Relative Danger (6 page)

The green truck appeared uglier with the sun’s first rays glistening off its side, its putrid hue making the juice sour in my stomach. No one had told the mail truck this was supposed to be an important morning. It kicked and balked. I cranked the key, stomped the foot petal, and called the truck nasty names. Eventually it decided to cooperate. After all, today I was a teacher.

I reached the school and parked in a different spot. Sliding down from the truck’s seat, I stood a moment and straightened my spine, proud of my new status. Big kids were tumbling out of cars and trucks with tremendous tires. Rap music blared through open windows, the deep
boom boom-boom, boom boom-boom
from its bass seeming to pound inside my head.

A sudden urge to dance struck. It always did when I heard the lively strain of “The Mexican Hat Dance” coming from my shoulder bag. I reached inside it and took out my cell phone. Few people had its number. The readout showed the call coming from my Austin office. “Good morning!” I answered.

“Mrs. Gunther?”

“Yep, it’s me.” I leaned back against the mail truck.

“This is Brianna Thompson.”

“I recognized your voice.”

My newest hire as manager, the young woman with minuscule thighs and a penchant for details. She was quiet a moment, faked a cough, and then asked, “Shouldn’t a predicate nominative come after a linking verb?”

“Absolutely.” I watched more vehicles pulling into the lot. Most of their rear bumpers held Sidmore High School parking stickers.

“Well, when you answered…” Ah, Brianna was correcting me. “Shouldn’t you say ‘It’s I?’” she asked.

“Do you know how dumb that sounds?”

Silence. “Yes.”

“Brianna, whenever you’re thinking, do you think
I shall do that
? Or
this is I
?”

“No ma’am.”

“Whenever our agency creates promotional literature or edits for businesses or individuals who want proper grammar used, we make certain it is. But if we went around speaking properly all the time, we’d sound like we were trying to be high-falutin’. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No ma’am.”

“Neither me. Now don’t correct me. And I’ve told you, call me Cealie.”

“Yes ma—Okay, Cealie.”

“Great. So did you call because you wanted to hear my pretty voice?”

She finally laughed. “I was wondering if you’d be coming around here soon.”

More vehicles with loud music pulled into the parking lot, making it difficult for me to hear her. “Did you need me?” I asked.

“Not really. I just wondered.”

“My plans aren’t definite now. Unless you need me there for something, I’ll see you whenever I see you, okay?”

“Sure. Are you having a nice time?”

I peered at the school building looming ahead, at the muscular almost-adult males giving me unhappy stares. “It’s unusual.”

“Just like you. Nice talking to you, Cealie.”

“You too, Brianna. And please don’t go in to the office so early.”

She laughed, and we clicked off. Teenagers leaving their vehicles stared at my mail truck. Some of them yelled. “Yo, mamma, what a beauty.” “Neat wheels.” “I’d like to go riding in that thing!”

I gave them a big nod. They appreciated distinction. I did have a unique means of transportation. Bouncy steps took me toward my new job. A boy even held the door open for me. His eyes were a brilliant shade of aqua, highlighted by his smartly cut sandy blond hair. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m Mrs. Gunther. I’m teaching here today.”

“And I’m a student here, but only for a few more days. I’m John Winston.”

Kat’s former boyfriend. I skimmed him again. Clothes neat, a nice-looking boy. And polite. Too bad she didn’t find him right for her.

Teens coagulated in the cavernous hall. Today they looked calm. None smelled of wet doggie. “Good morning,” I bid the students I passed, but they all seemed asleep behind half-open eyelids. I empathized. I scanned the corridor for Kat.

Bodies unidentifiable as to sex slumped on benches and against walls. None was my grandchild. At the moment, it didn’t matter. I’d see her sometime during the day.

My steps slowed. Suppose Kat didn’t show up? Then I’d be here all alone?

I scanned zombie-like bodies dotting the hall. Yesterday I’d seen what they looked like when they came to life.

Fear crawled through my stomach. I breathed, coating my mind with my mantra:
I am woman! I can do anything—alone
. My final stomp on anxiety came from envisioning Kat in a cap and gown. Hiking my chin up, I pushed into the office.

Life bustled. Unlike those dulled children outside, people darted through this space. A few adults greeted each other, some ducked into inner doors, others grabbed papers or dropped some, cursed, and made off for the holding area, where I saw more glum teens gathering in chairs.

I stood on the guest side of the room, assembling my senses. My senses said to scoot. Rush back out the door. But I recalled my mission. Get Kat here.

“Oh, Mrs. Gunther,” vice-principal Anne Little said. She wore a slimming plum-colored dress and appeared glad to see me. “I have your assignment. Come on back here.”

On my side of the counter, more angry students sat. With them, miserable-looking adults, probably parents. I sprang across to Anne Little’s side of the room like I’d been offered the key to the city.

A teacher scuttled past, rushing to get what she needed. She seemed to need discipline forms to write up students. And classes hadn’t even begun.

Tom Reynolds came through the office area. He took papers from a secretary’s desk and noticed me, a smile replacing his scowl. I smiled back, and he turned away. The woman he’d accompanied to yesterday’s funeral approached. “This is our principal, Hannah Hendrick,” Anne Little told me. Hannah wore a peacock blue pantsuit with a navy collar. Not one wrinkle in her fabric. Anne Little told her, “This is Cealie Gunther. She’ll be taking Jack Burdell’s place today.”

Hannah Hendrick clasped my hands. “I love you,” she said.

“Thanks. And we just met.” Was it me making them so happy? Or did these women’s pleasure stem from having someone replace that teacher, Jack Burdell?

“You have no idea how hard it’s been lately to find enough subs,” Hannah said.

“Glad to help.” I almost meant it now with such warm greetings.

A teacher’s complaint called Hannah away, and Anne Little handed me keys. “I’m also keeper of the school keys. This one is for the classroom. Lock it whenever you leave the room. And this one’s for the desk. The biggest one is for the ladies’ restroom.”

“You have to lock classrooms and restrooms?” I asked, and she nodded and rushed off.
Why lock those rooms?
I wondered.

Cynthia Petre sat behind her monitor. Her mousy brown hair was clamped back, and she wore a purple blouse with an emerald green skirt. I told her hello. “Good morning,” she said without looking at me.

“But I didn’t do it, Coach!” A lanky boy stormed in from the hall behind the bulldog-faced man in coaching clothes. The tiny woman with big black hair who’d been with Coach yesterday came in too, looking like she could spit fire. Everyone in the area appeared angry now, as though ready to kill. With so many, how could police sort out just one who might actually do it? Were the police still here?

A hand tightened on my arm. “You might want to get to your room,” Anne Little said. “It’s almost time for the bell.”

“Ah, the bell.” Pleasant memories returned.

“You go down that hall,” Anne Little said, indicating the outer hallway, “then turn left, and when you get to a corridor, turn left again. Room 111. You can’t miss it.”

I opened my hand. Stared at the keys.

“That one.” She pointed. Her mouth did a little twitch, and her squinty-eyed gaze told me she wondered if I could handle subject matter if I couldn’t even remember what key to use. “A substitute folder should be on Jack’s desk. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Okay, I told myself, I could handle this. Someone died here this week, but being around this school wouldn’t pose a real problem. I just needed to go to a classroom, do whatever the absent teacher instructed in his folder, and after a few hours, I’d leave.

I headed out the office and passed a scrawny woman with skin so pale it appeared translucent. She hustled inside to Anne Little. “Did you hear about Jayne Ackers?”

“What about her?” Little said.

“Shot last night. She died.”

The entire staff stopped what they were doing. Faces whipped toward this woman as though a puppeteer had jerked a string joining them. Everyone uttered astonishment.

I turned to the pale person with news. “Who’s Jayne Ackers?”

She frowned as if I had no business asking. Still, human nature surely made her reply. “Jayne was one of our substitute teachers. Not too popular with the kids.”

My heart thudded. Wide-eyed, I walked through the doorway to become a sub myself, and glanced back at vice-principal Anne Little. “Miss Ackers only subbed for us a few times,” she said, as though that would give me some comfort.

Chapter 5

“Do the cops know who killed her?” someone asked, and the pale news-bearer shook her head.

“She was shot near her home,” she said.

I crept out the door, questions flooding my mind and breeding fear. Why had someone murdered Jayne Ackers? There was absolutely no connection between me and that substitute lady—was there? And was I supposed to be content because she hadn’t subbed here often? Certainly, I wouldn’t become popular with the kids in one day.

The hallway had come to life. Large kids shouted and shoved. But this time adult guards who must be teachers stood in their midst. They stood rigid, their gazes skimming the loudest teens. None of the sentries appeared worried that an emergency situation might be occurring. Hope filled me. Maybe they were plainclothes detectives. Maybe today they’d discover what really happened to the custodian, while also keeping me safe.

I nudged through throngs, searching for Kat, and noting how the students dressed. Lots of the skirts barely skimmed girls’ underpants, making me recall Legs from Gil’s restaurant. I frowned, pushing that image aside. Twisted green spikes of hair stood on a boy’s head. Other males I elbowed past wore bicycle chains around their necks, while still others wore thick gold necklaces that revealed their names.

The eyes of many young adults shifted down toward me. I wondered how they had all grown so tall. A glimpse at the shoes most girls wore revealed platforms of three inches or more. Some of the teens stopped in mid-sentence, their chins jutting toward me. Their peers turned to stare.

“Excuse me,” I said, nudging through thick groups and locating a corridor to the left.
Good job, Cealie
, I thought, mentally patting my shoulder. I had a positive beginning to this day. I’d located the first hall.

The next passage was easier, sprinkled with fewer students. They seemed polite. “Good morning,” some responded to my greeting. A tiny girl smiled at me. She wore an ironed blouse and nice slacks, conservative, like my Katherine.

To this one I said, “Sweetie, could you tell me where to find room 111?”

A horn blasted, and I jumped, squeezing my eyes shut. The girl giggled. “That’s the bell. One-eleven’s right down there.”

The teens began moving. My students were coming! And I hadn’t even gotten in the room yet, much less learned what I would be teaching.

I saw 111 above a door and drew out my keys. Tried one, failed. I tried another, while shoes clomped nearer. The key fit.

I entered the classroom, ready to become a public high school teacher.

The odor of stale chips mingled with perspiration and created a gagging instinct in my throat. I bit back the urge to vomit and scanned the room. Dust particles drifted through the sun-lit air. Grime coated the windows. Mismatched desks coated with graffiti needed straightening. Scribbled across pale gold walls were kids’ names, people they loved, and who was a bitch. Posters hung askew, displaying large drills. Others showed the cutaway view of walls with wires and plumbing. Chalk smeared a faded green board. Big people began to plod in.

I scurried to the long main desk and searched through scattered papers for what I’d be teaching. Behind me, shoes shuffled and clacked. “Aw damn, who’s that?” a boy said. “Where’s Mr. Burdell?” Desks squeaked while teens splayed themselves into them. Desk legs scraped the floor while I flipped through desktop papers, trying to discern my subject matter. Beneath sheaves of test papers, the corner of a manila folder stuck out. I grabbed the folder, satisfied to see that a red marker had printed on it
Substitute Teacher
.

“Would everyone please stand for the Pledge?” a woman’s familiar voice called through a wall speaker.

I straightened, ready to look over my students. I knew things. I was intelligent enough. I could teach.

The teenagers rose. Kat wasn’t among them. Three males and two females still sat with smug expressions, leaning back in their seats. I was anguished to find any youths so unpatriotic and signaled for them to stand. They peered at each other. Glanced at me. Took their time and finally stood, slouching.

I pledged allegiance and then put on my bifocals. My heart fluttered while I yanked open the manila folder that would give instructions for whatever I would momentarily teach.

The folder held nothing.

I flipped the Substitute Teacher folder around but found no hidden slits in the rear. No hint to suggest what I’d be doing. My right hand was still pressed against my chest, feeling my heart’s rapid thump-thumps, when a guttural voice said, “The Pledge is over, Grandma.”

Students snickered and dropped to their seats. A motley crew. Half of them seemed to be trying to get back into sleeping position. Some girls wore tight sweaters across bulging breasts. One girl’s cleavage hung out like ripe cabbage. I had hoped Kat might be in this class but now felt relieved that she wasn’t.

But that nice girl from the hall was. She sat in front of me. I smiled at her, but this time she didn’t smile back. Most of the males were wearing black or gray T-shirts with various messages. I noticed a sneer. My gaze found the cruel lips that had called me grandma and traveled up to the mean eyes. They belonged to the thug who hadn’t been sorry when he ran into me yesterday. And now he was smirking.