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AT RISK OF BEING A FOOL

By Jeanette Cottrell

Copyright 2005

ONE

A human tornado barreled across the parking lot. Jeanie McCoy, sitting behind her steering wheel, enjoyed the spectacle. Sorrel Quintana, the tornado, looked like a model for an arcade game heroine, with a lush figure, smoldering eyes, her every motion a symphony of controlled mayhem. Jeanie’s young grandson was enamored of such games. She wondered what Andy would make of Sorrel Quintana. Probably, he’d drool at a safe distance, peering around the edge of a dumpster. Andy was a child of great good sense. Sorrel, on the other hand—

The car door flew open, and Sorrel landed on the seat with a thud, yanking the door closed an instant later. Jeanie noted the flushed cheeks and the quick rise and fall of her chest, and mentally backed off a pace.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you found me.”

“Can we get the hell out of here?” Sorrel set her electric-green vinyl purse against her thigh and snapped the safety belt in one smooth motion. She glared at the industrial gray building hulking in front of the car. “God, he’s a bastard.” Randy Firman, Sorrel’s parole officer, had an office tucked into gray stone anonymity scarcely a mile from the Oregon Capitol building.

“Hmmm,” said Jeanie. “Sorry you had a rough time.” The newspaper crumpled under Sorrel’s shifting feet. “Let me get that out of your way.”

Sorrel snatched the paper. “I’ve got it.” She shrugged herself into the corner against the door, half-facing Jeanie. The newspaper rustled, trapped under Sorrel’s lap belt. “Can we just go?” She caught Jeanie’s glance at the newspaper, and yanked it loose. “I’m folding it, all right? You happy?”

“Yes, thank you.” Jeanie drove out of the parking lot, heading north. She glanced at Sorrel, wondering how much classwork she’d manage to get out of the girl today. Not much, likely.

“What are you staring at?”

“I was admiring your fingernails.” Thirty years of teaching had taught Jeanie McCoy a thing or two. Indirection and small surprises worked better than confrontation. And they were nice nails, perfectly shaped, probably glued on yesterday: Revlon’s finest, coated with poisonous green. Sorrel’s blouse, artfully decorated with large green sequins, spilled open in front, displaying an impressive cleavage. Darker green shadowed her eyes, shining with something indefinable, picking up the gloss of her raven-black hair. The earrings twirled lightly, a lacquered fantasia in green and bronze. How did she manage the artful effects under the rigors of life at Bright Futures Transition Facility for Girls? She must stash makeup everywhere: at school, in the van, and at work. Certainly, the buttons came undone in the step from the Bright Futures’ van to the sidewalk.

Jeanie ruffled her own short white hair, still spattered with its original brown. “Your sense of style is better than mine ever was.” Sorrel’s face softened. The two bright spots in her cheeks faded. Mentally, Jeanie gave herself a point for defusing tension. Kherra had been right. Coaching students through their General Equivalency Diplomas, or GEDs, was infinitely preferable to sitting around the house, fretting about Edward. “Just toss the paper in the back. Sorrel?”

Sorrel’s eyes were riveted on the paper.

“Sorrel, is there a problem?”

“No,” Sorrel said, a small strangled sound. Her reddened cheeks flushed deeply, then went sheet-white. She threw the paper into the back seat, flipped down the visor, and groped through her purse for lipstick.

Jeanie turned into a narrow parking lot behind the pink stucco building. The administrative offices that housed the GED school were a conglomerate of public services and cheaply rented professional offices. The two-story building, painted an incongruous pink with white trim, always reminded Jeanie of a petrified birthday cake.

“Sorrel, are you all right? You look ill.”

“I’m fine.” Sorrel scrabbled her makeup together. She jumped out the door while the car was still rolling, and fled to the doorway.

Jeanie slammed on the brakes. She’d probably run to the bathroom, to rebuild her armor in front of a larger mirror. Sorrel’s rages were legendary, but she hadn’t looked mad just now. She’d looked scared. Jeanie retrieved the newspaper, trying to steel her heart against her protective instinct. She’d fought the same battle on a daily basis for thirty years. She nearly always failed.

Jeanie scanned the paper, still opened to the third page. After skimming interviews with legislators explaining a third round of social service budget cuts, she found the small article.

Explosion on Construction Site

Salem , Oregon . An explosion at a north central Salem construction site critically wounded one man as a homemade explosive device exploded at five forty-five p.m. last evening. The blast severely injured Bryce Wogan and partially destroyed a truck owned by Delancey Brothers Contractors.

The victim was found by Daniel Rivera, assistant foreman, and rushed to the Salem Hospital , where he is reported to be in critical condition. Police are conducting investigations. The work crew includes at least one minor presently engaged in a work-release program through the Oregon Youth Authority. Delancey Brothers Contractors has offered a reward for information leading to the conviction of the person or persons responsible.

Jeanie’s eyes flew open wide. Delancey Brothers was one of the school’s business partners. And the “minor engaged in a work-release program” was Quinto, her spray-paint king. Ever since Mackie landed the job for him, all he could talk about was the construction site, and the “way cool” Mr. Rivera. And naturally, the newspaper jumped right onto him, prating about Youth Authority. Wouldn’t you know they’d pinpoint any teenager they could lay hands on, however vaguely connected? They always did it, and rarely trumpeted the teen’s innocence once proved.

She grimaced at her leap of faith, denying logic. Teachers resisted thinking evil of their students. Sometimes, their apparent blindness made them look like hens fluttering sheltering wings over a nest full of buzzards. It was only natural for the media to jump on the connection, and of course the police would do the same. But she hated the instant assumption that an adolescent in trouble was the automatic suspect in the next crime occurring nearby. She understood it, but she hated it.

Poor Quinto. He’d be devastated. Even if he knew nothing, he’d be running scared. But why was Sorrel afraid, too? The article really threw her for a loop.

An engine rumbled to a stop parallel to the street curb. Mr. Matthews, the usual driver for the Dandridge House Residential Transition Facility for Boys, saw her when he was halfway out of the van’s driver’s seat. He raised a hand and heaved his perspiring bulk back into the seat, growling warnings to the three heads in the back seats.

The van’s side door opened and slammed shut. Quinto walked towards the building, his head hanging. Galvanized, she stepped fast to catch up with him.

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, she meditated her approach while watching Quinto from the corner of her eye. He’d given her a hunted look, sidled into the room, and found a chair with its back to the wall. By the time she engaged her other students in some semblance of study, he’d covered his paper with frantic sketches and flipped the paper to the other side. She’d give him another five minutes, she decided, before trying to get any work out of him. Thirty years of experience had honed her reflexes, keeping students engaged and relatively contented. Now, however, those reflexes tripped her constantly. She’d had less than a month to unlearn thirty years of habits. She felt like a first-year teacher again. This batch of kids certainly kept her hopping.

The problem must be my nose, Jeanie McCoy reflected.

First, her uneducated nose had stumbled over Brynna. At nineteen, Brynna looked like a lost waif, a deceiving appearance for a girl with a razor-like tongue and the soul of a vampire. Biding her time, waiting for a chance to build rapport, Jeanie had seized on a perfect opportunity. Brynna had walked in smelling of sweet musk. Jeanie McCoy chirped, “New perfume, huh, Brynna? Interesting, what’s the brand?”

How on earth, in all those years, had she missed the marijuana-recognition courses? Why hadn’t any of the trainers at the inservices brought marijuana for all the goody-two-shoes to sniff? Books on eye dilation and behavioral changes only went so far. Now there was a thought. Scratch-and-sniff books for educators: The Dummy’s Guide to Marijuana, Hashish, and Aerosols.

Jeanie followed this performance by tripping over a drug dealer down the street and wishing him an expansive good morning. Later she mistook a small sack of leaves in the office for tea leaves and audibly mourned the lack of hot water.

About then, the kids decided she was putting them on. No one could be that naïve. She’d wound up with a backhanded reputation for a jaded sort of street smarts. Quinto, in fact, had been admiring.

“That Jeanie, she’s some wicked joker.”

After that, “tea leaves” no longer appeared in the office and tricks died to a minimum. Nowadays, three weeks into class, she only contended with daily pandemonium.

Jeanie McCoy, the wicked joker, aged fifty-eight, twisted her wedding ring and looked over her tiny kingdom with resigned frustration. There were six students, all between seventeen and twenty-one. Sorrel Quintana, Dillon Henley, Rosalie Perea, Tonio Valenzuela, Brynna Gallagher, and Joaquin a.k.a. Quinto Cervantes. All of them had criminal records for drugs, vandalism, and in two cases assault with intent. They worked in the mornings at various jobs, laboriously lined up by the inexhaustible Miss Mackie Sandoval. In the afternoons, they attended class with Jeanie, studying for the GED exams.

Silently, she recited her mental tags: Sorrel, the Amazon; Dillon, the wolf; Rosalie, the random; Tonio, the still waters; Brynna, the vampire; Quinto, the artist.

“Dillon, how’s it going?” she said to the “timber wolf” at the corner desk. Dillon had perfectly-waved brown hair and a Dick Tracy jaw on a face that stopped showing expression years before.

“Percentages are a load of crap,” muttered Dillon.

“A startling number of people agree with you,” she said, settling next to him. She demonstrated the technique again. Dillon tolerated education in five-minute spurts and no more. If she stayed near him beyond that, he jumped out of his seat to pace the floor. Like a wolf, he had a predatory look, rippling and hypnotic. She’d met hundreds of braggarts and show-offs, mouthy teenagers with heavy crusts and custard-cream fillings. Dillon, she knew instinctively, was for real.

A swish of color caught her eye. Rosalie flitted through the room. Like an exotic hummingbird, she chose to light on whatever object took her fancy. “Rosalie, back to your seat.”

“Sure.” Rosalie wandered in the general direction of her chair. “Hey, Quinto, that’s pretty.” Rosalie’s fingers brushed his paper lightly.

“Yeah,” Quinto said. Under his hands, a rose bloomed in exquisite perfection. Usually, he drew faces. Rosalie’s thin, haggard beauty peered from many corners of his papers. Dillon’s face graced others, unmistakable threat clear in the angle of his head, the tension in his jaw. Quinto’s eye was far faster than his brain. The toe of his shoe tapped restlessly. Only his hand moved quickly and surely.

A phone rang. Dillon pulled the tiny phone out of his coat pocket and flipped it open. “It’s me,” he said, as he’d said countless times in the last few weeks, sometimes several times in an afternoon. His eyes still on the math book, he held out the phone. Jeanie took it.

“Hi, Randy, it’s Jeanie McCoy. He’s here.” Her eyes traveled to the clock over the door. “Yes, on the dot. He’s working just fine. What? Oh. Yes, I got Sorrel, no problem.” She switched off the phone, and set it on the desk. It was handy having Randy Firman as parole officer to both Dillon and Sorrel, though she doubted they’d agree. “Sorrel, put the mirror away.”

Sorrel threw her an open-mouthed look of contempt. “In a minute, woman.”

“It’s ‘Jeanie,’ not ‘woman.’”

“All right, all right, girl. Jeanie.”

Brynna snickered. Without looking, Jeanie knew Brynna wore the look of sly pleasure that ate at Sorrel like water torture. Drip, drip, drip. Brynna, you’ll be the death of me, Jeanie thought. Envy was part of the equation. Sorrel’s colorful extravagance suited her. Brynna’s surreptitious attempts along the same line only made her look like a hooker on the prowl.

She sidestepped, shielding Sorrel from Brynna’s vulture act. Sorrel’s eyes dropped. Jeanie didn’t rush her. Slowly, I-was-about-to-do-this-anyway, you’re-not-pushing-me, Sorrel put away the mirror. She stood and stretched elaborately, sank back down, crossed her legs, and pulled her book closer.

“So Brynna,” said Jeanie, “can I snitch a pretzel from you?”

Startled, Brynna shoved the bag over. Jeanie slipped out a broken pretzel and slapped the bag shut, as though trapping a mouse. “Have to move fast,” she whispered, “so the calories don’t get out.”

Brynna’s wide-eyed look faded perceptibly. The ghost of a chuckle escaped. Jeanie winked as she left, drawn by Quinto’s unnatural silence. She drew up a chair next to him. If she’d been in her high school classroom, with a student obviously upset, she’d have opened with a casual punch on the shoulder. Not here, though. Mackie had drilled her on that during those first watchful days. Never touch. Not ever.

“Hey, Quinto. I heard there was some trouble at your work site. Are you doing okay?”

His hand jerked. Seeming to move by itself, his hand shaded a rose petal. “Hmm.” A thorn sprouted from the rose’s stem, sharp and deadly.

“Mackie said you were doing really well there. She’s proud of you.”

Quinto’s face lightened. “Yeah, I done real good, Mr. Rivera said. Even the boss, the big guy.” Earnestly, Quinto’s eyes sought hers. “Only now, I can’t go for a while, ‘cause the boss, Mr. Wogan, he got hurt real bad.”

“Yes, I read about that in the paper. An explosion?”

His voice dropped. “Pipe bomb, cops said. He’s hurt bad. One of his eyes got ripped out, and his hands are all—well, you know.”

“I’m so sorry, Quinto. It must have been a terrible shock. Were you there when it happened?”

“No. It was right after I left. See, Mr. Matthews, he comes for me every day, to take me back to the House.” The rose sprouted thorns, dark and savage. Drops of blood dripped from them. “Pipe bombs, they’re really bad, ‘cause they stick nails and stuff in them and they all go flying.” From the side of the rose, a nail shot out. Another arched higher. A third spiked into an unidentifiable mass, possibly human.

Quinto’s face twisted. He threw the pencil across the room and sent the wadded paper after it. He buried his face in his arms. “Some of the guys thought he was mean, but he wasn’t so bad,” he said, voice muffled and cracked. “He was getting to like me, said I done good. It really means something, you know, when a guy like that says it. I was so happy when I left work, told Mr. Matthews all about it. And then, later on, the cops come.”

“Quinto.” Jeanie’s hand edged out to touch him on the arm. She snatched it back. Never touch. “Quinto, I’m so sorry. Do you want make a card for him or something? Send one of your drawings to the hospital, so he knows how you feel?”

“The cops think I done it.”

“They do not! Quinto, don’t you even say such a thing.”

“I worked there, I’m in a gang. I mean, I was in a gang.”

“Quinto, you’re in the House now. You’re under someone’s eye all day long. The police know that. How could you possibly build a pipe bomb?”

Quinto raised his head. The tear-streaked face looked oddly wise. “Shit, Jeanie, it don’t take nothing but a phone call to get a pipe bomb. There’s phones everywhere. I could of done it. Two minutes, that’s all.”

“I guess I’m out of touch.”

Quinto snorted softly. His half-smile pulled at her. “Hey, like that’s news? They think somebody brung it over, and I hid it by the truck. But I didn’t. Nobody touches that truck but Mr. Wogan. I did once, the first day, see, and he had a fit. Damn, I thought he was gonna hit me, or something, but it was just, you know, Mr. Rivera, he said Mr. Wogan really liked that truck a lot.”

“Quinto, you’re a graffiti artist, a shoplifter, but you’re not violent. The police know that.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t hurt nobody. I don’t got the balls for that.”

“It’s not a matter of balls, Quinto.”

The aged eyes in the childish face studied her pityingly. “Yeah, well. Mr. Maldonado, you know, the supervisor at Dandridge? He told the cops that, they looked up my record. Mr. Rivera, he talked for me too, said how Mr. Wogan was okay with me. I ain’t got no reason to do that stuff. I mean, I got me a job there, when I get out the House, you know? Like I’m going to throw that away?”

“Of course not, Quinto.”

“Of course not, Quinto,” mimicked Brynna. “Like Quinto gives a shit about that son-of-a-bitch.”

Quinto shied back, edging his chair another foot or two from Brynna. He clamped his mouth shut, snatched up another sheet of paper, and sketched a battered truck as if his life depended on it.

“Brynna, hush. This is a private conversation.”

Brynna rolled her eyes. “Jeanie, get real, would you? Wogan was a first-class bastard, sticking his damned nose into everything, a real prick. Ask Dillon, he worked there last summer, until Wogan—”

“Shut up,” said Dillon, his voice flat.

Brynna cut her eyes at Dillon, and took another tack. “Quinto don’t care nothing about no job. Nine to five, work your guts out—”

Sorrel’s voice stabbed the air. “Leave Quinto alone, bitch.”

Oh no, they were back on the merry-go-round again. Jeanie jumped out of her seat. She should have seen it coming. Consciously or not, Sorrel had decided to drown her fears in rage.

“Who you calling a bitch, bitch?”

“Stop it,” Jeanie yelled over the screams. She waved her arms. She’d broken up fights in the high school by walking between the combatants, putting an arm around one and literally walking him away. Try it here? Fat chance. Sorrel or Brynna, either one, would view it as an assault or a deep insult.

Sorrel slapped the desk and threw out one hand, middle finger rigidly extended. “Fuck you, whore. If I had me a knife—Bitchmeat!” She writhed in her seat, but stayed in it, as though riveted into place. Fear of the State Detention Facility fueled the restraint. Sorrel was maddening, but she wasn’t stupid. Not at all.

“Yeah, like you did that one guy?” spat Brynna. “You fucking bitch, need a knife to get tough, huh? Or a pipe bomb, maybe, like your boyfriend? Well tough shit, slut. All you got is your hands. Come at me, why don’t you?” Brynna also remained plastered to her chair.

Jeanie grabbed a portable room divider and yanked it between the girls. The classroom had come equipped with several, a fact for which she frequently thanked God and Mackie Sandoval. Mackie had scrounged them when a state office revamped its cubicle farm.

Dillon seemed amused. “Let ‘em fight, for God’s sake.”

“Oh, hush up,” Jeanie snapped.

Dillon’s mouth shut and his eyes narrowed to slits. Snake eyes, just what she needed. Jeanie ignored him, zipping her own mouth closed before she said anything worse. Soon, rules or not, the girls would be rolling on the floor scratching out each other’s eyes. She couldn’t have that. One of them might break a fingernail.

Jeanie grabbed Sorrel’s chair and pulled it and the screeching girl backwards. She kicked open the door to Mackie’s office and towed Sorrel inside. Back out again, she grabbed two more partitions and boxed Brynna into a cubicle all her own.

The screams reached new crescendos. Jeanie marched to Dillon’s desk. “Excuse me,” she said tartly, as she unplugged his earphones and grabbed his boom-box. She plugged it into the wall near the office door and turned it up as far as the knob went. Music blared, the raucous beat pounding its way through the screams. Jeanie blinked as the lyrics filtered into her brain, but shrugged. For drowning out screams, she couldn’t beat it.

Jeanie stood by the boom-box and met four pairs of eyes. Rosalie and Quinto gave her the excited, joyful looks of small children at a slumber party; Dillon and Tonio were stony-faced. Two to two, then. They were tied.

Someone pounded on the classroom door. Jeanie opened the door and popped her head into the hallway.

An aggressively clean-cut young man stood there, his fist poised in mid-air. The inexpensive, immaculate suit, combined with the arrogance of frustrated superiority, marked him as a freshly graduated, professional something-or-other. She recalled the business listings in the lobby, and ran them through her mind. Not a dentist, social worker, or civil servant. They were all too accustomed to loud, angry people. Who did that leave? Ah yes, a lawyer, Mr. Oscar Kemmerich. It had struck her as an improbable name.

She couldn’t hear his words. She raised a finger asking for his patience, and turned back to her room full of live wires. She pointed to the hallway and raised an eyebrow. Rosalie and Quinto took her invitation and bounded into the hallway. Dillon and Tonio glowered. Jeanie stepped out and closed the door. The shrieks dimmed.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Would you kindly maintain some order in your insane asylum? This caterwauling is totally nonconducive to a professional environment.”

Almost absently, Jeanie returned a soft answer as she glanced to the end of the hallway. Rosalie tip-tapped back and forth, like Judy Garland on the Yellow Brick Road . Quinto wedged himself into the corner at the far end of the hall, next to the building’s side exit. He wore his hunted look again. His eyes were riveted on Mr. Kemmerich.

“That’s the boy who worked at the construction site.” Mr. Kemmerich said, following her glance. He sounded darkly triumphant, as though vindicated in some private opinion.

Jeanie jerked to attention. “How would you know?”

Mr. Kemmerich stepped back half a pace and recovered himself. “It was in the newspaper.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she stated. No newspaper would list Quinto’s name. They couldn’t publish Quinto’s name or picture without Dandridge House’s permission, and they would never give it. This man had special knowledge, either of the crime or of her students. “Excuse me, Mr. Kemmerich, but how did you know that?”

The classroom door bumped into her from behind. Prudently, she turned toward it and wedged the toe of her shoe into the crack under the door to jam it. The girls were still carrying on, and she didn’t need Tonio or Dillon charging into the middle of this little confrontation. The door hit her again, and then shuddered with heavy blows. The door scraped over her toe. Ouch. It had to be Dillon, not Tonio.

The pounding stopped. After a moment, she relaxed her stance. She wriggled her toes, trying to get back some feeling.

Mr. Kemmerich leveled a finger at Quinto. “Keep away from my motorcycle, punk. If it goes missing, I’ll sic the cops on you.”

Oscar Kemmerich didn’t have a brain in his head, she thought tiredly. Imagine saying such a thing to a kid with a criminal record. “Quinto would never steal a motorcycle,” she said. Spray-paint it, possibly, but not steal it. “Mr. Kemmerich—”

At the far end of the hall, Mackie’s office door flew open and banged against the wall. Dillon erupted through it and checked his stride at the sight of Mr. Kemmerich. He straightened slowly, and stood there, immovable, stiff-legged, hackles raised, his fingers curved like claws at his sides.

Well, thought Jeanie, it’s about time to break this up. She grabbed Mr. Kemmerich’s right hand, which she pumped vigorously. “Thank you very much,” she said, in the kindly but firm “teacher-voice” known throughout the world. He retreated without conscious volition. Mr. Kemmerich, newly out of law school, still had all the reflexes of youth. “I appreciate your concern for my young ladies,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll calm down shortly. Good day to you, Mr. Kemmerich. I’m sure we’ll meet again sometime.”

Mr. Kemmerich found himself on the stairs. “If they do not calm down shortly, the police will be here to investigate. I will see to it,” he blustered. With a final scowl at Quinto, he left.

Jeanie walked down the hall. Dillon stared down at her with burning yellow eyes.

“Nobody touches my stuff,” he said, voice grating.

Tonio appeared in the doorway behind Dillon. He rested his hand on the doorframe and settled there watchfully.

“Nobody touches my stuff, nobody. You took my box.”

“I did, didn’t I?” said Jeanie with an involuntary chuckle. “I apologize.”

“You laughing at me?” There was a deep rumble through his voice.

The wolf is nothing to laugh at. The wolf is dangerous, and attacks only when the moment is right. He’s a wolf; I’m a rabbit.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself, an old woman standing in a hallway, listening to a catfight. Maybe I should bring in a fire hose, and squirt them both. Or maybe we could sell tickets. What do you think?”

Dillon’s eyes were unwavering. She tried again. “I’m sorry.” Actually, she understood it. People confined him, leashed him up, and taught him tricks he had no desire to learn. Of course, he wanted her out of his stuff. “I’m sorry I took your box without asking. But things were a little,” she waved her hand to the door, “hectic.”

“Don’t touch my stuff again.”

“Okay.”

He stalked past her and went through the classroom door. The volume decreased, held steady. Dillon had left his boom-box where she put it. Surprise.

“I think they’re done fighting,” Rosalie said. “You want I should go see?”

Tonio cocked his head to listen. “Can’t hear ‘em,” he said. “Good music.” Tonio glinted at her, with what might have been mischief.

“Never,” Jeanie said, “in my life have I heard two girls carry on that way.”

“Should have let ‘em fight.”

“I don’t think their parole officers would be happy. Besides, I’m morally opposed,” said Jeanie, “to getting blood all over my classroom. Did you see the length of those fingernails? I’m still not sure what started it. Sometimes I think I’m blind in one ear and can’t see out of the other.”

There was silence. Quinto said tentatively, “Uh, Jeanie? That don’t make no sense at all.”

“You’re right, Quinto, it doesn’t. My small attempt at humor.” It had been a hell of a day. She’d spent every second watching her back and her mouth. She was sick of it. “For heaven’s sake, Tonio,” she burst out, “work with me here. I joke with you, and you get it, I know you get it. And you give nothing back at all.”

Unprofessional, she told herself angrily. She had no business seeking reassurance from a student. It was this rootless feeling she had, of walking in the sand and leaving no footprints. Everyone who loved her was so distant, one way or another. “Sorry, Tonio, forget it,” she managed. Jeanie closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands. Annalisa was dead; Shelley was far away, and so were the boys. And now there was this thing with Edward. I am not alone, she told herself. I am not.

“Me,” Tonio said, “I think I’m deaf in one eye.”

Jeanie’s eyes flew open. “Must be the one I see the twinkle in, huh?”

“Must be.”

Tonio turned to Quinto. “Hey, buddy, get back in, okay? Either of them does anything, we need to know. You’re lookout, okay, homey?”

Quinto grinned. “Sure thing, man.” He strutted into the classroom. Rosalie followed.

Tonio looked at her. “You got to watch it, Jeanie, with Dillon.”

“And the others? And you?”

He seemed to make a decision. “It’s just, shit happens, you know?” he said, jerking his head towards the room. “I know the guy Sorrel carved up. Maybe he had it coming, but still, Jesus Christ! You want to watch it. You could get hurt. These ain’t your regular kids.”

“But you’re here, all of you,” she said softly. “Studying.”

“Court says we gotta be here.”

“Maybe so, but Mackie says some kids fail their exams on purpose. She screens carefully, before taking anyone in the work-study program. Why are you six here, while a dozen more aren’t?” There was a pause. “That’s it, then. That’s where I come in. Isn’t it?” She waggled an eyebrow at him. “Blind ears and all.”

Rosalie bounced out of the room. “Phone’s ringing.”

Jeanie went to the office, skirted the stone-faced Sorrel, and picked up the phone. “ GED School . Oh hi, Mackie. The testing schedule? We’ve only got one going in this week. Right, Thursday, Tonio’s going in for Social Studies. Uh huh. Sure.”

Jeanie gave Sorrel a lingering glance. The girl’s leg swung spasmodically. Her chin jutted out and her cheeks were flushed. Her chest heaved with angry drags at the air. No doubt, Brynna was in a similar state. Rosalie was roaming; Quinto was ready to fly apart at any instant, and Dillon was in a royal snit. A man had been pipe bombed, and she was fairly certain three, if not four, of her students knew more than the newspapers, and so did a total stranger upstairs.

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