Killing Mr. Griffin (2 page)

Susan opened her notebook and withdrew the sheets of lined paper on which she had carefully printed the verses she had composed the night before. In the seat behind her, Jeff raised his hand. “Mr. Garrett?”

“I don’t have mine finished yet, Mr. Griffin. There was a basketball game last night, and I was one of the starters.” “That must have created a great problem for you, Mr. Garrett.” “I couldn’t very well

skip the game, could I?” Jeff said. “The team was counting on me.

We were playing Eldorado.” “Basketball is indeed an important reason for attending high school,” Mr. Griffin said in an expressionless voice. “The ability to drop balls through baskets will serve you well in life. It may keep your wrists limber into old age.” “Mr. Ruggles, your hand is raised. Do you have a similar disclosure to make?” “I did the assignment, sir,” David said. “It blew out of my notebook.

I’ll redo it tonight.” “I have never accepted late papers on windy days. Miss Cline?” “I didn’t understand the assignment,” Betsy said.

Her eyes were wide and worried. “How can anybody write a final song for Ophelia when she’s already said everything there is to say? All that about rosemary being for remembrance and everything? Nothing happens to her after that except she drowns.” “There are those who might consider suicide an event of some importance in a young woman’s life,” Mr. Griffin said dryly. “Are there any other comments?” The room was silent. “Then will those of you who were able to find some final words for poor Ophelia, please pass them forward?” At least, we don’t have to read them aloud, Susan thought in relief. That was a possibility she had not thought about last night when she sat at the desk in her room, letting the words pour from her pen onto the paper.

There, caught by the magic of the painful story, she had let herself become Ophelia—lonely, alienated from the world, sickened with the hopelessness of her love, gazing into the depths of the water that would soon become her grave. Only this morning as she was leaving the

house had the horrible thought occurred to her—what if he makes us read the songs in class? There was no way that she could have done that. Too much of Susan lay exposed in the neatly printed verses, intermixed with the person of Ophelia. Now she scanned her words again-Where the daisies laugh and blow, Where the willow leaves hang down, Nonny, nonny I will go There to weave my lord a crown. Willow, willow, by the brook, Trailing fingers green and long, I will read my lord a book, I will sing my love a song. Though he turn his face away, Nonny, nonny still I sing, Ditties of a heart gone gray And a hand that bears no ring. Water, water, cold and deep-~ “Miss McConnell, have you completed your meditation?” Mr. Griffin’s voice broke in upon her. “I’m sorry.” Susan felt her face growing hot with embarrassment. “I was just—just—checking the spelling.” Hurriedly she thrust the papers into the hand of the girl in front of her. “An excellent idea, but it might have been done before now. As for those who have no paper to turn in, you may consider your grade F for this assignment. Now, open your books, please, to the first scene in Act

Three.” “But, Mr. Griffin, that’s not fair!” Jeff burst out. “If we missed doing the assignment we should be allowed to make up!” “Why is that, Mr. Garrett?” “Other teachers take late papers!” Jeff said.

“In fact, most teachers don’t give assignments at all on game nights.

Dolly Luna—” “What Miss Luna does is no concern of mine. She teaches her class according to her policies,” Mr. Griffin told him. “My own policy happens to be to teach English literature. If students wish to take part in extracurricular activities, that’s fine, but they should be just that—extra. Any student who allows them to interfere with his academic responsibilities must be prepared to accept the consequences.”

“And the consequences are F’s, is that it?” Jeff’s voice was shaking with outrage. “Well, there happen to be a lot of us who think there’s more to life than trying to outdo Shakespeare! When we do turn stuff in, it comes back so marked up that nobody can read it. Spelling, grammar, punctuation—everything’s got to be so blasted perfect—”

“Cool it, boy,” Mark Kinney said quietly. He sat slouched in his seat in his usual don’t-care position, his odd, heavy-lidded eyes giving him a deceptively sleepy appearance. “Jeff’s sort of overexcited, Mr. G.”

but what he’s getting at is that we’re most of us seniors in this class. We need this credit to graduate.” “Darned right, we do!” Jeff sputtered. “By dumping F’s out wholesale, you may be knocking a bunch of us smack out of graduation. It’s not fair to us or to our parents or even to the school! What are they going to do next fall with twenty or so of us all back trying to get one lousy English credit!” “It’s interesting to contemplate, isn’t it?” Mr. Griffin said mildly. “But

I’d advise you not to be lulled

into a false sense of security by the thought that it can’t be done. I am quite capable of holding back anyone I feel has not qualified for a passing grade, a fact which your friend Mr. Kinney can support.” His hand slid into his jacket pocket and brought out a small, plastic vial.

Without seeming to so much as glance at it, he snapped it open, took out a pill, and popped it into his mouth. Then he recapped the vial and placed it back in the pocket. “Please, open your books to Hamlet, Act Three, Scene One. We’ll now review for a quiz I have scheduled for Monday. You do have your book with you, don’t you, Mr. Garrett?”

“Yes, I do—sir,” Jeff said hoarsely. The wind continued to blow.

Gazing through the window toward the parking lot, Susan could barely make out the rows of cars, veiled as they were by swirling dust. Out of this wild, pink world a bird came flying, half blinded, carried by the wind, and crashed headlong into the windowpane. Its beak crumpled against the glass, and it seemed to hang there an instant, stunned by the impact, before it dropped like a feather-covered stone to the ground below. Poor thing, Susan thought. Poor little thing. Poor bird. Poor Ophelia. Poor Susan. She had a sudden, irrational urge to put her head down on the desk and weep for all of them, for the whole world, for the awful day that was starting so badly and would certainly get no better. From his seat behind her she heard Jeff Garrett mumble under his breath, “That Griffin’s the sort of guy you’d like to kill.”

Well, why don’t we then?” Mark asked him. “Why don’t we what?” “Plan to kill the bastard.” “Plan to kill him? You mean—like—murder?”

Jeff lowered his half-eaten hamburger from his lips without having taken the anticipated bite. “Man, you’ve got to be out of your head!”

The moment he heard his own voice speaking the words, he felt like an idiot. Mark had done it again. Mark had always been able to do this to him, set him up, throw out some bait, get a reaction. As long as they had known each other, since back in junior high school, Mark had played this game. Even now, at seventeen, Jeff still found himself falling for it. “You’re kidding,” he said. “You think so?” “Well, aren’t you?” He still wasn’t quite certain. The times when he knew that Mark was joking, he sometimes wasn’t. Here in the familiar

setting of the Snack-‘n-Soda Shop, amid the warmth and noise and the smell of good things frying, the word “murder” seemed totally ridiculous. Yet, this was Mark-“Aren’t you?” “Of course, he is.”

Betsy set her Coke glass down on the table with a short, sharp clink.

“People don’t go around bumping off all their unfavorite teachers.

They’d depopulate the school system. You might wish guys like Griffin would drop dead, but that’s a lot different from going out and making it happen.” “You’ll have to admit it would solve some problems,” Mark said. “Jeff’s done a neat job of lining us up for a mass flunk-out. He practically dared Griffin to do it right there in front of everybody.”

“I know,” Jeff said contritely. “That was dumb, all right. I just lost my temper. That asshole’s been on my back all semester. He jumps me for everything. Every paragraph I write ends up looking like it’s been slashed with a butcher knife.” “It’s not just you,” Betsy said. “He dishes it out to everybody. I’ve never had trouble with my other teachers. If it had been Dolly this morning, I’d have told her I hadn’t understood the assignment, and she would have explained it real carefully all over again, and—” “You two have nothing to complain about,” Mark said. “I’m the one who got zapped. Last semester.”

“Darned right, you did,” Jeff agreed. “Right in the teeth.” “Well, it’s not going to happen again, I can tell you that. I’m taking the damned course over again because I have to have the English credit to graduate. But, a third time? No way,” “Never!” Betsy said. “And you shouldn’t be doing it this time either. Your grades were plenty high

enough for passing, even without that term paper. It was sickening what he did, the shit, making you get up in front of the class and beg to be allowed to retake the course.” “He can flunk you again if he wants to,” Jeff said. “He can flunk us all when it comes to that. The principal will back him up, just like he did with you last time.

There’s not much we can do about it if he decides not to pass us.”

“You suggested something when we first came in here,” Mark said. “All the time we were ordering you kept sitting there muttering about how you wanted to kill the guy. Have you changed your mind this fast?”

“Now we’re back where we started. You said, “Why don’t we?” And I said, “You’re kidding.” And Bets—” “Come on,” Mark said, getting to his feet. “We can’t talk about this here. “The walls have ears’ and all that bit.” “But I’m not through with my Coke,” Betsy objected.

“Then stay here. Jeff and I will be out in the car.” “Wait, Mark!

I’m coming!” She hurriedly took a gulp and set down the half-full glass. “Who’s paying?” “Not me,” Mark said. “No bread.” “I’ll pay,”

Jeff told them. His face was hot and his heart was beginning to beat wildly. Was it possible that Mark was really serious? No, he couldn’t be. To kill somebody? That was just plain crazy. Still, Mark had that look about him, the one he got when he had some incredible plan in mind. It wasn’t really that his expression changed; Mark had one of those faces that seldom carried any expression at all. It was a lineless face, built on a triangle with the skin stretched taut and smooth from the wide cheekbones to the sharply pointed chin. The thing that changed was the eyes. They became very bright and shiny, as

though they were made of glass, and the lids slipped down over them as though to conceal the look beneath—an illusion of sleepiness. Jeff had seen that look before, and it always meant something. Now as they left the Snack-‘n-Soda to cross the windy parking lot to Jeff’s car, he felt his own excitement rising. What was brewing inside Mark’s head?

What was coming next? “Okay,” he said as soon as they were inside the car with the doors closed against the dust-laden wind. “Okay, let’s have it. What do you have in mind? And don’t tell us you’re really hatching a murder plot. Betsy and I won’t fall for that.” “Griffin would, I bet,” Mark said quietly. “I bet we could scare the shit out of him. Nobody wants to get killed, and Griffin’s no exception.” “You mean we could write him a letter and threaten him?” Betsy asked doubtfully. “Nope. We don’t want anything on paper. Besides, he’d never take that seriously. He’d think it was some kid prank. To convince him we meant business, we’d have to do it face to face.” “Go to his house and threaten him?” “Too risky. He’s got a wife, doesn’t he? We don’t want anybody else walking in on this. No, here’s my idea—we kidnap him. We take him up in the mountains someplace, and we really put the screws to him. We show him what it’s like for once to be the underdog, to get out from the high and mighty position behind a desk and have somebody else controlling things. We make him crawl.

How’s that for a scene?” There was a moment of silence. Then Betsy said. “I don’t know. It’s kicky, but it sort of scares me.

Kidnapping’s a federal offense, isn’t it? I mean, we could be arrested.” “Not if he doesn’t know who we are. Not if he’s blindfolded and doesn’t know who’s got him.” “He’d guess,” Jeff said.

“After that deal in class today, who do you think is the first person who’d come into his mind? Me, that’s who. And you second.” “So, he guesses? What difference will that make if he can’t prove anything?

Most of the class hates his guts, so there are plenty of possible suspects. We’re going to have witnesses who’ll swear we weren’t anywhere near when the thing happens.” “If there was a slipup somehow.

If he did put the finger on us—” “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.

We’re minors, aren’t we? Not one of us is eighteen yet. We’re just a bunch of fun-loving kids playing a joke. Kids do that sort of thing all the time.” “You’re right,” Betsy said thoughtfully. “In fact, last year the senior class kidnapped Dolly Luna, didn’t they? It was a kidnap-breakfast. They set it up with her roommate ahead of time and she unlocked the door for them, and they came in at dawn and grabbed Dolly in her pajamas—they didn’t even let her put on a bathrobe—and dragged her out to the Pancake House. She thought it was a blast.”

“They didn’t threaten to kill her,” Jeff said. “If they had, and she’d reported it, would anybody have believed her?” Mark was getting irritated. “Look, if you two are chicken, just say so. There are guys in that class who would give their eyeteeth for a chance to see Griffin crawl. I can get all the help I want on this without you.” “I’m not chicken,” Betsy said quickly. “I think it’s a great idea. I was just worried—sort of—that we might get into some kind of real trouble.

But you’re right, of

course. Nobody would believe him. It would sound too crazy.” “Jeff?

Are you with us?” “I guess so,” Jeff said slowly. “That does make sense. I mean, like Bets said earlier, people don’t bump off their teachers. He’d sound like a crackpot with a persecution complex, the kind of nut that shouldn’t be teaching in the public school system.” He paused. “Are you thinking of getting anybody else into this?” “A couple of others, maybe. There’s got to be a decoy, somebody who lures him into a place where we can get at him. Somebody he won’t suspect of anything, even afterward. And there’s got to be somebody to alibi us.”