Drenched in Light (23 page)

Her snide comments quickly pushed me the final inch, and I hit the end of my rope with a twang. “You know what, Mrs. Morris?” I snapped, and I mean snapped in more ways than one. “He’s just a kid—a child—having a bad day, and apparently going through some problems at home. It’s cold outside, and he’s huddled out on the steps, because, for whatever reason, his father dropped him off early. How about we show a little compassion?”

She met my question with a cold stare. “If we begin making exceptions, soon there will be no standard to uphold.” Raising her chin self-righteously, she sniffed the air, probably trolling for eye of newt and toe of frog for her latest witch’s brew.

“Surely, as professionals, we are capable of discerning when exceptions are called for,” I countered.
Remain calm, remain calm. Remember, the shoulder angel is watching.
“That is what we’re here for, is it not?”

Mrs. Morris’s lips pinched together until there was nothing but a thin line of wrinkles, like the navel of an orange left in the bowl three months too long. “I am here to create excellence,” she bit out, turning away from my door. “Soft treatment creates weaklings.” One last glance over her shoulder told me that by
“weaklings,”
she, of course, meant me.

“Rrrrr, I hate the woman,” I growled, gripping the side of my desk and thinking,
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
“I hate that woman, I hate that woman. . . .”

I placated myself by doodling a Mrs. Morris stick figure on my DayMinder, complete with pointy hat and broomstick, while I gave the shoulder angel an earful. Picking up a Sharpie, I obliterated the witchy pictograph, wishing I could get rid of the real thing so easily.

Even though the grant application was crying out for attention, I turned on the computer and went instead to commentary sites for
The Grapes of Wrath
, downloading and printing page after page of brilliant literary analysis. Grant application or no grant application, I’d show Mrs. Morris a thing or two. This week, I was going to tutor Dell like crazy. By the time we were finished, she would be an expert on Steinbeck’s dust-bowl masterpiece. She would know more than any other kid in the class. Mrs. Morris would be baffled as to how it happened, frustrated because the
“wrong kind”
of student could suddenly answer all of her persnickety questions.

If Cameron showed up early tomorrow, I would not only give him a pass to a rehearsal room, I would walk him there myself, so that Mrs. Morris couldn’t harangue him in the hall. One way or another I was going to show the wicked witch of English that this school did not belong to her. This was war. . . .

 

The thing about war is that it eventually takes its toll on both sides, and sometimes the neutral countries in the middle. By the end of the week, I was exhausted from arriving early to intercept Cameron, reading
The Grapes of Wrath
until late at night, tutoring Dell during lunch and Study Buddy time, working on the grant application every spare moment, and seeing to all the normal counselor duties, including the rapidly growing problem of finding substitute teachers during what was, apparently, a worsening flu epidemic.

Dell was not nearly as thrilled to see me coming as she had been earlier on. My presence meant hard work, but her daily grades were improving, especially in English. Dell could now read the passages in class somewhat more fluently and explain the meaning. What Mrs. Morris didn’t know was that Dell and I had bypassed the syllabus and started reading ahead. Dell read the chapters a second time alone at home, so that when she arrived at class, she was covering the material for the third time and had an understanding of the underlying meaning, which greatly improved her confidence and ability.

Mrs. Morris was perplexed by Dell’s sudden improvement, which made it that much more satisfying. Dell’s chances of achieving a passing grade in English were looking more promising, but she would most likely need some extra-credit points. That, I was afraid, was going to be a problem. If Dell asked Mrs. Morris for extra-credit work, Morris would probably tell her to leap off a tall building.

With Dell’s needs, the grant application deadline change, and everything else piling up, I lost focus on the drug issue. Cameron came early every morning, transported to school by his father rather than his high-school friend, Sebastian. Slouched over on the stoop, huddled against the late-winter chill, he seemed sober and sad. I let him in each day and escorted him to a rehearsal room. Since he was in perfect-kid mode for the moment, our conversations were all
Please,
and
Thank you,
and
No, ma’am, Ms. Costell, nothing’s wrong. Can I go practice my music now?
But somewhere between the lines I determined that his parents had split up, and he was privy to all the gory details.

On Friday, he wasn’t waiting on the stoop, but came wandering in late, carrying a grease-stained lunch sack, looking glassy-eyed, mellow and content. He transferred houses weekly, and this was his week with his mother. She let him ride to school with Sebastian because she was busy at home with his soon-to-be stepfather, who came prepackaged with two young daughters.

After Cameron passed by with his tardy slip, I went to Stafford’s office and closed the door. “I know we have random drug testing scheduled for next Friday,” I said, “but I have a student I’d like to see tested today. Is that possible?”

Leaning back in his chair, Stafford frowned, his suit jacket falling open as he laced his fingers over the polyester beach ball of his stomach. “The tests are arranged according to a computer-generated list. Completely random, so as to avoid lawsuits or complaints that we’re profiling, picking on somebody, things like that. The list comes out every other Thursday; then the kids report for testing on Friday. If they’re absent Friday, they know they have to come in first thing Monday morning.”

“Do we have the power to put someone on the list, or to test on an
unscheduled
day?” I pressed. What good was a drug test if the kids were warned about it ahead of time? There were stories all over the Internet of kids beating the test by sneaking in clean urine samples. They hid them in the bathrooms ahead of time, concealed them in condoms and Ziploc bags tucked in their underwear. For kids who could afford it, there was even a pill that could reportedly make the urine test yield a false negative.

If Mr. Stafford knew any of that, he wasn’t concerned about it. “Typically we stick to the regular schedule so that we’re not pulling kids out of class during something important. . . .” His disinterested expression told me that the answer would be no. Part of me wanted it to be. Cameron had enough problems already, and getting nailed for using drugs would only blow the situation wide-open. On the other hand, not confronting a potential addiction allowed it to take over your life.

“Who is it?” Stafford asked, and I handed him Cameron’s name on a sticky note. If the secretary was outside the door, I didn’t want her to hear, particularly since Cameron’s father was on the school board.

Stafford’s eyes widened; then he folded the note in half, sliding his thumb and forefinger crisply along the crease. “I don’t think there’s a problem here. Just a little teenage rebellion. Dad’s got it under control.”

“Dad may, but Mom doesn’t. This kid needs help.”

Stafford met my comment with a patronizing smile. If I’d been close enough, he probably would have patted me on the head. “Don’t worry, Ms. Costell. The kid has good parents.”

“Parents don’t always want to know what’s going on.”

Tucking the note in his shirt pocket, he flicked a ladybug off his desk. “These situations tend to work themselves out. When you’ve been in administration as long as I have, you’ll realize that,” he said pleasantly, then changed the subject. “So how’s the grant application coming along?”

A muscle started twitching in the side of my jaw. I wanted to jump up and down and scream, fly into a fit, tear my hair out, and run down the hall like a crazy woman. Anything to get someone to pay attention. Instead, I said, “Fine. I’ve moved up the timetable with the architect, the permit study, and the district financial officer, so that everything will be complete for the school board to review the application and act on the agenda item in time.”

Stafford was delighted. “Wonderful! Good job catching that change in the deadline. Well-done, Ms. Costell.” And behind that, there was the unspoken,
Good girl.
Finally, I was keeping my nose where it belonged, quietly writing my little grant applications rather than interfering in the lives of the students. “You’ve got a ladybug on your shoulder,” Stafford pointed out, cheerfully wagging a finger at me.

Clenching my teeth to prevent anything from getting past my lips, I walked out the door with the ladybug taxiing along. To top it off, Mrs. Jorgenson handed me three messages from my mother. Thank God it was Friday.

Back in my office, I called the high school guidance counselor, hoping he could arrange to have this Sebastian kid tested, nipping Cameron’s problem at the source. Mr. Fortier sighed into the phone. In addition to counseling, he served as assistant principal, due to recent budget cuts, and had just come back from three days of chaperoning kids at a district music contest. “Not likely,” he answered in a tone of emotionless surrender. “I’m sure the Sebastian you’re talking about is Sebastian Talford. His dad’s a city councilman. No chance he’ll turn up on the random drug testing list anytime soon; I can promise you that. Up here, we test only according to the list. Principal’s orders.”

“Figures,” I muttered.

“Yeah. Pretty much does,” he agreed wearily. “Welcome to Harrington, kid. It’s no place for dreamers.”

“Thanks,” I bit out, then hung up the phone. Standing there, staring at the mountain of paperwork, the never-ending attendance reports, and substitute teacher requests for Monday, I decided that what I really needed was a trip to Jumpkids land tonight. My brain was on overload, my body was double-knotted like a toddler’s shoestring, and I’d had all I could take. I needed a hug, some cheese crackers, and a good workout with Ms. Mindia.

When I passed Dell in the hall, I told her I’d see her at Jumpkids. “Cool,” she replied. She actually had a friend with her this time, a cello player named Darbi, who was a minor misfit and not an outstanding student. She and Dell were talking about Mrs. Morris’s latest test on
The Grapes of Wrath
. Dell had apparently done fairly well, because now she was giving Darbi the same advice I’d given her about taking Mrs. Morris’s torturous literature exams. It was good to see her laughing and talking with someone her own age.

By the time the afternoon was over, I was counting down the minutes, and I headed for the door at four thirty-one, still calling substitute teachers on my cell phone. Recently, Mr. Stafford had been stopping by my office every day after dismissal. He’d kept me late several evenings in a row, standing over my shoulder reading the performing arts center application and suggesting pointless word changes. Today, I was out of there before he could catch me.

Exiting with the box of grant materials under my arm and my cell phone balanced on my shoulder, I ran into Mr. Verhaden. On the phone, yet another prospective substitute declined the opportunity to teach algebra next week, and said that she wouldn’t be available to fill in during a maternity leave in the life sciences department, either.

“No subs, huh?” Verhaden surmised, nodding toward the phone as I tossed it in the box with the grant materials.

“No,” I grumbled. “There’s no one available, and the algebra teacher is out all next week, then Mrs. Carter goes on maternity leave the week after that. I still need someone to take her classes for the rest of the year. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Most of the noncertified subs have worked their maximum number of days for the year, and most of the certified ones are already on long-term assignments.”

“Why are you the one calling subs?” he asked. “The administration office usually does that.” The wind lifted flyaway hairs from his evolving comb-over, and he reached up to carefully smooth them back into place. Considering that Verhaden was only about forty, it was strange to see him holding down his hairdo like an old man. When I was a Harrington middle school student, he was the young and single teacher all the girls dreamed about—an idealistic earth child with a talent for both teaching and music. He had us recycling cans to support the homeless shelter and playing benefit concerts to save the rain forest. Now he was just another guy with dark circles under his eyes and a receding hairline.

“Stafford asked me if I’d take up the slack,” I told him. “Mrs. Jorgenson is busy with arrangements for the eighth grade graduation banquet and spring fling.”

“Looks like someone needs to take up the slack for you.” He nodded toward my box of papers. “Better watch out, or filling the sub list will be dumped on your plate permanently. The first thing you have to learn around here is how to say no.”

“I can handle it.”

Verhaden smiled benevolently, winking at me. “They’ll drain you dry and spit out the shell,” he said, his expression adding,
And you’ll end up forty, with no family, no life, and a bad comb-over.
His face turned slowly grave. “Seriously, Julia, you can’t take over the office work, adopt every kid who’s dropped off too early, and tutor all the ones whose grades are below par. There are too many of them. These kids have to learn to sink or swim on their own.”

I recoiled, as much at the Darwinian philosophy as at the fact that Verhaden was the one espousing it. I’d always thought he was one of the good guys. “I have to do what I can. If I don’t, why am I here?”

“You’ll burn yourself out, Julia.” Meeting my eyes, he laid a hand on my shoulder. I had a sudden inkling that he knew why I was now a guidance counselor, rather than a dancer with the KC Metro.

I chose to quickly change the subject. “If Dell Jordan doesn’t get some help, she’s not going to make it. She’s way behind academically.”