Lost in the System

by Nancy Jo Wilson

  I know what she needs—the assurance that David really liked her. It is simple math in her head. David running away equals him never truly caring about her. According to all unspoken social mores, he is too good-looking for her. She probably figured it was all a dream from the first time they talked. The last thing I want to do is crush this sweet girl. I’d lie, if it was necessary, to keep her intact.

  Here I am again worrying about a chick’s feelings.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to lie. I remember Charlie’s assessment. “You don’t take off when you’re about to land the babe.” Her story adds credence to what Chuckles and I decided yesterday.

  “The police don’t think David planned it. They think something big happened, like a trigger, which made him take off.” I lean forward. “I don’t think he’d run off without a really good reason. It’s just not like the David I know.”

  She relaxes. “Exactly, he’s not that kind of boy.” She rustles through her things and pulls out a sheet of paper.

  “Lydia and I made these last night. We’re going to pass them out after school. My mom said I could.” She hands the paper to me.

  It is a flyer. David’s handsome, sincere face stares out of the page. Above the picture it says, “Have you seen this boy?” Below it is the police station’s main line.

  A barrage of thoughts rushes my brain—this flyer lost amid all the other ones in grocery store windows, Lydia, those girls shouldn’t be out alone, more time with Lydia, why bother if he ran off? I take a second to sort them all out.

  The runaway scenario bothers me. I meant what I’d said a moment earlier. The more I learn, the less likely it seems he ran away. However, he took the Rock the Universe money. What other reason could there be to clean out his and his sister’s stash? The deal stipulated I’d do all I could as Keith Burns. It isn’t in his job description to solve the case but helping is. I puff up my cheeks and blow it out like Burnsey did yesterday.

  “Why don’t I go with y’all? Three hands are better than two.” I decide not to mention I think they need a man along. Girls never respond well to that one.

  Maddie smiles. “That would be great! I knew you’d be on our side. I’ll call Lydia and tell her.”

  “No, I’ll call her on my break. It should probably come from me.” Once again, my mouth answers before my brain. What am I doing? I need less time with that woman, lest she infect me completely, and yet, here I am manufacturing excuses to talk to her. What am I, twelve?

  “Okay,” Maddie says. “We’re supposed to meet outside after school.” She pauses on her way out the door. “Thanks, Mr. Burns.”

  I wave the gratitude away with my hand and pretend to go through my grade book.

  The Interloper better live up to his part of the bargain.

  As she leaves, other students trickle in. Some pull out books as they sit at their desks, others talk with the person next to them. I search through Burnsey’s papers, looking for a seating chart. I don’t find one. Of course not, Keith probably doesn’t have one. He’d be the kind of teacher that memorized all the students’ names the first day and was comfortable with a modicum of chaos in his class—a dream for students, a nightmare for conmen trying to fill his Super Teacher shoes. I look through all his desk drawers anyway, just to be thorough. Nada. There is a Bible tucked in the bottom one, which I close without a second glance. I said I’d help; I didn’t say I’d read that stupid verse.

  What’s my strategy for identifying the kiddies? I could use nicknames like “Baboon Face” for the girl who needs lessons in makeup application and “Studly” for the boy with all the piercings. Nah, Burnsey would never mock his students. Poor sap, he probably thinks he’s making a difference. The best option is not to use names at all. I could do a lot of pointing and saying, “What do you think? Yeah, you.” But that won’t cover roll call. I mull it over some more. Aha, I can have another student do it. Genius, Smullian my boy. You can handle whatever he throws at you.

  The final bell rings and three students slip in after it finishes its chime. If I were the teacher, I’d embarrass them by pointing out that the big hand is the minute hand and the little hand is the hour hand. I’m not me; I’m Burnsey. Instead, I wag a finger at them, and they grin sheepishly. Boy, that put them in their place. Announcements begin. There is going to be a pep rally on Friday (ooh rah), starting Monday cars without valid parking permits would be fined (I’m sure Burnsey took care of that), and there’s going to be pizza and French fries for lunch (no wonder there’s an obesity problem in this country).

  When that was over, I point at a girl who was chatting throughout the announcements. A social bug like that is likely to know all the students’ names. “Can you check the roll for me while I take care of some paperwork?”

  “Sure, Mr. Burns,” she says as she bounces up to my desk. She glances down at my bandaged hand and asks the inevitable. “Did you hurt your hand?”

  My own answer pops out of Keith’s mouth. “No, this is the latest Paris fashion.” Flarp, I lost control, again.

  She stares at me blankly for a moment, then giggles. “You’re funny, Mr. Burns. No really, how’d you hurt it?”

  Oh yeah, he’s a real comedian. “Home repair accident. Can you get to the roll call?”

  “Sure,” she answers and begins to place checkmarks next to names in the roll book as I pretend to look busy.

  In my continued role as team player, I ask the class if anyone knows anything about David. On Monday none of these kids would have been able to pick him out of a crowd, but today they all know him. “Didn’t he run away?” some ask.

  “I heard he knocked over a convenience store and took off,” one says. Surprisingly, others nod in agreement. Gotta love the rumor mill.

  “No, he hasn’t committed any crimes,” I respond. “It’s not certain he ran away either. That’s why if you know anything about what he did Sunday or Monday, it would help. You can come to me or call the main police line and ask for Detective Diaz.” Of course, no one knows anything.

  Once that business is finished, I walk to the front of my desk and begin my teaching career with a simple phrase, “Take out your books.” The rest of the period goes pretty well. I only resist saying, “Did you actually read The Merchant of Venice?” about seventy times. I put on a stellar performance myself, convincing an audience of thirty-four that I am Keith Burns.

  After class, I wander out into the hall to find a water fountain. All of the teachers are standing beside their classroom doors. It was clearly a procedural thing, so I stand next to my door, as if that was what I’d intended to do all along. I assume the teachers do this to better monitor the juvenile delinquents. No one could start a fight or get pregnant under the glare of all these adults. Although, I’m sure these wily teens could figure out a way, if they really wanted to.

  I see Mrs. Watson looking around and absent-mindedly twisting her wedding ring—the universal sign of a guilty conscience. She’d better feel guilty. Some poor schlub is working his tuckus off to provide her with that massive rock as well as the designer clothes on her back, and she is repaying him by boffing the gym teacher. It’s not like being single is taboo in the twenty-first century. Why get married if you don’t intend to keep those vows? It’s the same in my time. My dad wasn’t under any societal pressure to marry. So why did he? He could have had a lovely interlude with my mom and moved on. She and I would have been a lot happier if he had. That’s why I stay footloose and fancy free, no promises to break. No shattered lives left behind.

  The bell rings and another period begins. To save my sanity, I decide to give a different ridiculous explanation for my bandaged hand every period. Based on chatty Cathy’s response to my joke in first period, I can rightly assume that Burnsey has a sense of humor. This period my wounds are the result of an attack by a Ninja assassin. I do the David spiel and get the same results. Aside from the convenience store heist, there are other equally ridiculous rumors. One includes him running off with an older lady
. I set things straight and go on with class.

  I find it difficult to maintain poise with these kids. They come up with the most ridiculous excuses to leave the room, interrupt me in the middle of comments, and ask the inane questions. Any teacher that doesn’t end up killing a kid should be nominated for sainthood. The bell ringing fills me with joy; it announces third period, Burnsey’s break time. The notion of a quiet Coke delights me, certainly not the thought of calling Lydia.

  III

  I don’t want to call from the office. Fussbudget has sonic hearing, I am certain. Control of information would be vital in her power-hungry empire. She would have to use blackmail occasionally to achieve her ends. All evil overlords do. Of course, she wouldn’t call it that, and her victims wouldn’t recognize it that way. Fussbudget would say she is helping. Her victims would think they were doing her a favor for all her help. Here’s how it would play out.

  (Scene begins in a typical school front office.

  It is neat and orderly. Sitting at the desk is Secretary Ratched.

  Teacher Gullible enters from left)

  Ratched:

  Good morning, Ms. Gullible.

  Gullible:

  Morning.

  Ratched:

  You look exhausted, dear. You must have been up all night with worry over that brother of yours. Tsk. Tsk.

  Gullible:

  (looks down) He just can’t make it outside of rehab.

  (looks back at Ratched) No one knows.

  Ratched:

  Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. Why don’t I get you a cup of coffee and file those lesson plans for you?

  Gullible:

  Thank you. That’s so thoughtful of you.

  (Same setting. Several days later. Nurse Ratched and Teacher Gullible are in the office. Another teacher is in the back of the room.)

  Gullible:

  It’s an interesting idea, Ms. Ratched, but it seems like a lot more paperwork.

  Ratched:

  It would make things much smoother in the office, but I understand. (just loud enough to be heard by the other person) How’s that brother of yours doing?

  You know, addiction hurts the whole family.

  Gullible:

  (in a low voice) He’s fine. Thanks for asking. You know, if that new system will help you, I’ll talk to Principal Puppet.

  It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.

  End Scene

  I don’t want to put Keith in the position of receiving her help but using Burnsey’s cell phone to make the call could be a little sticky. He is an above-board kind of guy, and probably doesn’t use his personal phone for school-related calls to the young, single guardians of his students. I decide to check the break room. It is possible the Duval County School Board treats the teachers like children and limits phone use to the office for “budgetary reasons.” I bank my hopes on this school being a little more gracious.

  Indeed, there is a phone, along with a couple of cracked couches, some Formica-covered tables, several hard chairs, and a fridge. No one else is in the room, yet. It shouldn’t have mattered; I am making a legitimate call, but it did matter. For some reason, I want to be alone when I talk to Lydia.

  I pick up the phone and dial the number I’d memorized yesterday. When her smooth voice comes on the line, I almost hang up. What was it about her that reduces me to a pimply faced teen with his first crush?

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Ummm…Ms. Hawthorne,” I stammer. “This is Mr. Burns, David’s English teacher.”

  “Oh. David talks about you all the time.” Present tense, interesting. She’s sure he’s coming back.

  “Madison told me about your plans for this afternoon. I thought an extra pair of hands would help, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course, it’s okay with me. That would be great.” Her words are happy, but her tone isn’t. She is on the verge of tears.

  Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t—”What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s okay. Do you want to meet in the lobby?” It is the perfect opportunity for her to dump on me, but she doesn’t do it. She goes up another notch in my book. Plus, I’d dodged a bullet—no kryptonite tears today.

  “Lobby’s good. Why don’t I drive?”

  “Okay sure, I’ll see you then.”

  I don’t want to hang up. I frantically search for a reason to continue the call. “Have you thought about where you want to go?”

  “The park, the library, and everywhere in between.”

  “That narrows it down,” I say.

  She chuckles briefly. “The police are doing a good job, but they have other cases. I just want…” she pauses. I can hear the quiver in her voice. When she continues, her tone is even again. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

  She’s one tough chick. The thought bothers me. While on one hand I respect her strength, on the other I want to be strong for her. I want to be able to tell her everything will be okay and mean it. I want to fix it for her. But I can’t. I’m not that guy. I am here today and gone tomorrow.

  “We’ll do what we can,” I say. “See you this afternoon.”

  “Okay. I’m printing more flyers now. I should have them ready by two.”

  We exchange goodbyes and hang up. I realize why I didn’t want anyone in the room—when I talk to her, I’m the closest I’ve been to myself in 779 days.

  Fourth period. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Zombie apocalypse. Don’t worry I wasn’t bitten.”

  Maddie is in this class, so I leave out the David talk. I don’t want her to hear all those silly rumors. Madds, along with the rest of the class, is more insightful and engaged than the other groups so far. I almost have fun. Before I know it, the bell is ringing.

  Fifth period. “Reavers.” One geek gets it. I have to explain it to everyone else. No one knows anything useful about David, not that I am surprised. I keep asking, though, because I’d made a deal. We don’t get far into the lesson before the lunch bell rings. What genius schedules lunch in the middle of fifth period?

  I watch the delinquents go off to eat, and then I wander to the break room. When I come in, most teachers are already seated. One table holds Mrs. Watson and two other women, chatting away. The other table holds two bored men reading the paper. I eavesdrop on the women as I am nuking my Manly Appetites Frozen Glop.

  “…and they were tossing her tampon around the room,” the woman sitting next to Watson says, shaking her head.

  Watson chuckles and answers, “Jerry Johnson actually told me he had a yeast infection, and that’s why he was going to the bathroom so much.”

  All three erupt into giggles. The timer on the microwave dings, and I sit at the guy table, still within watching and listening distance.

  “I don’t know why you still do it, Susan. It’s not like you have to,” the first woman says. Mrs. Watson’s face goes pale despite her flawless make-up, and she begins twisting her ring feverishly. The first woman’s hand flies to her mouth, and then to Watson’s arm. “I’m so sorry. That was so insensitive. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” Watson interrupts. “It’s true. Warren made sure I’d be okay after he was gone.” Twist, twist. “I just can’t imagine sitting around the house all day or going to the club. I don’t relate with those women. I guess as long as the good days outweigh the bad, I’ll keep teaching.”

  “Warren was such a great man. All that work he sponsored on the stadium and the new uniforms. What a benefit he was to this school,” the second woman says. The first nods in agreement. Watson keeps twisting her ring. “You must miss him every day,” the second woman adds.

  Mr. King walks in at that moment, winning the all-time prize for bad timing. He glances at Watson with the same heat he had that morning and says, “Hello, Mrs. Watson. Doris, Angela.”

  The other two women smile and mutter, “Hello, Ryan.”

  Watson barely spares him a glance before l
ooking away and resuming her ring twisting. I wonder if she might sever her finger from all the friction. Mr. King is clearly not pleased by the rebuff. Anger, followed quickly by hurt, races across his handsome face. He marches to the fridge, pulls out one of those vitamin-laden waters, chugs half of it, and leaves the room. Watson watches him go, then looks back down at the table.

  I am so caught up in the whole scene; all I can do is observe. My mind only has room to register what is going on before me. Once it is over though, my head buzzes. I was wrong. Let’s not get carried away. Technically, I was right. Watson is having an affair about which she feels guilty. There is also a loving husband that provides her with jewels and designer clothes. I am only mistaken about one small, practically insignificant fact—said husband is dead. Watson is not the adulterous hag I originally presumed her to be.

  I am rocked. I’ve never been wrong, er mistaken, before. I am Smullian. I’m the best. I don’t screw up. Technically, I must point out again, I didn’t screw up. The information was accurate. My interpretation of said information was skewed. That fact doesn’t appease me. My interpretations drive everything I do. Who I con and who I don’t, who I associate with or don’t—my entire life is founded on my interpretation of the facts.

  I squirm in my chair. A million needles crawl up and down my spine. I resist the next thought as long as I can, but it comes gushing forth like a broken dam. How many people have I conned that didn’t deserve it? I can’t help but wonder about all those marks whose money has passed my palm. How many of them are like Watson? How many have appeared one way, but were really another?

  Suddenly, my glop isn’t so appetizing. Okay, it wasn’t appetizing to begin with, but now I can’t imagine putting another sporkful in my mouth. I am a criminal, but I’ve always prided myself on being one with principles—kind of like Robin Hood, only I keep the money because I’m the poor that needs it. Am I just another crook? My stomach rolls like I am biotransposing, and I rush into the bathroom.