned territorial with my turf—even if said turf wasn’t really mine to begin with?

   
That sense of entitlement staff would accuse most of the rich kids of was rubbing off on me.

   
No matter. Hanging around one afternoon, I marked every corner with my tchotchkes and my books and my movie posters and my unsought, unsold scripts. I dusted the bookshelves and repositioned my collectibles, got caught up with grading, and dog-eared textbooks for the next day’s lessons. It was closing in on dinnertime, but I wasn’t going to show up at the cafeteria—not for damned sure. If I was going to find out who the culprit was, I needed to “disappear.” Making my presence known at the caf would send a red flag. Grabbing my Think and Ink, I snuck off-campus to grab a bite to eat. The food wasn’t fat-free, but it wasn’t something I’d worry about when I weighed myself the following week. I logged everything, including portion size. I called Ellie, letting her know I’d be home by the time Bobby was ready for bed.

   
Parking my Honda out of sight in an adjacent service yard, I entered the Admin building through a side door. I crept back into my office, closing the door behind me. It wouldn’t be long before the Boulderers, Ascenders, and Belayers would be excused from dinner to go to study hall in either the big classroom (the one I usually taught in), or in the library. Gumbies stayed in the dorms to study, or more likely, goof off.

   
Study hall—as it was—consisted of two periods: first study hall and second study hall. And depending on the level of supervision from the res staff, students made use of their time well, or they didn’t.

   
I was sitting behind the computer, reading an email from an old college professor friend, when a key turned the lock on my office door. A close-cropped head popped in—it was Carlos—Mr. Rico Suave himself.

    “
Hey, Mr. Rourke.”

    “
Carlos,” I said, barely tilting my head in his direction. I could tell he was surprised by my presence, and maybe a little miffed.

    “
You need anything?” I asked.

    “
Sorry. Didn’t know you were in.” Carlos’s head retracted; the door closed.

   
Obviously, he was the culprit behind the relocated chairs.  So what. Nothing went missing. None of my precious collectibles were damaged.