Drenched in Light (6 page)

The body line could be more refined—slimmer. That ice cream is showing. . . .
I’d turned sideways and started to examine myself before I awakened to what was happening.
Stop it. Stop it. You’re not going to do this.
Moving away from the mirror, I stepped on the scale. When I had those thoughts, it helped to get on the scale, think of my target weight range, and see how far off I was. One hundred and two pounds was too low for someone five-foot-six, but not dangerously thin.

Also not fat.

Leaving the scale behind, I rushed to the closet and slipped on a flowered dress, then remembered the change in the weather and grabbed a blazer. Outside, the moaning wind was testifying to the fact that, in spite of an unseasonably warm February so far, spring wasn’t here yet.

By the time I’d gathered my things and arrived downstairs, Mom was setting the kitchen table.

“Mom, I don’t have time,” I said, looking at the clock. Six forty-five. If I didn’t leave now, I would definitely be late. Mrs. Morris would probably be standing at the door, taking notes.

“You have to eat.” Mom stacked toast on a napkin, then scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate.

Grabbing a piece of toast, I piled some eggs onto it, folded it over, and took a Diet Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. “Mom, I love you, but I have to leave. Now.” She pointed the spatula at me like a weapon, and I took a bite of my sandwich. “I’m eating—look, this is me, eating. Mmmmm.”

“Don’t be sassy. You should have some milk. And a heavy coat. It’s cold.”

Grabbing the glass from the table, I downed a swig of milk, then set it in the refrigerator, said, “I’ll save it for later,” snatched up my briefcase, and rushed out the door.

Fortunately, the traffic was light for a Friday, and the seven-thirty bell had just starting ringing as I jogged up the side steps at Harrington, and blew through the doorway on a stiff north wind. Mrs. Morris was already patroling by her classroom door. Checking her watch, she frowned as I passed by, her hawkish gaze following my rush to drop my things at my office, then take my duty station before the principal unlocked the front doors so that early arrivals could start coming in.

Mr. Stafford shook his keys at me as he walked by. “You’re giving me gray hairs, Costell.” It was one of his standard jokes, since he didn’t have any hair.

“Sorry.” I ducked my head, embarrassed about skating in at the last minute. “Bad commute today.” Excuses, excuses. If Mr. Stafford hadn’t been an easygoing guy coasting toward retirement, he probably would have fired me already for being woefully underqualified as a guidance counselor. I was learning on the job, and he was extraordinarily patient with that. Then again, the former guidance counselor had been an old battle-axe like Mrs. Morris. Stafford was probably relieved not to have two vipers denned up near his office.

“Watch out for Morris. She’s hot about yesterday,” Mr. Stafford muttered from the corner of his mouth as he paused by the administration office across the hall. “She’s got friends on the school board.” He sighed wearily, no doubt counting the months until he could spend his mornings on the golf course. “Would have been easier to just give her the essay.”

“It wasn’t the right thing to do,” I replied, and he made a
tsk-tsk
sound, frowning in a way that said,
Great. Just great. Another hopeless idealist who’s never held down a real job and doesn’t have a clue how the world works. When will she learn?

“Just . . . watch out.” Opening the administration door, he stepped partway in, then added, “She wants something to come of this.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” At the end of the hall, Mrs. Morris was busy forcing a half dozen kids to about-face at the side door, so that they could walk around the building and come in the front as the rules prescribed. She looked disturbingly pleased about sending them out in the cold. “It was a judgment call, that’s all. In my opinion, returning the paper was in the best interest of the student involved. Morris’ll just have to tear the wings off some ladybugs for fun.” The school was notorious for its prespring hatching of ladybugs, for which there seemed to be no cure. The bugs gathered in corners, marched in lines up and down the walls, and sailed down the corridors, landing like ornaments in students’ hair. They were probably smart enough to stay away from Mrs. Morris.

Rubbing the side of his face, Stafford stretched his sagging cheek skin, his tired sigh saying,
I don’t need this. What have I done to deserve this?
“It’s Say No to Drugs Day.” He shrugged over his shoulder toward the huge banner that announced a special Kansas City Drug Task Force assembly after roll call. “You’re supposed to be wearing red.” Without another word, he disappeared into his office, and I stood reading the banner—FRIDAY: WEAR RED INSTEAD.

Crossing my arms over my pastel flowered dress and peach blazer, I stepped back against the wall, watching as the hall became a shifting sea of color coordination. Mrs. Morris, of course, had on red. Later, maybe she’d pop out her devil’s horns and complete the outfit.

“Hey, Ms. Costell,” one of the kids—an eighth grader I’d helped with a summer music scholarship application—called, “it’s Red Day.”

Groaning in my throat, I chirped out, “It’s OK, Colton. I like to be different.” What else was there to say?

Twenty minutes later, when we filed into assembly, I ended up on the front row, looking like a party pooper at the antidrug extravaganza. Even the police officers seemed to notice, or maybe that was my own paranoia. Across the aisle, Mrs. Morris was whispering to another teacher and glaring at me. It looked like she was pantomiming yesterday’s disagreement over Dell Jordan.

I searched for Dell in the crowd of students and teachers, but couldn’t find her.
Maybe she’s absent.
The thought brought a pang of disappointment as I settled back into my seat, listening with one ear to the drug task force’s spiel about teenage substance abuse: the effects on the body; tragic stories of kids who’d died or screwed up their lives by smoking, snorting, huffing, graphic tales of drug arrests and junkies; and neighborhoods where dealers had taken over the streets. It was too much information for middle schoolers, and I fidgeted uncomfortably in my chair, anxious for the assembly to be over. When it finally was, I slipped to the exit, watching for Dell as the students filed out, jostling among themselves and making jokes about the assembly with immature bravado, while teachers ordered them to stop visiting and proceed to class. Dell wasn’t in the crowd, and I walked back to my office feeling that I’d missed the mark the day before. She was probably ducking me and avoiding my suggestion that she write down more of her story so we could talk about it. My first real counseling opportunity, and I had no idea what I should have done.

The corridor cleared as students filed into their classrooms, and teachers stood in the doorways, urging kids on and breaking up lingering conversations. Outside the seventh-grade science room, the science teacher was holding a test tube with something smoking inside it, and the literature teacher was loudly quoting a Shakespeare passage about haste.

As the halls emptied, Mr. Stafford escorted the officers from the police task force toward the front door, so that they could walk over to the high school building and repeat their assembly for the older kids. “Down the front steps, follow the covered walkway around the middle school building to the right, through the parking lot, past the performance hall, the maintenance building, and the tennis courts, to the three-story brick building with the glass doors. The newer building.” It had always chafed at Mr. Stafford that the high school facility was years newer than the middle school building, which had originated in the thirties. After closing as a public school, the building had become an arts magnet high school, then finally a magnet middle school, as the program grew and a new high school was constructed. “The administration office is just inside the double doors, and . . .” He glanced at his watch, frowning. “I thought someone from the other building was coming to walk you over.” Spying me, he angled his guests my way. “Ms. Costell can escort you over there and check you in at the office.”

He paused to introduce me. Shaking hands, I thanked the officers, politely complimenting the assembly and saying that it was beneficial for the kids. But what did I know, really? I was no expert on kids and drugs. I was just the dork in the sherbet-colored dress on Red Day.

The police officers weren’t aware of that, of course. They assumed that, as my staff name tag indicated, I was an actual guidance counselor. The sergeant, a fifty-something seen-it-all type whose badge read REUPER, delivered some stats about marijuana, crack, meth, Ecstasy, and huffing common household substances among area teens. Giving me a list of Web sites that offered good information, he suggested follow-up techniques I might use to develop a cooperative home-and school-based prevention program.

I tried to imagine actually calling some Harrington kid into my office and questioning him or her about drug use. The parents would have a fit. Harrington kids were above such interrogation.

“It can happen anywhere. It’s not just gang kids from the wrong side of town.” Sergeant Reuper appeared to be reading my mind. “High expectations and performance pressure can cause kids to look for an escape hatch. These days, marijuana and methamphetamine are inexpensive and relatively easy for young people to procure. They can buy just about anything they want on street corners not four blocks from here. Then there’s the entire class of commonly available household products we talked about during the assembly. Kids don’t think that inhaling butane, correction fluid, or aerosol propellants is drug use, but it is. It’s pervasive, and it’s deadly.” His eyes narrowed toward the hallway, as if he could feel the demanding culture in the atmosphere. “Addiction is an equal opportunity killer. It’s a tough thing to beat, and the only effective solution is a coordinated effort between home and school. There’s no room for denial, in either place.”

In that instant, I could relate to what the kids in our classrooms might be going through. I knew about addiction and denial. Not drug addiction, but I knew about keeping secrets and hiding who you really were. Even in middle school, I realized I had a problem with food, but I didn’t think anyone would understand, so I kept dabbling with binging and purging until I had an addiction I couldn’t control. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll get busy putting together some awareness programs and parent information.”

Mr. Stafford blinked in surprise. Clearly, he didn’t think I was capable of constructing an awareness program. He couldn’t imagine how much I really knew about hitting rock bottom, admitting the truth to your family, and climbing the twelve steps out of the pit.

“Call us if we can help,” the sergeant said, chewing his lip as he surveyed the ceiling, where a line of ladybugs was marching in a lazy circle around the art deco light fixture. “You’d be surprised, even in a place like this, where the kids come from higher socioeconomic families, how many children go days at a time without anybody really talking to them. The thing about a smart kid with some resources is, he can keep up appearances for a long time. Combine that with parents, or schools, or teachers with reputations to uphold, and sometimes the reputation is more important than the truth, or the kid.” Turning back, he held my gaze for a moment, and I felt my focus narrow until it was just him and me in the corridor. I got it. He wasn’t talking in generalities. He was talking about Harrington.

Breaking the connection, Sergeant Reuper glanced at the principal and said, “No offense intended, of course, but in this business it’s essential to be proactive.”

“Oh, of course, of course. No offense taken. Children are always our first priority here,” Mr. Stafford answered, but he was starting to bristle. His short, round body had stretched to its full height, and his arms were stiff at his sides. He was ready to have the
Say No to Drugs
crew proceed to the high school building. They’d stepped on his toes, and worse yet, now they’d noticed the ladybugs. All four police officers were gaping at the ceiling in amazement.

“Well, we thank you all for coming.” Clapping his hands together, Mr. Stafford wrung his fingers roughly like he was trying to compact a ball of rubbish before pitching it into the wastebasket.

He reminded me of Dell, folding her essay into a paper wad and stuffing it into her pocket.

“Guess we’d better get going,” the sergeant said. “We can find our way. No need to walk us around. It’s cold out this morning. Norther blowing in.” He pulled a couple of business cards from his pocket and handed them to Mr. Stafford and me. “Call us if you need anything.”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Stafford replied as the front doors opened and the high school principal entered with his guidance counselor at his side. “Well, there are your escorts now. Dr. Lee, Mr. Fortier, this is Sergeant Reuper and his staff. They’ve just given our students a real eye-opener, and I’m sure they’ll do the same for yours.”

Dr. Lee and Mr. Fortier made quick introductions, seeming only slightly more sincere than Mr. Stafford. I felt sorry for the police officers. They could probably tell that their hard work was falling largely on deaf ears. They undoubtedly got this reception at a lot of places. No school, no family, no adult, no kid wanted to admit to an ongoing problem with addiction.

As he turned to leave, Sergeant Reuper caught my gaze again and squinted thoughtfully, as if he could see the wheels turning in my mind. Then we said our farewells, all shook hands again, and he headed out the door with his crew, as Dr. Lee and Mr. Fortier made pleasant conversation about the wintry turn in the weather.

Clapping his hands together again, Mr. Stafford rocked back on his heels, as in,
Mission accomplished; now let’s get back to the bond elections and the federal grant applications for the new performance hall.
He checked his watch, as if time were critical. “Well, that takes care of our Drug Education Prevention hours for the semester.” His shoulders sagged as he headed toward his office. “I don’t know when we’re supposed to educate these kids, between the DEP hours to keep them off drugs, and the character ed programs to make them good citizens, and the phys ed classes because they’re too fat, and the sex ed classes so they won’t get AIDS, and that idiotic mandatory achievement test. You’d think they don’t have any parents at home.”