Drowning Instinct

Page 14

I will, but only if you stop apologizing, Mr. Anderson said, and he took her hand in both of his. But if you want to do something for me, you can get Jenna a cell phone. She should have one, even if it‘s for nothing other than emergencies. Tonight, she was lucky I was still there. It might have been midnight before you realized you‘d forgotten her, and there is no pay phone at the school.
Oh, Mom faltered. Yes. Well—
And she ought to have a license and, maybe, a car. If she drives herself, it wouldn‘t be so much pressure on you. Or, if that‘s really too much trouble, I could bring her by your store after school. It‘s virtually on my way anyway.
Well, Mom said again, looking a little breathless now. I wouldn‘t want to put you out.
No trouble at all. But this isn‘t out of the goodness of my heart. To be honest, I have ulterior motives. I want your daughter to join the cross-country team and for that, she‘ll need wheels. Of course, I could take her sometimes or arrange a car pool with some of the other kids, but life‘s easier all the way around if she can take care of getting herself back and forth.
By the end, Mom had agreed that a cell phone was a good idea and she would take me to the DMV on Saturday. Oh, and I was going to start training with the cross-country team.
Great, said Mr. Anderson and gave my mom‘s hands a final squeeze. Oh, and Jenna, don‘t forget. Be in my room bright and early tomorrow morning. I need to get you up to speed if you‘re going to be my new TA.
Sure, I said.
My goodness, Mom said as she closed the front door. He certainly is persuasive. She looked a little stunned, like she‘d been blindsided and wasn‘t quite sure by what.
Me neither. This was so surreal. I felt a little like those times when I detached and went into slipstream, watching all the players in my life at a distance. Because had anyone asked me? Uh, that would be no. I stood there like an idiot as the adults talked around me, planned out my life, decided what I should have and when. Sure, I wanted my license and a phone, but it was so weird, the way Mr. Anderson was able to get it done. It was as if my mother was a wall and Mr. Anderson knew where she was weakest, how to get through the chinks without disturbing a single brick. No, better: he knew how to get around her.
It was, come to think of it, a little like a kinder, gentler Psycho-Dad making one of his command decisions: exactly the same, only without all the fuss and blood.
And the thing is, Bob, Mr. Anderson looking out for me, being there, taking over like that?
I liked it.
I... liked it.
16: a
Corrosives here, inorganics here. Obviously, we keep the corrosives under lock and key. Anytime you need something, you ask and I‘ll unlock the cabinet....Jenna, you with me?
Mmm. I swallowed the bubble of a yawn. Although my sleep had been dreamless, it had been fast: only five hours before struggling out of bed, ripping off my old clothes, showering, dressing, and then piling into the car for the drive down. For the first time, I‘d drunk half of the cappuccino Mom‘s barista had whipped up. It wasn‘t half-bad. Well, not vile.
Mom had looked rough, though not as bad as some mornings after a long evening with Rachael Ray or Bobby Flay. She hadn‘t said much either, not until dropping me off at school when she handed me one of Meryl‘s books: For your teacher‘s wife. It‘s autographed, though not personalized. Tell him that if he and his wife show up at the party, I‘ll be sure they meet Meryl. See you this evening, okay? I won‘t be late, I promise.
Mr. Anderson had been reading the newspaper on his computer when I dragged in, and said he was running later in the day: I slept in a little this morning myself. But that was all he‘d said and when I gave him Meryl‘s book, he‘d thanked me and gotten down to business.
My biggest job would be to catalog and organize the storeroom. Apparently, David had gotten sidetracked by setting up labs and then fencing practice and left the storeroom in kind of a shambles. We went over the bottles and boxes of chemicals arranged on open gray metal shelves. Mr. Anderson kept his already-assembled experiments in a series of plastic tubs for days if he was really rushed and hadn‘t time to drag equipment out of storage.
What‘s that? I‘d asked, pointing to a wooden door. The door was the only one on a very short hall and to the right of a separate entrance off an emergency stairwell, marked by a dimly lit exit sign overhead.
Ah. Mr. Anderson looked sheepish as he dug out the keys. The room was narrow and long, with two large sinks and counters on the right, a cot on the left with a bookshelf affixed to the cinder block right above and a shower stall. Two beige towels hung from a towel bar. A pair of running shoes was squared on a mat next to the cot. The room smelled of Dove and the faintest touch of musky sweat.
My hideaway, Mr. Anderson explained. This used to be a darkroom but then got converted to storage. When they added more classroom space, I renovated a bit. I was refurbishing a cabin I‘ve got on my property and brought the old shower stall down one weekend. This way, I can work out and shower and no one‘s the wiser. He grinned as he shut the door. Well, except you.
We spent more time going through the computer program in which I would have to record the storeroom‘s contents because the school had to pass OSHA inspections.
Organizing and cataloging took top priority, he said. I‘d start with the inorganics to get used to the computer program. I‘d help, but I‘ve got a meeting. Budget. Blah. I have to go militate for more test tubes.
Really? That seemed a stupid thing to sit through a meeting for.
No. Actually, I need burettes and graduated cylinders and, maybe, I‘ll harass the administration for a PCR machine.... Right, you‘re not interested.
I had a hand to my mouth again. No. Really. I‘m fine.
Yeah, right. I‘m falling asleep just looking at you. Help yourself to more coffee.
I‘ll be okay. Then I ruined it by yawning.
Uh-huh. You eat anything?
I‘m fine. I actually was starving. At the mention of food, my traitorous stomach picked that moment to complain, loudly. We stared at each other a moment, and then laughed. That kind of broke the tension, mine mostly. I hadn‘t known how to behave with Mr. Anderson, but things felt . . . normal. No—better than normal. Things felt safe. Like he would be my friend and keep his promises.
Whatever you say, kiddo. Oh, and here. He bent over his desk computer, typed in a few commands and then straightened. Okay, you can access anything through this computer that you can through the library. In case you ever want to, you know, hang here.
I did my best eye roll. Like I‘ll ever have any free time. The storeroom‘s a mess.
Blame David. Listen, if you‘re ever on the computer and I‘m not here when you‘re done, just log out, make sure the lights are off, and close the office door, okay? I‘ll get a couple spare keys made so you can always get in if I‘m not around.
I spent the next forty-five minutes cataloging chemicals. The work was easy and kind of brainless. I could see why David kept putting it off and then I wondered what time he came in— if he still did. Had Mr. Anderson told him I‘d be picking up the slack and then taking over? I didn‘t see how; Mr. Anderson had made his command-decision only, what, eight hours ago? It felt like my whole life had suddenly changed.
The radio was playing, something classical. A window next to the computer overlooked the parking lot, and as I worked, I could see cars pulling up, teachers trickling into the building. Pillars of puffy clouds towered over the gray-blue smudge of Lake Michigan on my right. It was a very nice, very pleasant view.
Sometime during all that, I poured more coffee into my Starbucks cup. The pot squatted on a gray metal filing cabinet directly across from the cataloging computer and adjacent to Mr. Anderson‘s desk. As I sipped, I let my eyes run over a corkboard to which he‘d tacked schedules, a calendar, a couple Get Fuzzy comics. Then, after a second‘s hesitation, I slid into Mr. Anderson‘s black leather chair. He‘d sat in it so often, it was molded to his shape. I didn‘t fit quite right, but it was comfortable and I decided to relax a minute. The chemicals had waited this long, and I really was tired. The coffee was strong, but I‘d dumped in about a pound of sugar and creamer so my teeth wouldn‘t curl. My eyes drifted over Mr. Anderson‘s desk: the computer, a small desk lamp, his X-Files mug, an organizer, a stack of textbooks. A John Sandford novel: Winter Prey.
My fingers trailed over the desk‘s drawers. There were four: two stacked on the left, one in the middle, and one on the right. I inched open the lower left-hand drawer: lesson plans, lab sheets, articles, and other papers. Above that were supplies, a box each of pencils and pens, rubber bands, staples, paper clips. The right held four lab books, each labeled by section and level with various labs done in a walk-through in Mr. Anderson‘s neat, tight handwriting.
There was one more drawer: long, centered, equipped with a lock. When I put a finger underneath and tugged, it moved. So. Not locked.
People always had one drawer where they kept the really good stuff. Stuff that was personal.
I listened for a moment but heard nothing other than the tick of the clock and a glissando run of piano. I tiptoed to the office door, scanned the empty classroom. Tiptoed back.
Mr. Anderson had been gone for almost an hour. School would start in another forty minutes. The first buses would arrive in twenty.
Just a peek.
b
Loose pens and pencils.
A roll of Life Savers (cherry).
A double-handful of loose change in a small Pyrex dish.
A small digital camera.
A hand-bound leather journal with a tie strap wrapped around a brass button shaped like a flower.
And under the journall. . .
A knife.
Don’t do it! My brain really did scream that, but I was already reaching in that same, dreamy way that I‘d run my fingers over David‘s scar. Don’t touch it; don’t, don’t!
Yeah. Like I listen so well.