by Holly Hook
A fist of horror squeezed at her heart. Janelle lifted off the exam table, careful not to make the paper on it crinkle again. It didn't, but the sick room door gaped open like a giant mouth, threatening to give her away. Should she close it? No. She’d draw attention to herself. That woman would know someone was hiding in here.
Gary’s guardian continued as if it were perfectly legal to breeze into a school and ask about students. Her voice dripped with a fake candy coating. “She’s sixteen now. Born on the seventeenth of August. I’m a relative and I haven’t seen her in years. If you’d allow me to explain, I'm sure you'd—”
The principal cleared his throat. “Ma'am, it's our policy not to give out information on our students. You need to be authorized by her parents or legal guardians if you’re wanting to visit. If you want, we can call her parents and get permission. What’s your name?”
Janelle stiffened. This woman knew her birthday. She felt invaded, watched, like a lab mouse in a maze. What else did she know?
The woman whispered something and took a few steps closer to the sick room. “You’re a teacher. You’ll certainly be helpful and tell me if there are any students named Janelle in your classes?”
Janelle muttered a curse as panic surged into her chest. She must be talking to Mr. Deville. He’d taken her name earlier, so he only had to march over here and say here you go. Please, she prayed, drumming her fingers on her jeans. Her vision wavered as she held her breath.
“Not that I’m aware of, Ma’am.” Mr. Deville said at last. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t stick out to me. I have over a hundred students a day.”
Thank you, thank you! Janelle sagged against the table let out her breath.
“Your name, Ma’am,” the principal said.
“Okay. I’ll go,” the woman snapped, the sunshine in her voice replaced with a faint, rolling thunder. The double doors squeaked again. “Why are all these mainland schools so difficult?” Her high heels clicked all the way down the hall as she departed.
Janelle strained her ears. There were no blasts of wind. No roars. She grasped the cold table and urged her heart to slow back to normal as the two men in the office conversed like spies. She would have to make her teacher some cookies, maybe even a cake, for that. Heck, she might even buy him some flowers to put on top of it.
Mr. Deville pushed the sick room door all the way open with a thud, sticking his bald head in. His face had turned into a mask of concern. “You know that woman who just came here? I hope not, for your sake.”
She shook her head and forced a smile. “Can I go to my sixth hour? I feel better now.” Big lie, but between the roaring woman and Trig, Trig sounded a lot less scary.
“You can go when the bell rings,” Mr. Deville said. “I want to be sure she’s gone before you go out in those halls.”