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 carcely 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.

CONTINUED in

AT RISK OF BEING A FOOL
by Jeanette Cottrell
published by Five Star/Thomson Gale

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