Haunting Blue

by R. J. Sullivan

  His smile was friendly enough, and he waved his thick, beefy hand in my direction before retreating back to the kitchen.

  I swallowed, trying to shake off my trepidation. Chip’s Dad couldn’t help his imposing presence. Naturally, his bulk intimidated me, but I needed to get past this issue. I gathered my courage. They say the best way to conquer a fear was to face it. At least, that’s what I told myself as I clomped down the wooden stairs.

  Walking through swinging doors, I saw Chip’s father sitting at the breakfast bar, pouring a fresh Sprite® for me. I thanked the courtesy gods that he didn’t pour yet-another Mountain Dew®. Like I wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls enough. I’d vowed hours ago to swear off that green piss for another month, at least.

  He motioned to the barstool near him. “I kinda suspected you were going to take a break from all that.”

  “Uh…yeah. I suppose.” I hadn’t considered a conversation with Chip’s Dad a preferred choice, but until Phil remembered he’d promised to take me home, I pretty much had nothing better to do.

  I took a deep breath and made eye contact, determined to break down the barriers for Chip’s sake, if not my own.

  Mr. Farren looked to be in his late 40s. The dark hair atop his head showed some gray at the temples and maintained the same tight curls I’d seen in the earlier portrait.

  He folded his arms across the table. “My son gets to talking about computers, and to me, it’s another language. I’m no dummy when it comes to computers, either.” He grinned, showing large, white, even teeth.

  I nodded, unable to think of a reply in the deadening silence. I shifted on the stool, trying to ignore his open scrutiny. That’s when I noticed the annoying, rhythmic thump from my own fingers drumming against the tabletop. “Sorry.” I halted the drumbeat and resorted to watching bubbles float through the ice of my Sprite® glass.

  As if picking up the thread of an old topic, Mr. Farren said, “You know, your hair is quite something.”

  I shrugged. “Actually, it’s considered quaint in Indy. Very ‘80s. Everybody’s all into black leather and piercing these days, but I prefer the color.”

  He grunted and sipped from his own Sprite®. “I bet you have to take a lot of shit for it, don’t you? Take my wife, God rest her soul.” His eyes traveled upward for a brief moment.

  “If you were her daughter, she wouldn’t allow it. You know how it is. She was born and raised here in this town. Everyone cut from the same cookie-cutter mold.” Mr. Farren shook his head. “You’re lucky your mother allows you to find your own way.”

  Keeping my voice neutral, I answered, “I appreciate what you’re saying.” He knew nothing about me, or my situation, but in his own way, I sensed he was trying to reach out.

  Then, the missing piece slipped into place. In my head, I could practically hear a “clicking” sound. Mrs. Farren had died. She wasn’t at a friend’s, or staying with family, and they weren’t separated. She no longer inhabited the house.

  The barrenness, the haphazard furniture layout, the pure functionality, suddenly made sense. No plants, no floral patterns, no candles, no softness—no trace of a woman’s touch. All her decorative touches had probably turned worn and tattered over time, or broken, or stored away. Piece by piece, Chip and his father had removed almost all memory of what she’d brought to the home, except a single picture hung in memoriam. What remained were the awkward traces of a single Dad, clueless to decorum, doing his best to provide a home for his only son.

  A profound sadness fell over me.

  Mr. Farren spoke in a solemn tone. “Years ago—I guess it’s been almost eight years now—Chip wanted his own computer. Of course, he had no way to afford one, and using mine didn’t give him the hours he wanted to explore programming to the extent he needed to—even then.”

  Mr. Farren shrugged. “What could he do? He was only ten, but he pleaded and begged. He collected aluminum cans, glass, he mowed yards, raked leaves, anything to raise the money. After three months, he presented me with $150 in change.” He chuckled at the memory and shrugged his shoulders.

  “He knew what he wanted, even when he had no way of reaching his goal. So, I bought it for him. What else could I do?”

  When I didn’t volunteer a response, he shoved on. “I suppose I could’ve refused him. He’d be just like most of the people in this town, but instead, I think he’s unique. Know what I mean?”

  I grinned back. “I suppose I do.”

  “See, my son, he admires you very much. For the most part, he just lets people pass by, but you caught his attention right away. He could sense something different. So much so, he told me about it. He’s also told me a few things about what happened to you at school. With the teacher and the fight and all. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a bunch of shit.”

  I kept my stone-neutral expression, but inside, my head spun. After the grief from my mother and the outrageous hatred from Mr. Robbins, I didn’t know how to respond to an adult—a parent—jumping to my defense.

  He continued, “It’s a sad fact, though, that in this town, you’re going to get that sort of treatment all the time.” He sighed and shook his head. His voice welled with emotion. “A lot of people here, they’ll keep at you and try to knock you down until you get proper—’til you cut your hair, put on a decent skirt, and show up to the church to pitch-in with your side dish.”

  He took another gulp from his drink. I sensed I’d better not interrupt. “This town doesn’t change for nothin’. They keep at you and at you, so that even five years from now, you’ll still be getting an earful.”

  I wanted to comment about the earful I was getting now, but instead said, “I have no intention of being around here in five years.”

  Mr. Farren grinned, as if we’d made some sort of connection. “When Chip graduates, he’s getting out of here. I’ll send him away to college. Doesn’t really matter which one. There’s plenty of great engineering schools to choose from in Indiana. I just want him to get clear of this place and not look back.”

  I shifted in my chair while he rambled on. “I don’t want to see somebody who thinks a little differently change just to please this town. You do that, and you’ve been beaten in any way that counts.”

  Yes! I wanted to shout, dance, and high-five the old guy.

  I did none of those things. The whole thing still creeped me out. I couldn’t decide if my feelings originated from Mr. Farren himself or just the idea of talking to a grown-up who understood my problem.

  Then again, what did I know about how caring parents might feel? Especially a Dad?

  The now-empty glass slipped from my hand, tipping onto the table. Ice cubes slid across the surface. I fumbled with the cubes and dropped them back into the glass. I stood and wiped my hands on my blue jeans. I never returned his gaze, which I felt penetrating into me. “I’ve gotta check on the guys upstairs.”

  “Sure, go on.”

  I walked through the doors into the darkness.

  I sat on the couch in the living room by myself. Mr. Farren must have sensed that I wanted to be alone, because he didn’t follow me. I heard him puttering around for several minutes until a door opened upstairs, and Chip’s friends descended to the foyer.

  Strange, but for the first time, my blue hair and jewelry struck me as stupid and shallow, because an adult expressed approval. Baffling, but not nearly as baffling as when I arrived at school Monday morning.

  Chapter Nine

  I stepped into a room full of chatter, the class buzzing with the conspiratorial pitch of fresh gossip. The entire class stood or sat around one student.

  Clinty.

  My apprehension kicked into high. Clinty no longer commanded just through the power of intimidation. This time, for once and truly, he held the people around him captivated with his every word. The look of joy on his face spoke volumes.

  I took my usual seat in the front row, pretending indifference, but my ears all but jumped off my head to catch every word.
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br />   “The cops paid a visit to Goody-two-shoes Robbins over the weekend,” Clinty gloated. “Seems he won’t be teaching the rest of the semester, at least.”

  I turned in my chair to face him. As much as I hated to address Clinty directly, this was too important. “What did he do?”

  Clinty glared, but answered anyway. He, too, must have decided the news of a faculty member’s downfall warranted a temporary cease of hostilities. “Looks like Mr. Robbins fled Cincinnati five years ago to dodge multiple DUI charges. Took this long, but somebody finally recognized him. Now he’s suspended.”

  I sighed. “Suspended. “Why are they keeping him at all?”

  A small girl, seated toward the front, but on the other end of the room, piped up. She wore her blonde hair in a pair of short-cropped pigtails that bobbed when she spoke. “If I understand correctly, the school can’t fire him. At least not yet. Not until after a trial.” Her pigtails wiggled with the nodding of her head. “Mr. Robbins is saying he’s innocent. So, they can’t fire him until he’s found guilty, but from what I hear, the description in the police report is an exact match. They say he ran over a little kid.”

  After dropping this bomb, she looked down at her desk, looking properly mortified.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Clinty chimed back in. “I heard he drove over his grandmama. Ran her over dead.”

  One of Clinty’s toadies added to the confusion. “I thought he just skipped town. That’s why they can’t fire him, yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the pigtailed girl insisted. “The suspension’s just the beginning. He’s through here, and good riddance.”

  At this point, Hap called us to attention.

  My head spun at the news.

  Mr. Robbins—arrested. Suspended from teaching. Had my hopeless predicament taken a sudden turn for the better? Had I somehow managed to dodge a bullet fired straight at my head?

  The story made so much sense. Given all the unjustified anger he’d displayed toward me, it only figured he’d have other skeletons in his closet.

  * * * *

  I sauntered into my late morning Senior English class to see a tall, balding man occupying Mr. Robbins’s chair. Probably in his late 40s, his large Coke®-bottle glasses made him appear older.

  The bell rang, and he scowled at us. “When the bell rings, class, we open our books and close our mouths.”

  The new teacher’s voice droned loudly over the classroom, in sharp contrast to his nerdy, studious appearance. The buzz in the room quieted.

  The teacher rose to his full 6’ 5” height, a thin but authoritative presence.

  “As many of you who have taken my class before may know, I’m Mr. Tyers from Senior Composition. I’ve been asked to fill in for Mr. Robbins—who has chosen to take a sudden leave of absence—for the rest of the semester.”

  I chuckled, and then choked as multiple sets of eyes glared at me. Embarrassed, I stared down at my desk.

  I wondered if I’d do any better with Mr. Tyers than the first time around with Mr. Robbins.

  As class continued, I decided I at least had a shot. Mr. Tyers balanced a stern disposition with clear instructions on his expectations. He wanted homework turned in on time with no excuses. Book chapters read with no excuses. Tests passed with no excuses. Writing assignments turned in following the proper format, as shown in our textbooks. Did I mention no excuses?

  By the end of class, I decided I had nothing to lose by approaching him. I stayed behind after the last student shuffled out the door.

  Sitting behind Mr. Robbins’s desk, he eyed me with practiced patience, folding his hands and placing them on the paper-strewn surface.

  “Can I help you with something, Miss?”

  “Shaefer,” I started. I held out the stack of my crumpled assignments I’d been carrying around in my backpack. “Fiona Shaefer.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Shaefer. I noticed your name in the grade book. I’m afraid it’s the standout of the bunch.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m sure it is. Look, Mr. Tyers. Can I be direct?”

  “Please.”

  “I know this is an unusual request, but Mr. Robbins’s situation is an unusual one as well.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Miss Shaefer,” Tyers interrupted.

  I paused while he returned an unreadable stare.

  I took a deep breath and tried again. “Fair enough, but the rumors I’ve heard sort of confirm my suspicions.”

  I placed the papers on the desktop before him. “I’m not demanding that you change my grades, but here are my assignments. Just look them over again. I think Mr. Robbins may have had a personal issue. With me.” He raised his eyebrows. I hurried on. “I don’t believe my work is as bad as the grades would make you think.”

  He lifted the first page: American Idol Finalist. He grunted, shook his head, and then placed the paper down.

  I thought I detected a crack in his stone-like façade, perhaps the slightest hint of a smile.

  Or I could have imagined it.

  He lifted the entire stack of papers in one hand and opened a side desk drawer with the other. My work dropped down into it.

  He refolded his hands across the top of the desk while meeting my gaze with studied indifference. “I think, given the circumstances of Mr. Robbins’s sudden departure, it might be worth giving your work a second reading for a fresh perspective.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I used my most respectful voice. I knew my only chance of winning him over was to play the innocent victim angle to the hilt.

  Why not? I am an innocent victim.

  I stepped toward the door.

  “One thing, Miss Shaefer.” I paused in mid-step, turning my head toward him, trying not to look too hopeful.

  He continued, “I want you to know that if I do find Mr. Robbins graded your material with clear prejudice, I will not hesitate to bring this matter to the attention of the school board. I’ll probably only end up speeding up a process that is already underway.”

  Keeping my face as neutral as I could, I nodded and left the room.

  The moment the door shut behind me, I let out a whoop of triumph probably heard the full length of the corridor. Heads turned, but I didn’t care.

  I tossed my backpack over my shoulder and raced down the hall, dodging anyone in my way.

  Wait until I tell Chip!

  * * * *

  Mumbling around chewed crust, I exclaimed, “It’s chust too goo to be twue.” I paused to swallow my bite and wash it down with more chocolate milk.

  Chip listened in patient nonchalance as I talked between mouthfuls, relaying all my lucky breaks since the day began.

  Pizza practically flew into my mouth. For the last several days, I’d eaten almost nothing, my stomach too upset to really deal with food. Today, I’d hopped into the cafeteria line and ordered doubles of everything. Even before Chip approached what had become “our” table, I’d been wolfing down the largest bites I could handle.

  I paused to wipe my face with a napkin and take a deep breath. I was all smiles. “I can’t believe Mr. Robbins could be so holier-than-thou when he was dodging the cops. Incredible.”

  Chip studied his nails as he answered. “You’re right about one thing. It is too good to be true.”

  Alarm flushed through me, and I dropped the fry I’d been holding into its little divider. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”

  No longer able to keep his poker face, Chip grinned. “Let’s just say a certain report was faxed to the Perionne police station over the weekend, and, although it was electronically dated and time-stamped Cincinnati, it didn’t technically come from there. For the record, it was about a man who ran out on his parole for multiple DUIs. That’s all. No hit-and-run, no one killed at any accident scene.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just some schmoe fleeing house arrest. The man they’re really looking for is about a foot shorter than Mr. Robbins, and the hair color is all wrong.” Chip frowned, staring i
nto space at an imaginary document floating before his eyes. “Otherwise, the description’s pretty close.”

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I dropped the pizza and wiped my hands, though my eyes locked with his. “What are you talking about? Stop being so coy and explain.”

  Chip shrugged, though he squirmed a bit under my command. “I predict Mr. Robbins will fight this. He’ll hire an attorney, who will trace the fax back to the original file. They’ll find these discrepancies, sooner or later. Probably sooner, but not before the gossip has ruined him.”

  His story picked up steam, and he leaned forward.

  “Meanwhile, the police will wonder who mistyped the information. They’ll want to make an example of somebody, so they’ll check the original send file and see the information was entered accurately, and arrived correctly, everywhere else.”

  Chip took a casual sip of milk before continuing. “What they won’t know, is that someone intercepted the police fax before it printed off at the Perionne precinct. In fact, someone intercepted all the reports last week and read over them, waiting for something to come through that could be used. Once the DUI was found, that same someone changed certain details and facts, and then sent the revised report on to the Perionne police station.”

  He stabbed a fork at his own pizza, his face calm except for the trace of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

  I couldn’t speak. It all made sense. At no time did I doubt the truth of what he said. I’d been too lucky for this to be dumb coincidence. While I believed in poetic justice, did it ever really arrive so perfectly positioned, and so timely, without a little outside prodding?

  Chip had changed a police report to get back at Robbins.

  My mind reeled as Chip continued his narrative. “Those details are moot, though. Robbins will never come back to Perionne High School. Or if he does, Tyers will be after him for what he did to your English papers.”

  I should have known. I should have guessed.

  “Shit!” The curse hiccupped out of me, both a whisper and a scream. “Did you...Chip, you hacked into the police station?”