Linda
Linda McDonald made a last correction to the speech and stuffed the crumpled pages back into her carry-all messenger bag. As she straightened, a cliché came into her mind: Gordon, we need to talk.
As a teacher, and as a person, she had always tried to avoid clichés. Maybe because her entire life looked like one? Midwestern farm girl, escaped to the big world, discovered the rewards of teaching, never had kids of her own…
So no, she would avoid the phrase itself when she confronted Gordon. However, his restlessness was becoming too obvious to overlook. She’d begun to find herself wondering, as she drove off each morning, if he’d be there when she got home. If he carried his passport in his pocket whenever he left the house. If her blunder over the volunteers list had poisoned everything.
Even wondering if she’d made that slip in the first place because she suspected that not investigating him was irresponsible, when it came to her kids…
We need to talk. She had every right to ask Gordon if he was planning to move on. She dreaded argument, and confrontations made her ill, but she’d spent her life fighting timidity. If Linda accepted some matter—something like Gordon’s history—she did so deliberately, rather than through fear of knowing.
When today was over, she and Gordon needed to talk. Preferably without clichés.
7:31
Chaco
The idea of a conversation with Tío made Chaco want to crawl under the nearest table. The janitor didn’t look like an old guy in a turd-colored uniform now. More like cousin Taco when he was starting to get mad—or Angel, when he went quiet.
Chaco fought to hang on to the scorn—contempt, he thought desperately; derision—but he felt himself shrink. Felt the manly swagger of two pounds of steel tucked into his belt shrivel away to nothing.
The cafeteria was emptying now, but before Tío could start in on him, they were interrupted by Esme Gustafson, carrying a greasy paper bag. “Mamá made these for you.”
Tío sat down on the bench of the nearest table. He opened the bag like a birthday present, and looked in. “Tamales!”
“Mamá’s molé chicken. I hope you like them?”
“Tell your mother I have dreams about her molé chicken tamales. Thank you, Miss Gustafson.”
Esme ran off, smiling. Tío rolled down the top of the bag, put it on the bench next to his leg, and turned to Chaco. Those dark eyes of his seemed to jab at Chaco’s knees, so he sat down on the bench, well clear of Tío’s reach, intently studying the frayed rubber on his high-tops.
“Did you have a good breakfast, Mr. Cabrera?”
Chaco shrugged.
“Do you know what your mother earns, Mr. Cabrera?”
“What?”
“Your mother. What she earns, at the cannery.”
Chaco shrugged.
“Eleven dollars and twelve cents an hour. Just above minimum wage. Do you know what I earn, Mr. Cabrera?”
Chaco tried to make his mouth say, You earn shit, but couldn’t get it out with those eyes drilling into him. He shrugged again.
“It is polite to look at someone who is speaking to you, Mr. Cabrera. Thank you. Mr. Cabrera, let us say that I earn one and one-half times what your mother does. How much do I earn per hour?”
It popped out before Chaco could help himself. “Sixteen sixty-eight.”
The janitor’s eyes went somehow dark, like they had when they saw Esme’s tamales. “I work thirty-eight hours a week, forty-eight weeks a year. How much do I earn in a year?”
“How would I know?”
“How much, Mr. Cabrera?”
Chaco lifted his chin. “Thirty thousand, four hundred and, uh, twenty-four dollars. And thirty-two cents, okay?”
But Chaco’s attempt at shutting down the janitor didn’t have quite the effect he’d intended.
“Mr. Cabrera.” The old man’s voice was like a purr. “I think I may be able to make better use of you than your cousin Taco would.”
And then Tío smiled. A smile that gave Chaco Cabrera a clear illustration for the word apprehensive.
7:35
Linda
Waiting for Gordon to turn in at the school’s access road, Linda looked past him and saw how much of the staff parking lot was already full. Oh Lord, I should have been here first thing, what was I thinking—
No. You made the decision deliberately, after considerable thought. Showing the staff that their principal was not here at the crack of dawn today, fretting over every little thing, served to underscore the message she’d been sending since day one: I trust you. We are a community. I am always available, but I will not micro-manage your every move. Trust was vital in rebuilding the school’s sense of worth. Even—no: especially—on this most complicated of days.
Still, Linda couldn’t help feeling as if she were scrambling to join the orchestra just as the curtain was rising. The flags waved from the top of the pole, the last buses were pulling in, and a solid stream of parents’ cars were coming out of the side road. Olivia Mendez stood prominently in front of the school entrance, every button of her uniform gleaming. By her side, Mina Santos chatted with enthusiasm.
An aging pickup truck slowed to let the waiting cars turn into the school—Coach Gilbert. Linda gave Coach a wave of thanks as Gordon crossed in front of him.
The slot marked “Principal” faced the open end of the main breezeway—the long part of the capital E of Guadalupe’s layout, which comprised a long rectangle of front-facing offices and three cross-wise wings with quads between them. As Gordon pulled into the slot, she glimpsed Chaco Cabrera, slouching along with his usual Bad-Guy Attitude, for once without a group of buddies in his wake. Bright kid, but when it came to resisting the violent romance of gang life, a good brain was rarely enough. Linda reached for the seat belt clasp, then paused as another figure stepped into the walkway, watching the same boy. Hmm. The school janitor appeared to have an interest in young Chaco as well.
Chaco vanished into A Quad. Tío turned, spotted Linda’s bright yellow Mazda, and gave one of his oddly formal nods before he, too, moved out of sight. An instant later, as if precisely choreographed, Olivia Mendez stepped through the school entrance at the far end of the central breezeway. Kids gave wide berth to her uniformed figure as she walked toward the staff lot.
“I think Sergeant Mendez is coming to talk to me.” Linda pushed the clasp on the seat belt, it clicked simultaneously with the thud of the trunk latch Gordon pulled.
“She does look like a woman with news to impart.”
They were unloading boxes when the sergeant came up. “Morning, Linda. Mr. Kendrick.”
Linda frowned over the carton in her arms. “Any problems?”
“Things seem to be fine so far. Can I take something?”
Linda put her load into the policewoman’s hands, then moved toward the back door.
“I saw you out for your run this morning, Mr. Kendrick.” Olivia watched his tall form uncurl from the depths of the trunk. “That’s quite a circuit you make.”
“I’m fortunate that San Felipe is so flat. Here, Linda, let me have that one.”
“Those are more paper cups, for the library. Oh, and this bag of spoons and such. Let’s hope they don’t discover anything else vital at the last minute.”
“If so, I shall volunteer to fetch.” He gave Olivia a polite nod, and moved off in the direction of the library’s coffee machine.
“You’re a lifesaver, Gordon,” Linda called at his back.
His left hand swung up, two fingers raised in a kind of salute. The women watched him weave a path through the same students who had parted like the Red Sea at the sight of Olivia’s uniform.
“Could you…” Linda held out a box hand-labeled Teacher Memos. Olivia turned to take on another layer, and spotted a gray-haired man climbing from an old pickup truck, half a dozen spaces away. “Morning, Coach! We going to win next week?”
“Hello, Sergeant. I hope so. The boys are looking good.”
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nbsp; The policewoman seemed about to ask another question, then hesitated, and lowered her voice to ask the principal instead. “How is Coach’s grandson doing?”
“Nick? A lot better than I expected. I still haven’t figured out if the kid has real problems or just a particularly vivid imagination.”
“He’s seeing Dr. Henry, right? What does she think?”
“She doesn’t seem in any hurry to diagnose, but she did say the boy shows no further signs of delusions beyond Bee’s disappearance, and no overt signs of acting out—against himself or others. Except maybe when it comes to Bee’s father. Nick is still convinced that Mr. Cuomo was abusing his daughter.”
Olivia shook her head. “We pushed the man pretty hard during the investigation, because of what Nick said. We got nothing. The only suggestions of abuse were those stories on Bee’s computer. And since those were clearly made-up and not an electronic diary, they couldn’t be considered evidence.”
“I know. But I had a call from Mr. Cuomo complaining about a social media campaign against him. You know anything about it?”
“No. What kind of campaign?”
“Seems to be the online equivalent of graffiti. Rude words, childish drawings. He says there’s a hashtag about them.”
“Does he know who’s doing it?”
“He blames Nick Clarkson, but I haven’t had a chance to ask the boy about it yet.”
“Okay, well, send me the link, I’ll have a look.”
Linda clicked the key fob at the car and the two women started out of the parking lot.
“Something else I should mention.” Olivia’s low voice warned Linda to brace herself. “It could be nothing, but I heard last night that the district attorney is starting an investigation of Tom Atcheson’s company.”
Linda stopped dead in the middle of the drive. “No. Not today?”
“ ’Fraid so. I know he’s one of your speakers.”
“What’s being investigated?”
“I don’t have any details, just that it’s both Atcheson and his company. I’m afraid it’ll be public knowledge very soon. I did ask the DA if he could delay letting it ‘leak’ until tomorrow, but he didn’t promise.”
“Crap.”
“I’m sorry.”
Linda realized that they were stopping traffic. She gave the waiting car a quick smile—one of the lunch ladies, Susanna—and hurried toward the breezeway.
“Could you possibly find out when? If it’s today, I should offer to let Mr. Atcheson cancel rather than force him to run a gauntlet of reporters. But if it isn’t…”
“…then telling him is going to make for a really awkward conversation. I’ll make a call.”
“Thanks, Olivia. And as soon as possible?”
“Offices don’t open until eight, but I’ll see if anyone’s in yet.”
“Bless you. Oh, that poor boy.”
“What, your basketball player?”
“Brendan, yes. A real porcupine of a kid.” Troubled, and troubling.
“It’s a hard age.”
“Harder for some. Anyway, thanks. I guess.”
Olivia gave her a sympathetic smile, and stretched a hand out for the office door.
7:37
Coach Gilbert
Coach transferred his much-mended, forty-year-old briefcase into his left hand and thumbed the pickup’s key button, watching to make sure the locks went down. When he was satisfied the infernal things weren’t about to sneak back up again, he pocketed the keys and made his way from the staff parking lot.
Ahead of him, the principal and Sergeant Mendez were walking down the breezeway. He’d met Linda McDonald six or seven years ago, although he didn’t think she remembered—a back-to-school night he and Carol happened to attend for a nephew’s two little girls. Linda was the school’s vice principal, and he’d vaguely figured her for a lesbian. Which was fine—his own kid sister was happily married to a great woman who went to Giants games with him sometimes—but when Linda hired him as a temp here back in January, he’d found out she was married. To the man who’d been driving just now. Retired guy, a little older than Coach, and solid despite the hoity-toity accent. In good shape, too. Didn’t know much about basketball, but he managed to keep up with the kids during lunch hour games. (Better than Coach did, truth to tell.)
And not just physically. The kids seemed to respect him—like him, even. Maybe he could talk to Gordon about the man in the stands?
Soon as this Career Day circus was over.
7:38
Linda
The main office was packed. Linda peered across the seething mass of heads at the school secretary, wondering if she needed to plunge in to the rescue. Mrs. Hopkins had her students well trained, but today there were strangers in the office, adults who had clearly yet to meet the withering gaze of authority from across the high counter. However, Mrs. Hopkins seemed to be handling the chaos with her usual firm competence, allowing the principal to make a cowardly retreat.
“Let’s use my door,” Linda told Olivia. They circled a pack of students gathered around the school notice board with its Career Day session assignments, and Linda managed to work the key and reach her desk without losing too much of her armload.
Olivia put her boxes on the low table, added the papers that she’d retrieved from the floor, and nodded her head at the clamor from next door. “You think she’d like me to go out there with my gun drawn?”
“That might be a little excessive. Although maybe you could just clear your throat a bit?”
Sergeant Mendez took hold of the knob. As the principal’s door opened, the voices surged—then fell away sharply as the uniform came into view.
“I know we all want to make an example of our good manners in front of the students.” Silence. Olivia, eyes shining with mischief, stepped back into the office and shut the door. “I’ll go make that phone call now. See if there’s anyone in the DA’s office who can tell me about the Atcheson leak.”
“Flip the latch so you can let yourself back in.” Linda picked up the receiver to begin dialing from the pink message slips (divided into Urgent, Today, and If-you-don’t-reply-they’ll-forget-about-it). When the door opened again ten minutes later, she quickly finished the conversation—and saw the bad news on Olivia’s face.
“I’m afraid the Atcheson mess will be in the afternoon news. And the Clarion’s reporter is already parked out front.”
Linda groaned. “Oh, Lord. And she’s one of the speakers, so it’s too much to hope that she doesn’t hear about it. This is going to be a long day.”
“I thought I’d ask for your husband’s help in keeping an eye on the back of the school, in case our Lois Lane out there decides to get creative.”
Linda wasn’t overjoyed at the idea of Olivia asking Gordon anything, but it made sense. “Make sure you tell Tío as well—he’s got eyes all over. I’m already sorry I didn’t let you talk me out of Career Day.”
But the cop surprised her. “I wasn’t trying to talk you out of it. I think it’s great that you’re going ahead. I was only making sure you were clear on what you could be getting into.”
“I thought I was.” Grim humor seemed to be her fallback position for the day—for the year, really, through a paint-to-policy school reorganization, three arrests for drugs and two for weapons-on-campus, one vanished student, a rat infestation, and a murder trial.
But just as the absence of metal detectors was an assertion of openness, so was Career Day a determined effort to force the students to look past their school’s problems. Even if it meant a reporter camped on the road and Olivia Mendez wearing a gun.
Olivia was watching her with sympathy. “I’ve got every officer on the job today. And cruisers will drive by regularly.”
“Thank you.”
“I wanted to ask, how are my two musketeers doing?”
“Your two—you mean Danny Escobedo’s friends? Carlos seems to be fine. And Mina—that child is amazing. I don’t care if she does look
like some punk rocker, she’s got a lot of…presence, I guess.”
“The look is new since last year—she’ll grow out of it. I just hope I live long enough to vote for her when she runs for president.”
“She may have too much sense for that.”
Olivia laughed and stood up. “I’ll go check on the reporter, make sure she’s staying put. I told her that the road may be public domain, but I don’t want to see any student names or faces in their reports.”
“Just try not to draw your gun when you talk to her.” As a joke, it came out a little flat.
“I find that resting my hand on it tends to be enough for most purposes.” Olivia smiled, a five-foot-seven bulldog with a dangerous little glint in her dark eyes. Nothing like Gordon—yet oddly similar.
“Thanks, Olivia. And make sure you drop by the library before the first bell. I was promised donations from that new French bakery down on Main Street.”
And, Linda prayed as the sergeant left, please be just a little bit blind and deaf today. Please don’t get too curious about my husband—or my janitor. Or any extracurricular activities of your fellow speakers. Not today.
What time do important men like Tom Atcheson get to their office? she asked herself, and reached for the next call slip.
7:40
Brendan
Brendan squeezed the toothpaste out onto his brush. Can a dentist tell when you haven’t been flossing? And wasn’t there some kind of patient confidentiality that they had—oh, crap! He leaned in for a closer look at his chin. Is that a zit? Only losers got zits. Mina Santos never had a pimple in her life. Her buddy Sofia, equally perfect. Even that weird Cuomo girl hadn’t had explosions on her face. But then, the kid had been impervious to everything. (Until she wasn’t.)
Brendan put down the toothbrush. Rubbing in zit cream, he thought about Mina, and about Bee Cuomo. Not that he’d been interested in her—she was only a sixth-grader, and looked even younger—but he was, you know, interested. It was like one of those urban myths: The Disappearance of Bee Cuomo. Everyone crying, waiting to hear some hiker had found her body—and then that story starting up, which should’ve sounded crazier than it did. Then the hashtag.