The Way Back to Happiness (11 page)

“Do you need to check these out?” Alabama whispered.

“I already did,” he said.

She gestured toward the door and started walking. He followed.

Once they were outside again, she took a deep breath. Even given the hot, humid air, it felt better out here than inside.

“Is this Bad Person Day at the public library, or are all the kids around here like that?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said. “Not
all
of them.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement of New Sparta youth. Alabama tossed an irritated glance through the double glass doors. “You shouldn’t let them push you around.”

“That’s what my brother says. I try to ignore stuff like that, usually.”

“It’s hard to ignore being tripped.”

“Those kids are just idiots with nothing to do. No interests. I feel sorry for them.”

Sorry for them? Okay, maybe the “loo” in Stu-loo stood for lunatic.

God, it was hot. She supposed she should find a pharmacy and get started on her hair project. It would be hours before Bev got back, and she could savor the time while the dye set by playing records loud and watching soaps and game shows. Or she could snoop around Bev’s stuff. The last time she’d been home alone she’d done a quick sweep of the house, but the only thing interesting she’d found was a cache of romance novels.

A heat vapor rose from the parking lot, making her wonder if the asphalt might actually be turning squishy under the sun.

“Anyways . . .” Stuart’s leg jiggled nervously. “Thanks for helping me.”

“My name’s Alabama,” she said.

He squinted at her. “Seriously?”

She lifted her chin. “I was named after a Jim Morrison song. ‘Moon of Alabama.’ ”

He looked incredulous. “You mean ‘The Whiskey Song’?” He hummed a bar of the haunting melody, which dumbfounded her. He was the first kid who’d ever known what she was talking about. “Your parents named you after
that?
” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Wow—that’s grim. I mean, it’s a song about alcoholics, right?”

She guessed it was, maybe. “My mom liked it.”

“And you do know that Jim Morrison didn’t write it, right?” he said. “It’s Brecht.”

“Who?”

“Bertolt Brecht. He wrote for musical theater.
The Threepenny Opera
? You must have heard of that.”

She was beginning to understand why this kid got picked on. Still, it was embarrassing not to know where her name really came from. Or to have thought she knew and be wrong.

Why hadn’t her mother told her it was an old song?

“Anyways . . . I’m Stuart.” He snorted a laugh that made her like him again. “No one ever wrote a song about
that
.”

She smiled, wishing she could think of something to say as a reassuring comeback.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he said.

And then, without warning, he tore off—walking fast like other kids she’d known who’d been the targets of bullies. The smaller you were, the quicker you scooted. As he disappeared around the corner of the block, Alabama regretted not keeping him talking. She could have asked if there was a pharmacy nearby, or where to play Pac-Man. Anything to keep a conversation going. This kid—Stuart or Stu or Stu-loo—was the first person her age she’d talked to since Camp Quapaw.

She looked back through the glass of the library door, at that table of kids. She’d switched schools five times in ten years. She’d never worried about getting along—mostly because she never took the problems at school too seriously. She’d had problems galore at home. But she might have trouble here. And the wiry, curly-haired boy who’d fled the library might be her best hope of making a friend in this weird place.

The next second, she was running across the parking lot, the heat of the asphalt shooting up through the thin soles of her sandals. The boy had probably disappeared already. Why was she running?

But then she rounded the hedge and saw his mop of curls up ahead.

“Stuart!” she hollered after him, breath heaving. That was one drawback to sitting on the bleachers during PE.

He turned, instinctively wary. But then when he saw who it was, he smiled—as if he’d been hoping she’d follow. As if they’d been friends forever.

Alabama hurried to catch up. He might not have any degrees like Dr. Bland, but she’d finally found someone she wanted to talk to.

A
t teacher orientation—which Bev scooted into, late, after dropping off Alabama—Lon introduced his stunning new wife, Leah. She really was beautiful, with perfect blond hair showing off the right amount of shine, curl, and bounce, like a shampoo ad. She also had a great figure and a Christie Brinkley smile. At least half the student body was sure to love her. When she was introduced as a new English teacher
and
choir director, people applauded, although Bev caught a few puzzled or embarrassed glances aimed her way.

Lon noticed them, too. “And let’s also give a round of applause to Bev Putterman, who did such a terrific job filling in as choir director after Dory Whitlow left us.”

As everyone applauded again, a flush crept up Bev’s neck. True, she had stepped in after Dory’s tragic stroke, but she never considered herself to be
filling in.
She had taken the choir seriously—taken pride in the work she’d done—and now she felt like a mother having her baby yanked from her arms so it could be given to another woman. No one had even discussed this with her!

Except Glen. She should have taken his warning more seriously, once she found out he was part of the Kirby inner circle.

She shot a glare at the top of his head. Of course he was sitting near the front. Traitor.

After that, the assembly got down to the nitty-gritty. Big changes were coming to New Sparta High School. A whole day of orientation was going to be allotted to the new Scantron scanning system of preparing and giving multiple-choice tests. Another day was going to be devoted to something called computer literacy, to encourage teachers to start preparing lessons on computers. Bev couldn’t see much use in that.

But the computers were practically all Lon could talk about. As a result of the lobbying efforts of Lon and some of the school board members, including Lon’s old buddy Mayor Keith Kerrigan, a tech company in Dallas had donated four machines to New Sparta High School, which was now the first AA school in East Texas—practically the whole state—with a computer lab. Lon was even more puffed with pride over the computers than he was over his new bride.

For Bev, the biggest blow came when the class schedules were handed out. Bev received her sheet and was flabbergasted to find that she was only to teach one home economics class. One. She flipped the paper over, thinking perhaps that the time for the advanced class would be on the other side. But no. The second side was blank. The first side showed that she was to teach one section of home economics, two sections of health, study hall sixth period, and something simply designated
Monitor
.

Within seconds, hands shot up—especially those of the veteran teachers. “What is ‘monitor’?” Lois Carlson asked.

Lon explained that, as an experiment to deal with delinquency, class skippers, and vandalism, they were starting a pilot program of faculty hall monitors. All teachers except those carrying the heaviest schedules of classes would be expected to patrol the school corridors during certain free periods. “You’ll be our cop on the beat,” Lon said. “We’re hoping this will have the dual effect of reducing incidents of mischief
and
making the students feel safer.”

Frank Atkins, who taught algebra and was the oldest faculty member, went red in the face. “You mean you’re getting rid of Gerald?”

Gerald Owens was the school security guard, and perhaps the only person at the school older than Frank.

“No,” Lon said. “Gerald will still be here—but Gerald can’t be everywhere at once.”

So teachers were now going to be backup security guards. As this realization rippled through the assembly, the temperature in the room plummeted several degrees. Bev, still dealing with the blow of having her favorite class shaved off the curriculum, bristled at the prospect of being a hallway policeman. And it wasn’t all teachers who had this additional duty, only the ones whose course loads had been pared down. What message did that send to kids—and other members of the faculty—except that some teachers were worth less than others?

She’d bet dollars to donuts that Leah Kirby wasn’t going to be walking a beat.

After the assembly, she plucked up her courage and hurried after Lon, catching up with him in the hallway. “I need to speak to you,” she said.

Lon stopped, as did Leah, at his side. The woman aimed a benevolent-queen smile at Bev, but Lon bristled with impatience. “There will be time for discussions in the coming week, Bev.”

“Yes, but—”

“If it’s about the choir, I realize you’re disappointed.”

To heck with the choir,
she almost said. “What’s happened to advanced home economics?”

He sputtered a little indignantly at the question, as if
she
was being childish for wondering how an entire subject level could disappear. “A year should be enough to teach kids how to boil an egg, shouldn’t it?”

Only the utmost restraint kept her head from exploding. “That is a very dismissive way to speak about a time-honored school subject.”

“Last semester advanced home ec only had twelve students.”

“So? How many students make it all the way to Spanish 4? Not twelve, I guarantee you.”

“Spanish is an
academic
subject,” Lon argued. “We need to be forward-looking. Face it. A decade ago, every girl in school wanted to take homemaking. Now you have to compete more with electives like photography and journalism. And computers—we want our girls to be interested in all subjects.” He brushed her off with a glib smile. “Women’s lib, Bev. Aren’t you for it?”

He took his wife’s arm and strolled off.

Women’s lib! Who was he kidding? The man was a Cro-Magnon masquerading as a progressive. All he cared about were objective performance results and school ratings. If there were home economics tournaments, he would be
adding
classes. But no. Sewing projects couldn’t be evaluated by multiple choice. Graciousness, deportment, and real-life skills weren’t things that could be ballyhooed in school assemblies and cheered about in pep rallies. No one yelled “rah” for balanced household budgets or planning a week of nutritious meals. But those things were every bit as important to a teenager’s future happiness as algebra or calculus. More important, probably.

The day went from bad to disastrous when she eyed her schedule more closely and discovered she was being evicted from the home economics portable building. Her home away from home had been requisitioned for the new computer lab.

It was now official. She hated computers. The mania for those stupid things couldn’t die out soon enough for her taste.

Her new site was the old cavernous science room—one of the few remaining structures from the original school building, which had been built in the 1940s. It was Oren Sewell’s lair, where he taught biology. Bev had used the space for health class, but never home ec. It wasn’t appropriate for home ec. Plants, petrie dishes, and ancient jars of fetal pigs and other nauseating things lined the granite-topped counters. A skeleton resided in one corner, and a lop-eared rabbit—Bugs, who was the Fighting Jackrabbits’ unofficial mascot—lived in a wire cage in the corner of the room.

She and Oren would be teaching so many classes here, neither could have much prep time in the room. They’d have to do their prep and paper grading in the faculty lounge. Already, she noticed Oren shooting her nasty looks, as if she was an intruder.

How was this going to work? The space itself was also a problem. It didn’t have enough cabinets for supplies. Cooking sections had always taken place in the cafeteria kitchen, but what about her sewing machine? It would have to be squeezed in the back of the room somewhere. Of course, all the big sewing projects had taken place in advanced home ec, which no longer existed. . . .

At lunch, she flopped down next to her friend Cindy Greggs, the typing teacher. The morning must have been especially difficult for Cindy. After Lon had first come back to New Sparta to take the principal job, he and Cindy had been an item for a while.

“They cut advanced typing and shorthand, too,” Cindy commiserated. “I’m not even full-time anymore. I’m on contract.”

“Oh no.” Bev’s appetite disappeared . . . although staring at fetal pigs all morning probably had as much to do with that as Cindy’s bad news. “Why?”

“Lon thinks the students should focus on computer skills, not typing.”

“But computers are just glorified typewriters, aren’t they? What else are they really good for?”

Cindy’s blank look reflected exactly what was running through Bev’s mind. How would they know? Neither of them had sat in front of a computer. They were dinosaurs . . . and like dinosaurs, soon they would be extinct.

“Well, at least you’ve got your health classes,” Cindy said. “They can’t get rid of those.”

Bev grunted. “I heard Larry had asked about getting more hours. He taught science once at the junior high, so he could step in and teach health.” And Larry Oaks, the junior varsity basketball coach, was Lon’s uncle. “They gave him a bus route, but what if that doesn’t work out?”

“You’re right. He has a bad hip, too. Those buses aren’t easy to shift.”

Gloom hung over them as they picked at their salads.

As the afternoon dragged on, Bev tried to come to terms with the new reality and spent a few hours arranging her corner of the biology lab, attempting to make it welcoming. She and Oren circled each other, grumbling, until they finally decided on a strict schedule of who would be in the room when—O time and B time.

By the end of the day, she tried to talk herself into believing that the change was perfectly appropriate. What was she teaching children if not science? The science of making a life for themselves. There were formulas and . . .

Oh, who was she kidding? She was being winnowed out.

Dispirited, she went to the office and called Derek. Maybe they could all go out for a pizza tonight, when this was all over. She couldn’t wait for the day to end.

But when she tracked him down, after ringing three numbers and then waiting while a gum-smacking woman at the end of the line hunted for him, he was brusque. “Sorry, babe, no can do. I’m in Wichita Falls till the weekend. I’ll call you Saturday for Sunday.”

“Why not for Saturday?”

“Because I’ll be dead tired from working all week and driving home, that’s why. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad day at work today . . . a few disappointments.”

“Join the club.”

They hung up. Of course she was probably overdramatizing her problems. It was just everything snowballing on her. It seemed there was nowhere, no one, to turn to with her problems anymore. Her mother was being romanced by some shady old guy. . . . God knows what was going on there. And then with Alabama always so ornery and sullen at home. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her life.

At the end of the day, she braced herself for another bleak evening ahead. She would float the idea of pizza, but she fully expected Alabama to turn it down. Nothing that Bev thought up was ever a good idea, in Alabama’s opinion. So she’d spend another evening alone listening to Jim Morrison blaring on the other side of Alabama’s bedroom door.

When she pushed open the door, however, a strange smell greeted her. Chocolate and butter. Happy smells . . . and something else, too. Chemicals.

The B-52’s thumped through the house. The music sounded almost . . . cheery.

What was going on?

“Aunt Bev?”

Alabama zipped in front of her. Her hair was covered in some kind of crazy hippie-scarf-turban, and she was grinning.
Grinning.
“Hey! I invited a friend over—hope you don’t mind.” She held her hand out and then pulled a boy over. A curly-headed boy with big brown eyes and a shy smile. “This is Stuart Looney.”

At first she was nervous to think of a boy being over while they were unchaperoned—but Stuart didn’t strike her as the type of boy who might burn down the house one day.

“Hi, Ms. Putterman,” he said. “I’m hoping to take your home economics class this year. I’m going to be a freshman, too.”

“That’s terrific,” she said. Boys rarely volunteered for home ec. The few who landed in it were usually there because they needed hours and no other elective fit.

“Stuart made
the best
chocolate chip cookies,” Alabama said. “Also, he helped me with my hair. He’s very artistic.”

“The house smells great. I wasn’t expecting . . .” Bev eyed the turban with increased wariness. “You did something to your hair?”

The two of them nearly fell over laughing, which ramped up her anxiety a notch.

“Shut up!” Alabama said to Stuart. “I
like
it.”

Stuart looked at Bev, shaking his head. “It didn’t come out quite the way I wanted. I mean, I didn’t quite envision it looking like—”

“It does not!” Alabama punched his arm, which he reacted to as if she’d knocked him over.

For a moment, they were incoherent with laughter.

Bev stared at them, speechless. She’d never seen Alabama like this.

“What did you do?” she asked, when they were winding down.

“Is it time for the unveiling?” Stuart asked Alabama.

“It is,” she said.

Before Bev’s panic could fully register, Stuart whipped the scarf off Alabama’s head like a magician pulling a cloth from a table.

“Ta-da!” Alabama said, striking a pose.

Bev gaped. Her niece’s sandy-blond hair was now striped with bright red. It was as if a circus big top had landed on her head.

But it wasn’t the dye job that left Bev slack-jawed. The hair was stunning, but even more amazing was the sight, and sound, of Alabama laughing.