by Liz Jasper
In my mail cubby, under a pink phone message and a still warm recycled-paper copy of the daily announcements, lay a creamy white envelope with the Bayshore Academy insignia in the upper left-hand corner and my name in perfectly slanted script across the front. It was from Maxine. She was the only one I knew who still used a fountain pen. I could never get the things to work, myself. My words always came out as invisible dry scratches framed by vast puddles of ink that got smeared across the paper when I wrote the next line.
I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a matching correspondence card embossed with the Bayshore crest. Maxine was happy to inform me the police had finished with my classroom and I was free to begin using it again.
My shoulders sagged in relief and I offered up a silent prayer of thanks. I’d been forced to show a movie yesterday and I didn’t think I’d survive another day of it. My students were even harder to control than usual when the only diversion was a flickering twenty-inch image of badly dressed scientists with hair at least twenty years out of date and a tendency to talk in sleep-inducing monotones. I know I’m promoting an unfair stereotype, but even I had trouble focusing on what the eminent scientists were saying under the runaway eyebrows. I kept waiting for the Queer Eye guys to rush in and do a group makeover. You can imagine my disappointment when they failed to show up, four times in a row.
Shortly after the bell rang for morning break, Becky and Carol appeared at my door, bearing coffee. “Hey, guys. What’s up? Ooh, Starbucks! What’s the occasion?”
My happy smile faded a little as Becky, looking unusually somber, reached back to shut and lock the door behind her.
“Uh, oh. What’s up? Am I in trouble or something?”
Becky’s eyes opened wide. “In a matter of speaking,” she choked.
Carol looked appalled. “Becky!”
I looked from one to the other. “What’s going on?”
Carol opened her mouth to speak, but Becky got there first. “Well, the good news is, you’re not bulimic.”
Huh?
“Really, Becky, that’s enough!” Carol said. I was really worried now. Carol never spoke sharply. Never to one of us, anyway. She put a comforting hand on my arm and regarded me earnestly through her gold-rimmed glasses. “Jo, you were seen throwing up in the bathroom the other night at the restaurant, after Bob’s memorial service. We weren’t the only people from Bayshore there, you know. In fact, quite a number of Bayshore families stopped in after the service.”
“Didn’t I warn you that you became a public figure the second you signed that teaching contract?” Becky demanded.
“So what?” Frustration crept into my voice. I didn’t understand what the fuss was all about. “I had some bad shrimp and threw up. People do that sometimes.”
Carol shook her head. “Not so quickly after ingesting the item—unless you have a seafood allergy, which you clearly didn’t show signs of—at least according to Dr. Gossip at the next table. And,” she added gently, “people who have food poisoning, or the flu, don’t stop for a burger on the way home.”
“You shouldn’t have spurned the nachos at the game on Saturday,” Becky chided.
“At least I have some standards,” I said. Becky made a face at me but Carol just looked worried. “Look, am I missing something here? I feel as if we’re having two different conversations. I mean, who gives a rat’s ass what the hell I eat?”
Becky and Carol exchanged an uncomfortable glance.
“What?”
“Jo, people are saying you’re pregnant,” Carol said quietly.
“It’s not true, is it?” asked Becky.
“No! Of course not. What? I—” I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t get the words out.
“It gets worse,” Becky said. “They’re saying it’s Bob’s.”
I opened my mouth to respond but this time not even a sound came out.
The bell rang signaling the end of break. Amid a flurry of sympathetic pats on the back and admonitions not to worry, they rushed off to teach their classes and my students began pouring back in. I just stood there, leaning against my desk for support, staring helplessly down at my cardboard coffee container.
When I noticed the barista’s order notes, in thick black ink down the side of the cup, I closed my eyes in defeat. They’d gotten me decaf.
>A couple hours later when I stepped into the cafeteria for lunch, two hundred pairs of eyes swiveled instantly in my direction, killing any remaining hope that Becky and Carol had exaggerated the pregnancy rumor. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die, or at least take a tray up to my room and hide out there for a while, but the way things were going, if I left now people would probably think I was rushing off to the bathroom to take care of my new prenatal body functions.
I stiffened my spine, sat at my usual table and I pretended I didn’t notice everyone watching what I ate, said and did, just as I ignored the huddled heads and lowered voices as people speculated whether or not the rumor was true. I ate mechanically, forcing every scrap on my plate down my throat, though I was almost defeated by the carrot sticks. They had a funny bitter taste that made me want to gag and a last two went down through sheer willpower alone. On the plus side, it was probably the healthiest meal I’d had in weeks. I resisted the impulse to flee the second I was done eating, and sat laughing and joking with Becky and Carol and Alan until the bell rang. I should have won an Emmy Award for my performance.
By the time the school day was over, I was exhausted from pretending the gossip didn’t bother me. Getting drunk had definite appeal, but I was tired of dealing with people and really wanted nothing more than to hole up in my apartment with some books and a lot of junk food. Unfortunately, I was all out of books—I seemed to be going through them rather faster than usual of late—so I made a quick detour over to the library on the way home.
I lucked out at once, finding several out-of-print mysteries on the For Sale rack, perfect for restocking my Shitty Day Drawer since I wouldn’t have to return them. I tucked them under my arm and then wandered through the stacks, looking for something strong enough to assuage today’s indignities. I picked up a couple of science fiction books and then headed to the classics rack to look for a copy of anything by Jane Austen. I picked up three for good measure, and then found myself fingering a paperback copy of Dracula. After a moment’s hesitation, I added it to my pile.
For some reason, that small decision opened some sort of floodgate. By the time I got to the checkout counter, I had collected a half-dozen more vampire books from the shelves, including two from the Young Adult section. I felt oddly guilty, as if I were checking out self-help books or porn, and was ridiculously relieved when the librarian, oblivious to my inner turmoil or just well trained not to raise so much as an eyebrow over anyone’s reading choices, merely look bored.
When I got home, I unplugged the phone and settled on the couch with a giant mug of hot chocolate and the rest of the chocolate chip cookies. Then I pulled all the vampire books out of my bag and spread them on the table. After careful deliberation, I picked up Dracula and began to read eagerly, curious to learn something about Will. Not that I suddenly believed Dracula was some sort of Vampires for Dummies. But it did seem reasonable that there might be some truth among the fiction. After all, the common perceptions about vampires had held up pretty well against the reality. So far.
I got through about half the first paragraph of the introduction before I snapped the book shut. Feeling a little numb, I replaced it with one of the vampire novels I had gotten from the regular fiction section. I made it a whole ten pages in that one before hurling it away from me. In desperation, I picked one advertised as a “fun, breezy read”. It had flowers on the cover. I lasted only two chapters before tossing it on the floor and pushing the remaining vampire books off the table with it in disgust. What were these people trying to do? Scare me?
The whole idea was stupid anyhow. Even if there were facts to be found amid the fiction, how the hell was I supposed to
identify them? I couldn’t tell a legitimate horror from a trumped-up bit of dramatic license and wouldn’t be able to, no matter how many vampire books I read, until it actually happened. And from the little bits I had just read, that was going to be bad enough. I didn’t see any point in scaring myself needlessly in the meantime. If I really wanted to know something, I probably could just ask Gavin. I didn’t know how much he knew about vampires, but what he did know, I was sure I could rely on him to tell me straight, without any embellishments. I could call him right now.
But I didn’t want to. What I wanted, what I needed, was to enjoy some purely human entertainment. I upended the cookie jar onto a large napkin I’d spread over my lap and settled back into the couch cushions with Emma.
At six-thirty the next morning I should have been on my way to work, but I was sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor in my jammies. Around me, rejected outfits lay crumpled and worthless on the floor. I stared in hopeless desperation at my half-emptied closet, willing new, better clothes to appear, but though the clock ticked inexorably on, none did.
Becky had been right about my stupid, frumpy, old lady cruise-wear wardrobe! Everything I owned made me look pregnant or as if I were trying to hide that I was.
At ten minutes to the hour, I couldn’t stall any longer. I threw on a turtleneck sweater over some dark gray pants and hit the road. The sweater was probably baggy enough to house a pregnancy well into the second trimester, but I didn’t care anymore. People could think what they wanted—they would anyway. Besides, how long could the humiliation last? I worked at a school for crying out loud. It was only a matter of time before someone did something outrageous or embarrassing enough to draw the gossip mongers’ attention away from me, and then the stupid pregnancy rumor would die on its own. And if it didn’t, I thought grimly, I’d just have to kill it myself. Drinking gin in the hallways between classes and carrying around jumbo boxes of tampons should do the trick.
After school had let out and the last of my students needing extra help had gone home, I popped next door to see how Leah, Bob’s long-term sub, was holding up. She was the one person who didn’t seem to be in on the pregnancy rumor, which made her an invaluable companion. She was sitting in front of a computer, peering nearsightedly at the screen. I knocked lightly on the open door to get her attention and she looked up with relief.
“Oh good, someone’s here to distract me.”
“Yup. How’re things going so far? Okay?”
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said dismissively. “Just a little review to make sure the kids are where they should be.” She hunched back over the keyboard and frowned at the screen. “Now if only I were as good at these things.”
“I’m no expert, but if I can help I will.”
“Well what are you waiting for? Pull up a stool and help me find Bob’s old lesson plans.”
After a half-hour of hunting, we managed to find a couple of promising files. Leah gave an exasperated sigh. “Surely it shouldn’t be this hard.”
“Normally it isn’t. But Bob was a popular guy who taught a popular but difficult subject. He had students in his room all the time. If he hadn’t been cryptic about this sort of thing, a determined student could have downloaded his tests in a heartbeat.”
Leah moved to the printer tray and began flipping doubtfully through the meager stack of printouts. “This is a start, but I’m still missing a lot of stuff.”
I drummed my fingers thoughtfully. “You know, Bob was in the habit of doing a lot of his prep work in coffee shops. I’m pretty sure he brought along his laptop, and it’s a good bet he sent copies of things to himself. If you’re lucky, you might find some of the stuff you’re missing in his e-mail.”
“And if I’m not lucky?”
“It’s all on a tiny memory stick somewhere. Good luck finding that.”
She groaned but rallied. “I think they gave me his e-mail password…” She rooted around the desk and triumphantly held up a bright green Post-it. “I used to think it was a horrible invasion of privacy when I read that employers could monitor their employees’ e-mail, but right now, I’m all for it.”
I looked away as she carefully typed in Bob’s password and hoped such nobility wouldn’t cost me later.
Her cell phone rang. “I’ve got to take this,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s my sitter.”
“Want me to keep poking around?”
“Would you?”
As she stepped over to the window where the reception was better, I clicked around in Bob’s e-mail, trying to find something that would help Leah out. Bingo. He’d archived his e-mails from last year. I scanned last February’s messages, finding a couple labs and the test in short order.
I began opening e-mails at random. I lucked upon lecture notes, which I added to the print queue. As I panned down to the next screen of e-mails I saw one that made me hesitate. The subject line read, “Hey there, sexy thang!”
I vacillated briefly between curiosity and respect for Bob’s privacy before going with the former. Gavin had Bob said most likely had been killed in a moment of extreme anger or passion. If he was right, this letter could be important. I printed out a copy, tucked it in my pocket and deleted it. It was bad enough I’d read it. Moving quickly, I scanned the rest of Bob’s e-mails for similarly personal letters, but didn’t find any.
By the time Leah finished her phone call, I had February’s test back up on screen and was organizing the printouts. She was thrilled and thanked me effusively.
The e-mail was burning a hole in my pocket, but I didn’t look at it again ‘til I was safely home. I sat down heavily at the kitchen table, smoothed it flat, and read it again. “Hey Sexy,” it began. It didn’t say much, just thanked Bob for a good time—a “rockin’ good” time actually—and ended with the suggestion that they should do it again soon. I read it several times over, trying to determine precisely how close the relationship was, hoping desperately the answer was “not very”.
I thrust the note away from me. I should have followed Gavin’s advice and stayed out of it.
The e-mail had been sent by “Ag1410”. The first part was easy enough to decipher. Ag is the atomic symbol for silver. A quick check in a chemistry text told me 1410 was its melting point. Only one person I knew would have that e-mail tag. A person who had dyed her spiky hair back to a silvery-blonde just that day. Becky.
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
Early the next morning, I headed for Becky’s classroom armed with two cups of Peet’s coffee and a bag of cinnamon buns I’d stress-baked around midnight the night before. After much soul-searching, I’d decided to confront Becky about her relationship with Bob before handing the e-mail over to the police, and now I was on my way to do it. Maybe I was being stupid or foolhardy, but Becky was my friend. She wouldn’t have thrown me to the wolves, and I couldn’t do it to her.
Her classroom was unlocked. Guided by the strains of an old Hendrix tune, I headed past a giant periodic table and a wall of The Far Side cartoons to the chemical storage room in the back. Becky was mixing a batch of dilute sulfuric acid and singing along in a passable voice to The Wind Cries Mary.
She shifted her attention away from the large triangular beaker she was filling with distilled water long enough to greet me brightly. “Hey, Jo. You’re here early. What’s shaking? Give me a sec to finish this up, will ya?”
Her cheerfulness made me feel even more tired than I was. Becky was one of those lucky people who only needed a few hours of sleep at night and could burn the candle at both ends. I, on the other hand, was no Queen of the Night (however hard Will might try to change that), and started in on my coffee while I waited for her to finish.
When she was done, she divested herself of lab coat, gloves, and protective goggles in a fashionable lime green and black that flattered her dramatic coloring. Becky had her own personal supply of lab goggles, “because if you have to wear them all the time, you might as well look good in ‘em.�
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She led the way back to the front of the classroom. “It doesn’t smell so bad over here.” She accepted the coffee I handed her and tore into a cinnamon bun with a look of rapture.
“God, these are so good. If teaching those little soul-sucking monsters of yours doesn’t work out, you should go into the baking business. I swear, just set up a little cart at the front gate before school and at breaks and you’d make a fortune!”
She caught sight of my face, and the dreamy, slightly mercenary light faded from her dark eyes. I had a sudden appreciation for how awkward it must have been for her and Carol to tell me about the pregnancy rumor.
She waved her paper towel napkin in the air like a white flag. “Whatever they’re saying, I didn’t do it.”
I felt a cowardly urge to lie, tell her it was nothing, stop myself from saying something that could irreparably harm our friendship before it was too late. I didn’t have to be the one to show her the e-mail. She need never know that I’d seen it. I could just hand it over to the police and Gavin could ask the awkward questions, bear the burden of her response.
But then I’d always wonder, wouldn’t I? And if they didn’t find the killer, which seemed increasingly likely, that ugly fissure of doubt would grow into an unbreachable chasm, and I would lose my friend just the same.
I pulled the printout out of my pocket and handed it to her before I changed my mind. “Are you sure about that?”
She gave me a brief, quizzical look, unfolded the e-mail, and began to read. “Good Lord! Where did you get this?” She giggled.
I hesitated. It was not the reaction I had expected.
“Jeez, Jo, get your mind out of the gutter,” she scowled. “What, did you think Bob and I slept together or something?”