Between the Lines (11 page)

“No,”
Jenna answers quickly. “They are residential halls and we will not invade the
privacy of the students.”

“If
they’re in class, it won’t be an invasion,” I point out.

Tara
looks at me, her eyebrows raised. “Then, you wouldn’t mind tours being
conducted for strangers in your home while you are not there, without your
knowledge or permission?”

She has a
point, but I don’t like it. And, the more they don’t want to show me, the more
I know it was right to come here.

There are
other buildings surrounding the campus and I can only guess what’s inside.
Classrooms? Cafeteria? Library?

“What
about school dances?”

“There
are no dances at Baxter, Miss West,” Jenna answers firmly. “Nor is dating
allowed or any type of fraternization among the students.”

How very
odd. With five hundred high school students, you can’t tell me that there
haven’t been a couple of relationships. These are teenagers with raging
hormones and nobody has ever even
liked
someone else?

“It’s a
high school, not a social club.” With that she turns and marches toward the
next building. Tara smiles and shrugs and then turns to follow Jenna.

Gabe – 17

Before
the bell rings, the kids are seated at their desks, staring at me. There’s
anger and frustration in their eyes, but I’m pretty sure none of its actually
directed at me.

“Did each
of you pick a news story from last week, write a paper on the weakness and
strengths and draft the article as you think it should have been written?”

They all
nod.

“Put them
in the basket on my desk as you leave and I’ll grade them tonight.” I pick a
book up off of my desk. I spent the weekend revising my lesson plans to move
away from journalism and into biographies in light of what happened with Jesse.
I had to do something to keep from constantly thinking about Ellen and it
helped. A little at least. “How many of you have read a biography?”

Only two
hands go up. I’m surprised any of them have. It isn’t exactly a favorite genre
for any high school student.

“This is
one of my favorites.” There’s a picture of Abraham Lincoln on the cover. “Did
you know that there have been roughly fifteen thousand books written about our
16
^th
President?”

“Hold up,
Mr. Gabe,” Louie calls from the back of the room.

I should
have known it’d be Louie who stopped me. Half the time he doesn’t even raise
his hand or wait for me to call on him. He just blurts out what’s on his mind.

“Yes,
Louie.”

“What
about our homework?” He throws up his hands in frustration. “That’s it? We
ain’t going to discuss it?”

“We are
not going to discuss it! Or, are we not going to discuss it?” Marissa, an art
student, corrects him.

Louie
rolls his eyes then crosses his arms over his chest, challenging me with a lift
of an eyebrow. It’s all show. He may look tough, but he’s not. We all know it,
but I’m sure it’s a persona that served him well before he got to Baxter. Not
that I know where that was, but a kid doesn’t exude such a tough threatening
exterior without having needed to do so in the past. Louie has the look but
none of the bite and is the quickest to apologize if he thinks he hurt someone’s
feelings.

“After
I’ve read them, if anything needs to be discussed we will.”

A student
raises her hand.

“Yes,
Katie.”

“Are you
still going to pick the best ones to go in the school paper?”

“I’ll
have to read them before I decide.” It had been my intention to publish the
best articles. I assumed each student would find something different to write
about. Recent events cancelled any further journalistic pursuits. I’m pretty
sure they picked the same damn topic. “I thought we’d move onto biographies and
autobiographies.”

Mick
shakes his head and slouches down in his seat.

Tyler
stands abruptly, his chair falling back against the desk behind him. “But what
about the truth and ethics of journalism?” He’s waving papers above his head
and I suspect it’s his homework. His reaction also takes me kind of by
surprise. Tyler never speaks without being called on. He’s also extremely
respectful to everyone. This outburst is way out of character.

“We’ve
already covered those topics,” I say calmly.

“Well, I
think we need to cover them again.” Tyler slaps the papers against the desk.

Tensions
are rising in the room. This has never happened and I need to get it under
control.  Just because I don’t know the history of the kids, that doesn’t mean
I’m not aware of the potential danger of what outbursts can lead to.

“You
can’t expect us to pretend it didn’t happen. That girl lied,” Emma says.

I know
she’s talking about Jesse. They haven’t said his name, but they figured it out
and are upset. I can’t really blame them. “I’m not asking you to.
We
simply won’t be discussing it in this class.”

“Sweeping
it under the rug,” Maria, a theatre and music student, says with disgust.
“That’s the problem with adults. Things get a little uncomfortable and they
don’t want to talk about it.”

This
pisses me off, but I don’t take it out on the kids. It’s not my intention to
pretend it didn’t happen, or ignore the situation. I’m a fucking English
teacher, not their therapist. The accusations against Jesse, the reporting and
what memories, or nightmares, it may bring up for this kids is way beyond
anything I can help with. If they have a meltdown, I’m the most unequipped
person at the school to handle it. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate to
discuss in this class.”

“But we
lost a good teacher because of lies,” Mick yells. “They sure didn’t report on
the truth after the fact.”

Okay,
this is getting out of control. Maybe I used the wrong tactic in dealing with
this. “Please sit down, Tyler, and please quit yelling, Mick.”

They both
frown, but do as I ask.

“They
made him out to sound like a creep.” Tears form in Jada’s eyes. “That he likes
young girls. Mr. Jesse isn’t like that.”

“He liked
art. He liked our art. He don’t like teenage girls,” Louie insists.

“Does not
like,” Marissa corrects.

Some of
the kids are nodding their head. This is so not what I wanted to discuss.

“We know
that
type. He is not one of
them
.” Maria says quietly and looks down at her
desk.

My
stomach churns. How many of these kids experienced the unwanted attention of
adults when they were younger? Maybe they do need to talk about it, but not
with me. I’ll have to send a note over to the cabins, where the therapists
work, and make sure they touch base with their clients.

“There’s
nothing sick, or wrong, with Mr. Jesse,” Emma insists. “He just wanted to teach
art so his students could get better. Achieve and learn things.”

“No names
were mentioned,” I remind them.

 “They
didn’t need to.” Tyler snorts. “Art teacher, gallery in town, babysitter. They
might as well have put his picture on the front page.”

“I knew
he didn’t do it, even before that bitch recanted,” Carlie grumbles.

I should
discipline her for her language, but in this circumstance, I let it go. These
kids are upset. But, as much as they may need to talk, they can’t with me.

Anya and
Lara Babin, twins, and the only siblings at Baxter, are in the back of the
class, sinking further and further into their seats, as if they want to escape.
This is what I was afraid of. Not those two specifically, but any number of
them suffering from anxiety. I’ve got to bring an end to this conversation.

Relief
shoots through me when there’s a knock at the door. I don’t care who it is or
the reason for them interrupting my class, as long as it changes the topic of
discussion.

Mick, who
is closest to the door opens it. Jenna, the school counselor, and Tara, a
therapist, walks in. Their timing couldn’t be more perfect and I’m just about
to ask Tara to take over when the women part and Ellen West steps between them.
My heart skips a beat and our eyes lock. My stomach plummets. She’s the fucking
reporter? Why else would she be here? It’s sure as hell not to see me and even
if it is, I don’t want to see her, I lie to myself.

Was any
of it real?

“Are we
disturbing you?” Jenna asks hesitantly.

I hope
they couldn’t hear the arguments out in the hall. It can easily be explained to
Jenna and Tara, but not to Ellen. I don’t want to even look at her, let alone
talk to her right now. If I could only convince that obstinate organ in my
chest I was done with her, all would be just bloody great. “No, not at all.”

Jenna
smiles. “This is Miss Ellen West. She’s a reporter and we’re showing her around
the school.”

I can’t
wait for this day to be over and it’s not even lunchtime yet.

Louie and
Tyler raise their hands. I’m not about to call on them. Not with Ellen in the
room at least.

“Yes,
Louie?” Jenna asks.

I hold my
breath.

“Which
paper do you work for, Miss West?”

“I’m a
freelance investigative reporter and write a blog.”

“What is
it called?” Tyler asks.

“Looking
West. With the question mark.”

He nods.

“Are you
interested in journalism?” she asks.

“That’s
what we’re studying at the moment,” Tyler answers.

Ellen’s
eyes light up and she opens her mouth and I quickly cut her off. “Actually, we
just finished.” I hold up the book on Abe Lincoln. “Were about to study
biographies.”

Each of
the students frowns at me.

Don’t
they get it? They don’t know her. I don’t know her. At least, not like I
thought. I don’t trust reporters and I sure as hell don’t trust her.

Katie
raises her hand and I call on her. “Will you be visiting again, Miss West?”

“I’d like
to.”

“Maybe
you can give us your opinion with regard to the ethics of journalism at that
time,” Tyler says.

Her
eyebrows draw together. “Sure.”

“Only
after we read your blog,” Tyler adds, as if he isn’t sure he can trust her
either. The kid has good instincts.

“Perhaps
later in the week,” Ellen offers hopefully.

“We’ll
see.” I’m not about to make any promises.

“Well, we
should let Mr. Gabe get back to teaching his class,” Jenna says from the
doorway.

Thank God
Ellen is leaving. “Miss Tara, can you remain? I have a question.”

She
startles. “Of course.” She turns to Jenna and Ellen. “Go on.”

Jenna
closes the door behind them and I wait until I’m sure they are far enough away
and can’t hear through the door before quietly explaining the situation with
the kids and the news story they eagerly want to discuss.

She
frowns, biting her upper lip. We look at the kids. They’re watching us
expectantly. Tara lets out a sigh. “It should be addressed.”

“And not
by me.”

“True.”
She smiles brightly and goes to the front of the class. “So, you have a few
things on your mind.” Tara’s better prepared to deal with these students. She
has the masters in psychology. I’m just an English teacher and former jock.

Ellen

He hates
me. But, I should have expected it. I haven’t seen that same look of loathing
on anyone’s face since I first took the stand. That time it was my father.

The same
flash of awareness, excitement and wanting I’d experienced each time I was with
him before rushed through my body the minute I laid eyes on Gabe. He clearly
didn’t feel the same if the coldness in his blue eyes was any indication.

I blew
it, but it’s for the best. But, I hate it.

This was
a fucking mistake. I should have stayed away.

But I
can’t. I can’t turn my back on what I’m afraid is happening here. I need to put
my discomfort and pain aside, and focus on the story. On Baxter and what they
are hiding. Focus on protecting the kids. It’s what I do.

Jenna
leads me out of the building and into the warm sunshine. I’ve probably worn out
my welcome but I’m not ready to go anywhere. Now that I’ve seen Gabe, I want to
talk to him. I doubt he’ll give me a chance, but I need to try and explain
somehow, but I’m not even sure that’s possible or what I could say.

I’ve got
to stop thinking about him and focus on the story. “All of the teachers seem so
young. Do you employ anyone over the age of thirty?”

“A few.”

Maybe it
doesn’t pay well and this is the only job those teachers could get.

Still,
each time I met an adult they immediately became guarded, as if they have
something to hide. And, what’s it about the kids wanting to discuss the ethics
of journalism when Gabe clearly said they were moving on to biographies? They
must have been having a heated discussion right before we went in because I heard
them out in the hall, not that I could make out what was being said.

“I’m
surprised the kids don’t wear uniforms.” This had struck me from the beginning;
I just hadn’t bothered to voice it yet. Whenever I’ve been on a private campus,
and even some of the public ones, the kids are in some form a uniform, usually
involving khaki or navy skirts and slacks, and polo or dress shirts.

“They’re
students, not soldiers.”

“Studies
have shown that disciplinary incidents decrease dramatically when uniforms have
been implemented.”

“We don’t
have disciplinary problems at Baxter.” She turns to face me. “This is an art
school and we encourage individuality. As long as clothing is modest, the
students are allowed to wear whatever they wish.”

A high
school with no problems? With five hundred students? Unheard of. Just another
lie to make me further question this place. Just like there is no
fraternization among the students. They aren’t robots and this isn’t the high
school version of Stepford Wives.