Mystic Summer (6 page)

Mom looks up, an expression of uncertainty on her face. “That's not Anna's baby,” she says, finally.

“What do you mean?”

Mom and Dad exchange a look before she answers me. “That baby is Cameron's.”

M
iss Griffin, are you okay?”

Molly Ferguson is standing opposite my desk, peering at me through her Tina Fey–style pink glasses. I lift my head from the keyboard of my laptop and rub my eyes.

“Were you sleeping, Miss Griffin?”

“Me? Of course not,” I stammer, blowing a wayward clump of hair out of my eyes and jerking upright. I have never fallen asleep in class. Not as a student, and certainly never as a teacher.

“Um, I think you have a keyboard imprint on your face.”

“What?” I stand, and grab the small mirror I keep in my desk drawer to confirm that there are no leftover pieces of lunch stuck between my teeth should a parent surprise me. Sure enough, there is a row of red squares marching across my left cheek where I must've rested my face on my laptop. “Oh, God. I mean, gosh.”

For the last two nights, I'm lucky if I got a combined seven hours of sleep. I've been waking from fitful dreams about weddings. And Mystic. And, despite my consternation, Cameron Wilder. Who (even though Erika insisted he was just a pang from my past that was sure to fade during a rather late-night
discussion upon my return to Boston) has managed to infiltrate not only my waking but also my sleeping hours. Even on laptops.

“It's okay,” Molly whispers, as I struggle to compose myself now. “Once Danny Phillips fell asleep during my movie theater birthday party, and he drooled on himself. We took a picture.” She examines my face carefully. “Doesn't look like you drooled.”

Soothing reassurance from a nine-year-old.

“I wasn't sleeping,” I insist, though I can tell she isn't buying it. “I was just listening to my computer. It was making this weird humming sound.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn't blink. “Here's my essay. The timer went off five minutes ago. Just so you know.”

“The timer!” I fly out from behind my desk. “Boys and girls, pencils down!” Half the class is reading silently, and they look up at me over their books as though I've kept them waiting. Which I apparently have. The other half is still scribbling madly in their mastery test workbooks, pretending they didn't hear me. I was supposed to end the writing prompt five minutes ago. I glance at the clock; make it ten.

“Isn't this supposed to be a timed test?” Wrenn Bailey is studying me like I'm interviewing for a job, and poorly at that. Wrenn is one of those students who feels the need to give me constant feedback, and he keeps regular tabs on my management skills, forever reminding me that it's past lunchtime. That the missing math books I'm looking for are on my desk, exactly where I left them. And that his father does long division a different way. Now he crosses his arms, awaiting my reply.

“Yes, Wrenn. That is correct. I noticed that many of you were
a little behind, and therefore decided to add some extra time so that you could all finish.”

He blinks. “Then what's the point of it being a timed prompt?”

I try not to glare at him as I whisk the prompt off his desk, which I already know, while void of any personality or hint of creative expression, will be grammatically flawless. Wrenn is a rule follower. He approaches my assignments, like most things, with suspicious calculation. In his world there is only one right answer, and only one acceptable way to arrive at it. Poetry baffles him. Music causes him to twitch. He will probably make a fine IRS auditor some day.

Then I remember Timmy Lafferty. Timmy is hunched over his closed journal, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Will you come speak to me for a moment?” He trudges over, eyes darting back to his desk as if he'd rather be there.

“Are you feeling okay today?”

He clears his throat. “Yes.”

I motion for him to come closer. “I read your narrative last night,” I whisper. “The one about the sorcerer and the magic owl?” Timmy is the kind of kid who trots quietly along in the middle of the pack. One of those shy gems that you might otherwise overlook, until you give him some creative license, like with the writing assignment the kids handed in yesterday.

His eyes widen. “Was it any good?”

I shake my head. “No. Not good. It was great!”

Timmy smiles so wide I could count each of his orthodontic brackets.

“I think you should enter this in the writer's workshop contest. Have you thought about that?”

Timmy's lips zip closed again. “I don't know.”

The writer's workshop is an annual writing celebration hosted by Darby's board of directors. Local authors come in to work with small groups of specially selected students. It's my favorite school event of the year.

“I think you'd really enjoy meeting other authors like yourself,” I say.

He smiles just a little at that. “Okay. I'll ask my mom.”

Timmy is the exact kind of kid the workshop is made for—talented kids who need a boost of confidence. There's a scuffle in the back row, and I'm suddenly reminded of those who don't need a dose of confidence. “Horatio. Can I help you with something?”

Horatio is rifling through a backpack that I know for a fact is not his. This one is a tattered blue L.L.Bean. His is a monogrammed leather messenger bag that I, myself, would frankly kill for.

Behind Horatio, Brad King chews his bottom lip nervously.

“Nope. I'm good.” Horatio continues to rummage through Brad's bag.

I go to his desk and place my hand on the bag gently. This gesture would cause any one of my other twenty students to surrender the bag wordlessly. But Horatio grips it tighter.

“Yo. Let go my bag.”

Nice slang touch for Plymouth County. “This is not your bag,” I remind him.

“So?” Horatio glares sideways at me from beneath his floppy bangs that are cut to look hip, but in my opinion only serve to make him look more sneaky. There is a collective intake of breath behind me. This is the utmost test of any teacher. Forget
parents or curriculum or state standardized testing. Classroom management is number one. If a student picks at the threads of its fabric, you have to mend it. Fast.

I try again in a calm but firm tone. “Horatio. Let. Go. Of. The. Bag.” I stare back at him, feeling my chest begin to pound. “Now.”

Horatio thrusts the bag in my direction, and pauses for a menacing beat. Then, as if on cue, his face crumples. “Ow! You hurt me!”

The class gasps. Brad King looks at me in horror.

“What?” How could this have happened? I look down at his hand and try to examine it.

“Ow! Don't touch me!” Horatio clutches his finger protectively against his chest and leaps from his seat as if he's been struck by a bolt of lightning.

“Horatio, please. Show me your finger. Did you get it stuck in the bag somehow?”

“I'm bleeding!” He holds up his right index finger, which is covered in red. My knees buckle. I do not do blood.

“Anna Beth, get the nurse!” I cry.

I reach for Horatio's hand, trying to stave off the tide of nausea that is sweeping over me. The boy is bleeding. And he's screaming that I did it. “Let me look,” I plead.

But Horatio reels away from me. “No! Don't hurt me again!”

I can sense the other kids starting to panic. There is no way I hurt him. Is there? The whole class is on its feet as Horatio jerks and spins, clutching his bloody hand. He won't let me near him, but maybe that's for the best. I think I'm about to faint. As I envision Horatio being whisked away in an ambulance another thought strikes me: my teaching career is over.

Behind me Wrenn Bailey makes a strangled sound. What now? I spin around. Is he laughing?

Suddenly I notice other kids also straining to contain their amusement.

“Class, be quiet!” I shush them. Can't they see this is a crisis?

But as wrong as this whole scenario is, something else isn't right. I turn back to Horatio, who is now clutching his left hand to his chest. And then to Brad King's desk, where his snack of carrot sticks sits beside a little container of something red.

“Brad, is that . . . ?

Brad nods. “Ketchup.”

“Ha! Got you!” Horatio pumps his stained hand in triumph.

Now my temper is the only thing pounding. If I were any less of a professional I would yank his finger off for real. “Horatio!” I hiss. “In the hallway!”

Horatio bends over in laughter and staggers to the door, where he turns and takes a dramatic bow to the room. Though a few nervous giggles escape the class, one look from me and no one dares applaud.

In the hall we are met by a flushed-faced Anna Beth and the school nurse, followed by Dean Hartman, who happens to be coming up the hall from the other direction.

“Where's the injured student?” Mrs. Raines, the school nurse asks.

Unable to speak, I point at Horatio.

She frowns and does a complete inspection of both hands, while Horatio gamely cooperates. “What is this?” Mrs. Raines asks.

“Ketchup,” I say between my teeth.

Horatio pops his red finger in his mouth and licks it clean.

“What's going on?” John Hartman pulls up alongside us, his usual good-morning smile faltering.

“Horatio has played a prank on the class,” I inform him. “He pretended to be bleeding and covered his finger in ketchup.”

Horatio doesn't miss a beat. “It was just a joke,” he says. “Miss Griffin is always so grumpy in the morning, I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

Mrs. Raines shakes her head in disgust. “Well. I'll leave this to your teacher.” I can't tell if she's disgusted by my inability to control my student or by what Horatio did.

John looks from Horatio to me. “Would you like me to speak to Horatio?” he asks, calmly.

Speak to Horatio? I'd like him to take Horatio outside and pull him up the flagpole by his underpants. I nod brusquely.

“This was not an innocent prank,” I say. “Horatio accused me of injuring him. And he scared the entire class.” I refuse to admit in front of him that he scared me, too.

“I see. Well, why don't we have a talk, Horatio?” John motions for Horatio to follow, and they head down the hall.

“That was so not funny. Horatio's going to really get it,” Anna Beth whispers.

I'd forgotten she was still there. I motion her back inside, where the kids pop back to attention and pretend to be writing in their journals. “Okay, class. Casualty averted. Take out your science logs, and meet me at the crayfish tank.”

As I watch the group settle down I agree with half of what Anna Beth said. Horatio
should
get it, this time. But the sad truth is, I know he probably won't.

At lunch, I stop by the office to check my staff mailbox. Sharon comes in behind me. Have you two heard the news?” Mrs. Coates asks us both.

The news is a yellow piece of paper in every box announcing a budget cut from the board of directors. “What does this mean?” Sharon asks, holding it up.

Mrs. Coates glances nervously at Dean Hartman's closed door. “We don't know for sure yet,” she whispers. “But it looks like they're cutting a teaching position. Or two.”

Sharon and I exchange a look. “It's not art again, is it?” I ask. Every budget year, it seems that the art and music programs are first to end up on the chopping block.

“Enrollment is down,” Mrs. Coates says. “It could be any of us.”

I hold my breath. Staff cuts are made by longevity. The kindergarten teacher, Melinda, is our most recent hire. But I'm next after her.

Sharon looks at me. “Don't worry! They say this every year to stir up donations.”

Mrs. Coates shakes her head. “I hate budget season,” she whispers.

C
ongratulations! You are the highest bidder.
” The six best words a girl can hear after staying up late on a school night to monitor an auction on eBay. The bid in question cost me one hundred fifty dollars, a hit my bank account can't really afford with rent due this week. But—I scored a sleek pair of patent Manolo Blahniks, the soles barely scuffed. A girl on a private-school income has to make it work. I don't think of them as pre-owned. Certainly not used. Rather, I like to refer to them as new-to-me! Best of all, they'll arrive just in time for the Darby Day School spring gala, which is this Saturday.

“I won them!” I shriek to Erika, from my alcove.

“Congrats,” she calls back. I find her kneeling on the living room floor, looking through a box of old pictures. She holds up two five-by-seven photos from high school. “What do you think? Should I include this graduation shot, or this one of the party afterward?” Erika is determined to make a photo board for the wedding reception that charts her and Trent's early lives and culminates in their union. She's spent hours organizing piles. So far her pile is significantly larger than Trent's.