Relative Danger (7 page)

I gave him a bigger smirk. “Be polite, big boy. I’m in charge in here.”

Many of the teens grinned. The voice I now recognized as Hannah Hendrick’s made announcements through the speaker, and I took the opportunity to ferret for material. No textbook. I shuffled through papers, grabbed one and stared at its heading.
Construction
.

Construction? That was one class I’d missed. What the hell would you teach?

“This concludes the announcements,” the principal said, and I silently cursed her. Why couldn’t she have spoken longer? At least given me a chance to discover something about my subject matter. What could I discuss in a construction class?

Deep voices grumbled while I glanced at the wall posters. Maybe I could speak about how to build things. But I had absolutely no idea how to do that. Deliberate coughs and laughs came from the class, making me realize how ridiculous I must look, panic-stricken, again flipping through everything on the desktop.

“Just how old are you, Grandma?” The thug cocked back, his shoulders draping across the rear of his chair, his arms stretching to the floor. The boys who had accompanied him when he ran into me sat on either side of him. My attacker wore bottle-streaked shaggy hair that dripped to a wide face, its lower half coated with stubble. His heavy jacket showed that he’d lettered in football. He rolled dark eyes at his buddies, who both smirked. The thug’s lips curled up high at the edges.

Most of the students appeared to be holding their breaths, waiting for my response to him.

I placed my hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m old enough to have told your parents not to even
think
about having you.” Laughter erupted. I gave it a minute to quiet and then told my opponent, “But I’m not too old to allow you to run this class, if that’s what you’re planning.”

His lips flattened into a grim line. Color rose to his cheeks, his glare telling me it came from fury.
You haven’t won yet
, his stare said.

For the moment, I had. And if I’d worn my sluttish outfit, he probably wouldn’t have called me Grandma. With momentary respite, I again fingered the papers. I tried opening drawers, fear building when I found three of them locked.

The sweet girl leaned and whispered, “We’re taking a test today.”

“Where is it?”

“He takes them out of the bottom drawer.”

I yanked on that drawer, relieved when it opened. Stacked papers were labeled Test Eleven. “You’ll be taking this test today,” I said, my head and voice rising. “And I am Mrs. Gunther. I’m taking your teacher’s place today.”

I asked for someone to hand out the tests and saw gazes divert. A thin African American girl jumped up. “I’ll do it.” She bounced around, passing them out, and then a hush blanketed the room. Faces dropped toward the papers. Pencils and pens swiveled. I waited. No one made more rude comments and thank goodness, nobody asked questions. The teens seemed to forget I was there. I sank to Mr. Burdell’s chair, found a leg of it unstable, and scanned the class.

Quiet, the teens appeared much less hostile. I watched them scribbling and saw only the tops of their heads. These children seemed normal. Maybe I’d made too quick a judgment. Not worried about them anymore, I mulled over Kat’s situation. So far, I hadn’t learned anything about the dead man. Didn’t even know whether Kat had come to school.

I moved toward the students’ desks. The sweet girl seemed to be determining a building’s dimensions. I touched her shoulder. “Do you know Katherine Gunther?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great. Did you see her today?”

“Uh-uh.”

A boy wearing dreadlocks sat behind her. I went to him. “Hi. Would you know Katherine Gunther?”

“No.”

Other eyes had lifted toward me. Instead of tending to their task, most students were watching. I returned to my chair. The teens waited. When I did nothing but watch them back, they rolled eyes back down to their tests. I tapped my toes and gazed at students, my thoughts far from this room.

The girl who’d handed out papers wagged a finger, and I went to her. She said, “I saw Kat today.”

Happy scenes swelled in my mind. I had accomplished my mission. Kat was back at school. She’d take exams, graduate, and all would be fine.

“Thank you,” I told the girl. Returning to Mr. Burdell’s desk, I peered at my shut door. What had happened at this school? A custodian died. A woman who’d subbed here had been shot. A chill slithered along my spine. I looked at the young adults in desks. A gangly boy leaned over another guy’s shoulder, looking at his test. I coughed, and he sank back. Big thug stared at me, his harsh gaze unmoving. So was mine.

His eyes lowered. He took up his pen but didn’t write. If a killer was in this room, I could point out exactly who it was. The thug flung a glare at me that lasted only a moment but warned:
I’ll get you
.

Anxiety struck my belly. I calmed it with the knowledge that I had only a few minutes left to be near this young man. And I wasn’t his mamma.

A blessed bell sounded, ending class. I wished the students a good day, hid my crossed fingers, and said it had been nice being with them. The thug tossed his paper on Mr. Burdell’s desk and stalked out past me, bumping my arm. “Watch that,” I said.

His buddy with a square build nodded toward me and spoke, his voice loud. “I guess she doesn’t know what happened to that janitor who messed with you, huh, Sledge?”

Trembles replaced my earlier jitters. Behind me, a new group of teens headed in. A girl wearing a silver nose ring came close. “Who’re you?” she said.

“Mrs. Gunther.” I looked into the hall for Kat. And to make sure Sledge wasn’t lurking. I didn’t see him or my grandchild. I backed in to meet the class. “I’m taking your teacher’s place, and I’ll be giving you your test.” How confident I felt, now knowing what I would do.

The teenagers groaned. The girl with a nose clamp said, “That’s not fair. I didn’t think we’d have it today since he wasn’t gonna be here. I didn’t study.”

“That’s your problem,” a boy told her. He turned to me. “Are you gonna call roll?”

I skimmed the desktop. No roll book. “Not today.”

With little ado, everyone started the test. I wanted to find out more about Jayne Ackers but didn’t think it appropriate to question students about the murdered woman. Did any of them know something about Sledge and the dead man? Probably not wise to ask that either. I walked beside desks and stood watching a seemingly intelligent young man fill in numbers. He turned his face up to mine. Nice-looking youth. Annoyed face. “Sorry,” I said, vacating his space.

Class ended without incident, and before I walked to the door, more teens came in. This group sat in silence. I gave my spiel, and they took tests, making no comments. Maybe today’s students weren’t too bad, I considered. Except for Sledge and his entourage. What had his buddy meant about the janitor? Was he saying Sledge killed the man?

I needed to pass on what I’d heard, just as soon as I could get back to the office. In the meantime, I had to watch these kids. I scanned them. Most appeared clean-cut, with decent hair. Boys wore light-colored shirts, and girls had their bodies covered, no boobs or bottoms showing.

Legs
, I jotted on a scrap of paper. Then I wrote
Gil
. Mmmm. I was only thinking of his restaurant and getting hungry, I told myself. I stood up and strolled between desks. Returning to my chair, I waited. Did people really get paid to do this? Other names came—Kat, Grant Labruzzo, Jayne Ackers, Sledge. I needed to go to the restroom. That last name made me know it for sure. Where was the ladies’ room, and when did we go? Surely I couldn’t leave students alone while they took tests. I crossed my legs and swung them. Staring at the large wall clock, I tried to rush it and pondered.

Could a teenager have murdered the custodian? Of course some kids killed others, but what motive would a student have for killing a man who cleaned the school? After I gave an administrator my information about Sledge, Kat’s favorite teacher would be cleared. Then Kat would have no problem finishing her last semester. I mentally patted my shoulder for solving her troubling situation.

A bell rang, and students waited until I dismissed them. “Have a nice afternoon,” I said, my bladder ready to burst. Kids vacated the room. I waited. Peered down the short hall and saw no one. I stepped across the hall to another classroom, where a woman possibly a few years younger than me sat at a desk, scribbling. She glanced up, reddish-black bangs shielding the top portion of her eyes. “Hi, I’m Cealie Gunther,” I said, “and I’m subbing for Mr. Burdell. Nobody’s coming now?” I scanned her room, devoid of students but filled with brand new desks. Lagoon blue curtains hung on her shiny windows.

“It’s lunchtime,” she said.

“Wonderful. And after lunch, what do we have? Another class or two?”

She held up four fingers.

“Four more classes!” I couldn’t fathom having so many personalities to contend with.

“Well, you have three classes like me and then seventh period off for parent conferences and planning. I’m Abby Jeansonne. I teach physics.”

“You have my utmost admiration. The sciences weren’t my best subjects.”

“They aren’t for many people.” Abby’s face pinched up. “Jack Burdell’s shop is outside. It’s being worked on, so they put him and his goons in this hall. I can’t wait until they’re outside again.” Abby sprang up and neared me, her loose dress sweeping the floor. “You heard what happened here?”

“What happened?”

“To the janitor.”

“I heard he died. That was terrible.” But now someone was about to talk to me about the incident.

Abby’s mouth puckered so much I was afraid she would kiss me. “Not just died. He was murdered!”

My head jerked back. “Are you sure?”

Flamingo-colored fingernails shielded her face from eavesdroppers who may’ve hidden behind walls. “The police are sure—You know,” she said secretively.

I nodded. “Murder.”

Her bangs shifted, and I saw one brown eye. The eye winked. “Somebody shoved him off that balcony in the auditorium.”

I shuddered, imagining anyone even being up there. My twelve-year-old cousin Eddie had tried to shove me off our movie theater’s balcony when I was seven. I arrived home afterward still whimpering, and Eddie told our parents he’d only been playing. Maybe so, but my child’s mind had panicked, and the apprehension never totally let go of me. Another of the reasons I sometimes tried to avoid relatives.

Abby drew back her shoulders. She wore a shapeless denim dress, the red schoolhouse embroidered on its bosom looking elementary for this setting and for someone her age. I fought the pain in my bladder and spoke as though we were colleagues. “Are police still around?”

She did the flapping-bangs nod. “Two detectives. Plainclothes.”

Ah. I’d figured
. “Do you have any idea who would have killed the man?”

Abby jabbed a finger toward the hall. “Talk to Anne Little. She’s one of those.”

“One of those?” I said.

Abby nodded, and before I could ask one of those
what
, she’d walked me out and withdrawn to her classroom. She shut her door.

Contemplating her words, I strode to the main corridor. The inmates were in tumult again, but a scan through the area let me locate a well-dressed man. He was darkly tanned and wasn’t yelling for help. He wielded a weapon for crowd control, so I felt safe walking through. “Smart idea,” I said, indicating the long stick in his hand. It was wrapped in blue and yellow school colors, the stick I’d seen leaning inside the office window.

“Our spirit stick,” he said. “Different grades win it when they yell the loudest at pep rallies. And sometimes we carry it to show the kids our school spirit.” He smirked.

I took the stick, surprised by its weight. “This is heavy.” I swung it and watched its long blue fringes shake. Giving the stick back, I introduced myself and said, “I saw you in the office. You looked like the only calm person there.”

“I’m a guidance counselor,” he said, as though that title explained his unruffled demeanor. “Harry Wren.” Harry turned to the students, his gaze daring them to act up.

The groups seemed friendlier, probably because they were feeding themselves. I enjoyed whiffs of their nachos and pizza and chocolates. Many students held throwaway plates and guzzled food as quickly as my car with the biggest tank had sucked up gas. Fewer people were out than before, and I could walk through the hall without having an elbow strike my head. I could also look for Kat. First I needed to find the right facilities.

I saw a girl who’d been quiet in my class and asked directions to a restroom. Her face withdrew inside her Buster Brown haircut. She pointed toward what I supposed was a door hidden behind a clump of teens.

“No,” a girl near her said. “That one’s for us. She needs the teachers’ one.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but it really doesn’t matter. This one should do fine.”

The room smelled of hair spray and smoke that created a misty dome. Squeals of alarm sounded, and someone announced, “A lady’s in here.”

Four toilets flushed at one time. Tendrils of smoke drifted above closed stalls. Since no one was smoking in front of me, I felt duty-free of taking charge of this conduct, which must freely occur. I entered a stall, found the lock broken, and read who loved whom and who was a whore, a word all of the writers had misspelled.

Emerging from the cubicle, I considered that I might begin my afternoon classes with a brief spelling lesson: “
Ho
is something Sir Lancelot might have yelled, like ‘Onward, ho!’ The word is not a noun.”

I saw Kat. She came through the door behind three other girls. Excited, I called, “Hi, Kat.”

She ducked her head, made an about-face, and rushed out.

Chapter 6

The girls that Kat had followed into the restroom stopped and stared at me. “Hello,” I said, my granddaughter’s behavior making me troubled. I needed her friends here to explain. They all spun and went back out without doing whatever it was they’d intended.

I left the restroom and scanned the wide hall. Some teens lounged against walls and talked softly. Others hustled along and yelled. No sign of Kat. Had she come into the restroom to smoke? Or worse, had my presence embarrassed her?