Bayview Heights Trilogy (2 page)

“Lucky for us that I did.”

Cassie blew errant bangs out of her eyes.
“Oh, God, I can’t believe this. Me and a cop working together.”

“It might be nice if you called him a police
officer. He
is
a captain, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know. He’s so by-the-book it’s
scary. I saw his attitude toward Johnny firsthand. And then he
testified against Amit—who’s barely staying in school—on the
dealing charge.”

“As I recall, he saved Amit’s neck by
recommending a community service punishment, instead of juvenile
detention, so he
could
stay here as a student.”

Cassie sighed and sank into the chair. “Yeah,
that’s true. But he’s just so stiff, so formal. Rules, rules,
rules. Do you know how my class will appear to him?”

“You have rules, Cassie.”

“Yeah. Try telling that to Jerry Bosco. He
thinks we run a zoo down in hall 400.”

Seth frowned at the mention of the veteran
teacher who had vehemently opposed the At-Risk Program. Cassie knew
Seth had had run-ins with the man, too, some of them very serious
and long-standing. “Bosco’s just jealous of all the money that’s
been funneled there.”

“No. He thinks advanced placement kids are
the only ones deserving computers, field trips and special
programs.”

“Which is what Mitch Lansing is, Cass. Part
of a special program. Just like the ones we brought in from
business and social services.”

“Why can’t he work with Ross’s math class? Or
Jack’s social studies class?”

“You know he can’t. Ross and Jack have done
their stints. You and Zoe get to participate this half of the year.
And Zoe’s got the artists.”

“Why don’t I have the arts? I use art in
English class more than she does in a science class.”

“Because the arts, writing and reading are
part of every curriculum, not just language arts.”

Cassie smiled as she listened to Seth expound
on his favorite topic. One of the first things he’d done when he
became principal at Bayview Heights High School ten years ago was
to erase as many lines as he could between the disciplines. Because
of him, research papers became the requirement of all subjects,
even math; reading and writing were heavily emphasized in each
course; and physics teachers participated in the dance workshops
and the improvisational theater specials. Seth Taylor had truly
helped make Bayview Heights High School an innovative school.

“Then shorten the time. Every day for ten
weeks is too much.”

Seth just stared at her.

“All right,” Cassie said with exasperation.
“He doesn’t really start today, though, does he? I’ve got to
prepare the kids.”

“Yes, he does. We knew something like this
was in the works, but I just got word Friday afternoon exactly what
kind of program it would be and when it would start. And I didn’t
want to ruin your weekend.” He glanced at his watch. “But I’ll
stall him here for half of your class. We’ll discuss the program,
and I’ll get to know him a little. You can use the first part of
that two-hour-block schedule you talked me into to prepare the
kids.”

“All right.”

“I’m counting on you, Cass.”

For a minute, Cassie was transported back
nineteen years. Seth had stood at her desk after one of his English
classes and said those exact words to her. He’d known she was going
to take off for good that night, to escape the seediness of the
one-room apartment where she lived, the derogatory names people
called her and her mother, the consistent failure in school.

She’d been sixteen.

And the man before her had encouraged her to
stay, to keep a journal about her life, and he’d insisted she talk
to him about everything. Finally he’d arranged legal and
professional help for her. Cassie shuddered when she thought about
where she’d be if it wasn’t for him.

Glancing down her leg, she caught sight of
the small rose tattoo at her ankle. She’d had it done in a grungy
tattoo parlor in Greenwich Village when she was fifteen; she kept
it as a reminder of what it was like to be one of the kids she now
taught.

“Cassie?” Seth’s question brought her back to
the present.

“Yeah, I know you’re counting on me. Just
like I know that
you
know exactly what you’re doing when
you say that to me, Mr. T.” She used the old name intentionally,
and it brought a smile to his face.

“Now go,” he said gruffly. “Unless you want
to bump into Lansing.”

Cassie stood and hurried out of the office.
She didn’t want to bump into Lansing now, or ever. But damn, she’d
do anything for these kids, even it meant letting a cop—correction,
a police officer— into her classroom.

o0o

MITCH LANSING WAS NOT a happy man. As he
strode down the hallway with the principal of Bayview Heights High
School, he cursed the fates that had brought him to this point in
his life. How the hell had he ended up here?

When they reached the east wing of the
school, the first thing he noticed was the low hum of student
voices. There was occasional laughter punctuated by adult
comments.

“Here we are.” Taylor knocked on the open
door of 401.

Mitch looked around for Ms. Cassie Smith. Had
she left the kids alone? They were all in a group in the far
left-hand corner of the room. But they weren’t at desks. Some were
on couches, some sat on the floor, one perched on top of a table.
The area was plushly carpeted and brightly lit by the sun slanting
in from uncovered windows behind them. He scanned the walls, taking
in some of the posters: “School might be hard, but it’s better than
growing up…The thing we call failure is not falling down but
staying down…It’s what you learn after you know it all that
counts.” He smiled at the sentiments.

Someone unfolded from a zebra-print stuffed
chair and came toward them. Mitch’s smile disappeared when he
realized who it was. She looked even younger today, probably
because of the way she was dressed. Her clothes were casual—checked
shorts that looked like a skirt and a long-sleeved wine-colored
sweater. He tugged at his tie.

When she reached them, she held out her hand
and smiled. Plastic. He knew it matched the one on his face.

“Hello, Captain Lansing.”

“Ms. Smith.”

Taylor stepped farther into the room. Mitch
noticed that the kids had continued with whatever they’d been doing
when he and the principal had come to the door.

“Silent sharing time?” Taylor asked.

She nodded.

“Can I go over?”

“You can go, but they probably won’t let you
see their writing today.” She looked at Mitch. “No offense,
Captain, but they aren’t too happy about having a stranger invade
their turf. However, they’ve agreed to be civil, and it will work
out, I’m sure.”

She didn’t sound sure, Mitch thought. Well,
hell, neither was he.

As Taylor crossed to the far corner, the kids
glanced up at him. Most greeted him congenially. He spoke to the
girl sitting on the desk, and she smiled. He ruffled the hair of
two boys who sat on the floor. A kid on the couch tipped his
baseball cap to him.

“They’re allowed to wear hats in class?”
Mitch asked.

Ms. Smith closed her eyes briefly. When she
opened them, they reminded him of an overcast sky in January. “This
isn’t a church, Captain.”

“No, but kids should show respect for their
school.”

“And taking off your hat shows respect? Not
in here. Read the poster over my desk. We have our own definition
of respect.”

Mitch scanned the room. “Where’s your
desk?”

She pointed to an area to the left. A big
gray metal desk sat unobtrusively in the corner. It was covered
with folders and papers. Next to it was a tall bookshelf that
housed books, picture frames, more folders. Sure enough, on the
wall behind her desk was a big poster—beautifully scripted by
someone with artistic talent. The word
respect
was printed
vertically, and each letter spun off horizontally into a statement.
“R—Rules are for a reason, obey them; E—Expect and return common
courtesies; S—Show others you care; P—Put a lid on negative
comments, even if you have them; E—Exhibit pride in yourself and
let others have theirs; C—Consider the effect your words and
actions have on others; T—Take what you need but give what others
have to have, too.

After he’d read it, Mitch turned back to the
hostile Ms. Smith. Her face was smug. He was about to comment on
the definition, when Taylor returned. “Where’s Johnny?”

Ms. Smith threw Mitch a scathing glance. When
she looked at Taylor, though, her face showed very real concern and
a surprising vulnerability. “No one knows. When we called home, his
mother said she hadn’t seen him in three days.”

“Since Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have any contact with him over the
weekend?”

“No.” She bit her lip and something inside of
Mitch shifted. “I’m worried.”

Taylor reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
Not a smart move in these days of sexual harassment cases, Mitch
thought.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” the principal
told her.

“Thanks.”

As he walked to the door, Taylor said, “Good
luck, Mitch. Stop and see me when you’re finished here.”

Mitch nodded, and Taylor left. Casually,
Mitch stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit pants pockets and
looked at Cassie. “I’m sorry the boy is missing,” he said
simply.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” When she said nothing more, he asked,
“Well, how do we start?”

Silently, she folded her arms over her chest
and leveled wary eyes on him. “With the kids, of course. After all,
that’s why you’re here. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” She looked
him up and down. “I realize you’ve come to help educate these
students, Captain, but you can’t be in class without participating
in the activities. Participation is required from everyone.”

He hadn’t planned on that. The idea was
mildly alarming. He thought he’d just be an observer on the days he
didn’t have to present material. “That was never discussed.”

“Well, it’s a rule in this classroom,
Captain. Everyone participates, including the adults. You like
rules, don’t you?”

She was toying with him, and
that
he
didn’t like.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said
sarcastically.

Accompanying her across the room, he could
feel his heartbeat accelerate as he approached the teenagers. Damn,
this was hard.

“Okay, everyone,” Ms. Smith said. “This is
Captain Lansing from the Bayview Heights Police Department.”
Indicating the chair she’d vacated, Cassie said, “Sit here,
Captain.”

He sat. As he did, he saw two boys watch his
every move with suspicious eyes. Three kids totally ignored him.
One girl whispered to another next to her, and they both
giggled.

The teacher addressed him. “I’ve told
everyone about your stint with us. They have a lot of questions,
but I thought we should start by getting acquainted.” She glanced
at the clock. “We have an hour left. Let’s play the name game.”
When most of them groaned—good naturedly but expressing their
reluctance, nonetheless—she made eye contact with each student and
got their assent. Then she met his gaze. Hers was direct, no
nonsense, confident.

Mitch felt as if he had no choice but to nod,
too. “Could you fill me in on the
rules
first?”

“Each person tells his or her name and shares
one significant personal thing with the group. It helps us get to
know one another and also will help you learn their names.”

At least he would be all right there. He had
a photographic memory. Unfortunately. There were a lot of things
he’d give his soul to forget. As he looked around, he squelched the
inner warning that working with these teenagers was going to bring
back those images. That was why he’d stayed away from adolescents
for twenty-five years. That was why he didn’t want to be here
now.

“Who would like to start?” Cassie asked,
interrupting his reflection. When no one volunteered, she dropped
to the floor, clasped her hands in her lap and looked at them. A
long, uncomfortable thirty seconds passed before a young girl
raised her eyes to the ceiling and said, “Oh, all right. I’ll
start.” Cassie gave her a million-dollar smile, which the girl
returned. “I’m Jen Diaz.”

“And? One significant thing about
yourself?”

Again, the rolled eyes, the stock-in-trade
teenage show of disgust. “I, um, just got a new stepfather.”

They went around the room—slowly, some
begrudgingly.

“Austyn Jones,” a young black student said.
He pulled at the lapels of his sport coat. “And I’m into rags.”

“Clothes,” Cassie said to Mitch.

“I know,” Mitch responded dryly.

“Nikki Parelli,” a sweet-looking redhead
volunteered. “And I like to write.”

“Nikki won first place in the literary
magazine’s poetry contest last year,” her teacher said proudly.

“Brenda Uter,” a dark-eyed girl said when it
was her turn. “And I’m popular.” Everybody laughed, but no one made
a smart remark as Mitch expected.

They proceeded like that—Som Choumpa, a young
girl from Vietnam who loved clothes and had the same eyes as those
that haunted Mitch’s dreams; Amy Anderson, who had a two-year-old
child; Joe DeFazio, who took mechanics in a special afternoon
program; the sports star Don Peterson; Tara Romig, a dancer; Amit
Arga, whom he’d met in court. Two kids were absent, Mike Youngblood
and Johnny Battaglia, bringing the total to twelve—an even dirty
dozen.

“Your turn, Ms. S.,” Jones said. “And don’t
give him nothing stupid. Like you’re a teacher.”

She smiled. “Okay, okay. Let’s see. My name
is Cassie Smith,” she began, but Jen Diaz interrupted,
“Cassandra...named after the Greek woman who could foretell the
future.”