Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  “Yeah, Maggie. You always liked the pillows.”

  Maggie—of course, that was her name. I remembered now. Last name was Floyd. She’d been and still seemed to be the ringleader of the three, had strong bones, a blunt nose, red hair cropped short. A tough, impulsive nature. I remembered her as bossy, always nearby when someone fell or started crying. And the other one’s name was Trish. Even in second grade, Trish had had a tired, worn-down look, as if she’d dabbled too deeply in alcohol or drugs. As if, as a child, she’d already been deeply, irreversibly disappointed.

  “And oh my God, the colors. Remember that?” Trish scanned the room. “Neon everything.”

  Katie nodded, laughing. “And everything clashes.”

  Damn. I eyed my classroom. Heard Joyce declare, “See what I mean?” Criticism.

  “I loved all the craziness,” Maggie said. “And look—she’s still got that bulletin board where you can hang whatever you want.”

  “You used to put up your poems, Trish.”

  “Right. You were the poet laureate of Room 2B,” Katie teased.

  “Your poems were very good,” I told her.

  “Really? You remember them?”

  “Of course.” Well, sort of. Maybe. Not really. “Are you still writing?”

  She shrugged, glanced at Katie. “Not so much.”

  Seth stood silent, watching his sister. She ignored him, started telling me about high school. How she was going to try out for junior varsity cheerleading. Maggie and Trish chimed in that they were, too.

  “How cool will it be if we all make it? We’ll rule the squad.”

  They agreed, giggled. Declared that they’d definitely all make it. That together, they were unstoppable.

  Of the three, Katie was actually the unstoppable one. Unlike the others, she had a glow, a lightness. A contagious grin. I suspected that, given her family history, she clung to the other girls for security. And that they clung to her, holding her back.

  Katie finally glanced down at Seth. “So. How was your day, squirt?”

  “Good,” he said. He stood stiff and straight, like a small soldier.

  Katie smiled, showed straight shiny teeth. “He’s shy,” she told me. “But once he gets comfortable, he doesn’t shut up.” She nudged him. He stared at the floor, turning crimson.

  “Nice to see you, girls.” I ushered them out the door. Told them I hoped they’d stop by again.

  “Oh, we will. At least, I will. I’ll be here every day to escort Prince Seth home.” Beaming another smile my way, Katie adjusted her backpack and set off with her chattering girlfriends, leaving Seth to trail behind.

  I walked them a few steps down the hall, then went back to my classroom and sat at my desk to go over the next day’s lesson plan. But instead, I sat alert. The air, the room felt altered. Uneasy.

  My skin tingled. I put down my pencil, listening. Sensing that I wasn’t alone.

  But I’d been gone for only a few seconds. How could anyone have snuck in so quickly? Who could it be?

  Maybe Duncan Girard. But no, he was outside giving away water ice. No. It wasn’t him. Then who was it? And what did they want?

  As if to answer, Mrs. Marshall’s carved-up corpse popped to mind, smiling its grotesque grin.

  Oh God. The killer? Was that who was there?

  “Hello?” I reached behind me, grabbed my yardstick. “Is somebody here?”

  No answer. Of course there was no answer. No one was there.

  Except that I was sure someone was. Oh God. Maybe it was the guy with long hair, the one who’d pushed Patsy Olsen under a Land Rover.

  “Who’s there?” I stood behind my desk, scanning the room. No one was in the computer zone or the cozy reading corner. The writing and art tables were empty. Chairs sat upside down on desktops, making it easier for Stan to come in and sweep.

  Stan. Was he lurking somewhere in the room, maybe near the cubbies?

  “Stan? Is it you?”

  No response. Why would Stan hide? Was he dangerous—had he killed Mrs. Marshall?

  I edged toward the supply closet, yardstick raised, ready to strike, aware that it was flimsy, unlikely to protect me against an actual weapon. I should have grabbed something else. But what? The scissors were blunt-tipped. Maybe a stapler? Never mind. I wasn’t going to staple an intruder. The yardstick was all I had, and I was prepared to swing it hard and run screaming for help. I took a breath, counted to three, and flung the closet door open.

  Confronted stacks of textbooks, chalk boxes, and construction paper.

  Okay. I was mistaken. On edge. Overly suspicious. Probably no one was there.

  Even so, I headed to the cubbies, nearly tripped on a forgotten lunchbox. And found Ty Evans hunkering in the corner, clutching a pair of blunt-tipped scissors.

  I recognized him instantly. “Oh God. Ty?”

  He hadn’t changed much since the trial. His hair was longer and he hadn’t shaved. But he had the same feisty gray eyes, the same ready-to-run tension. Ty blinked rapidly at the names on the cubbies, at the ceiling, at anything but me.

  “Did I scare you, Mrs. H? I didn’t mean to.”

  Yes, he’d scared me. I was still scared, but didn’t dare let on. I was a teacher in my own classroom, and I had to remain in charge. Frowning, I ordered myself to act calm, lowered my yardstick, and took away his scissors. “What were you planning to do with these?” I held them up, ran a finger over the harmless round tips. Ignored the memory of Mrs. Marshall’s sliced grin.

  Ty let out a single “Ha.” A laugh?

  “I’m serious, Ty.”

  “Well, obviously I couldn’t do much. But they were the only weapon I could find.”

  Weapon? I swallowed. “Why would you need a weapon, Ty? What do you want? Why are you here?” I told myself to pivot and run, but my body was stuck. Go, my mind repeated. You’re maybe ten steps from the classroom door. If you don’t trip again on the lunchbox, you might make it. Count to three and go.

  Wait, I argued with myself. In at most three steps, Ty will catch up with me. Forget running. It would be better to talk to him, calm him down. Distract him until help came. Unless—oh God. Could I reach the fire alarm? Yell for help? Joyce might hear me from across the hall. Or Becky. In fact, Becky should show up any second. She always came by at the end of the day.

  “Mrs. H?”

  Ty had been talking, and I’d missed what he’d said.

  “… couldn’t really blame them,” he continued. “But I’d need something in case they called the police. You know.”

  I did? I had not the slightest idea. “Call the police?” Why would he expect that they’d do that?

  He let out a breath. “Like I said. I’m trespassing, Mrs. H. Don’t you get it? I’m not allowed on school property.”

  What?

  “I’m a convicted felon.” He glanced up at me. “If anyone but you saw me, they’d kick me out, especially after what happened to Mrs. Marshall.”

  Mrs. Marshall, who used to scream into his face and drag him by his shirt collars, and who’d been viciously murdered right after Ty’s release. I hugged myself, tried to sound stern. “Even so, you had no business hiding in here and startling me.”

  He shrugged, raised his eyebrows. Not exactly an apology. I needed to get out of the cubbies space, into the open. “Come on, Ty. Let’s go sit down.”

  When he smiled, his dimples showed. Gave me a flash of the little boy he’d been. But he wasn’t that little boy anymore. He was a convicted felon. Ty followed me into the classroom, sat on a desk top. “Actually, the real reason I hid wasn’t because of the cops. It was that I wasn’t sure how you’d be.”

  “How I’d be?”

  “You know. With seeing me.”

  “What do you mean?” I tried to sound as if seeing him after the seven or so years of his incarceration was no big deal. Normal.

  “Mrs. H. It’s not like people have been glad to see me come home.”

  Right. “Give them time.”
It wasn’t helpful, but it was all I could think of to say.

  “Time? They’ve had years of time. Nobody’s over it. Christ, my own mother’s scared of me. If I walk into a room, she finds a reason to walk out. She sits up at night. I think she thinks I’ll kill her in her sleep.” He let out another short “Ha.”

  Maybe his mother had reason to worry. After all, Ty had killed her husband. And he’d spent years locked up in the company of criminals, possibly learning tricks of the trade. Prison had certainly changed him. His face was broken out in angry red welts, his complexion had a pasty, sickly tone. And though he was long and thin, his belly swelled, reminded me of a lumpy loaf of white bread.

  “Everything’s different because of juvey.” On his lap, his hands tightened into fists. “Other kids graduated high school and went to college. They partied. Got girls. Me? I got juvey. No friends, not one. My own mother wants me out of her house. She says I’m twenty-one and should be out on my own. Oh yeah. It’s been a grand welcome home.”

  He paused. Blue veins popped in his forehead, pumping anger. “When I first got out, I came here to see you. Did she tell you?”

  “Who?”

  “Who else? Mrs. Marshall. She threw me out and promised to call the cops on me if I came back, but she promised she’d tell you I’d come by to see you.”

  “She must not have had the chance.”

  Wait. Mrs. Marshall had thrown him out. That must have made Ty angry. Angry enough to kill her? I tried to picture it, Ty sneaking into her office, waiting for her, but in my imagination Ty kept turning into the feisty little boy he used to be, the one with bruises, scrapes, and unruly hair, the one who had been neglected by his mother and abused by his father. The one Mrs. Marshall had shrieked at, who’d tensed at the sight of her.

  I’d wandered again, missed part of what he’d said.

  “… but didn’t have the nerve to ring your doorbell.”

  My doorbell? He’d been to my house?

  “So I just stood outside, across the street. I wished you’d come in or out and I could just bump into you. But you never did.”

  Ty was sounding creepy. Had he been stalking me? Was that why I’d felt someone watching me? Was he who’d called me and breathed into the phone? My skin itched. I looked at the clock. Ten after three. Where was Becky?

  “But then I found out you were teaching Seth and figured I’d come by the school.” He flashed a dimpled smile, lost it quickly. “It’s funny. He’s my brother, but I don’t really know him. He was just a baby when I went away.” He paused, met my eyes.

  I shifted positions, uncomfortable.

  “Hell, I might as well say it. The fact is, Mrs. H, I’ve been trying to see you ever since I got back.” His stare was too direct. Too long.

  I cleared my throat, recrossed my arms. My shoulder ached. I fidgeted, reminded myself to remain calm and in charge. “Well, here we are. You’re seeing me.” Oops, that sounded cold. I smiled, hoping to soften my words. “What can I do for you, Ty? Why did you want to see me?”

  “You don’t have to do anything for me, Mrs. H. I wanted to see you because in my whole life, you’re the only adult who was ever nice to me.” His eyes were intense, didn’t waiver.

  I smiled again, trying to lighten the mood. “Oh, Ty. That can’t be true.”

  “Oh, Mrs. H. You know it is.” His mouth twisted, formed a smile. Or a grimace?

  “I can’t believe that.” I tried to think of some examples. But his parents had abused him. Mrs. Marshall had, too, in a way. “You had some very fine teachers—”

  “No one gave a rat’s ass about me. Only you. You were the only one who tried to help me. You had talks with my so-called parents. And with the Marshall herself. You stood up for me lots of times, talked to me after school.”

  “Of course I did, Ty. It was my job. You were just a little boy—”

  “Not just back then. You came to my trial.”

  Well, yes. So had half the town. “I was concerned about what happened—”

  “There. See? You were concerned. Don’t play around with words. We both know it’s true. You cared. You cared about me.” His gaze drilled into my eyes, made me blink.

  “Of course I cared about you. You were a child. And my student.”

  “It was more than that. I could feel it.”

  He could feel it? His eyes pierced mine. Oh Lord, why was I so clueless? Ty had a crush on me. While he’d been locked up, he must have created some fantasy about me. Great. Fabulous. Finally a new man had come into my life. Never mind he was half my age and a convicted murderer. So what was I supposed to do? What could I say? Should I try to set him straight, explain that I’d cared about him a long time ago, when he was a little boy with problems? Or deny that I’d ever cared about him? Or insist that, to me, he’d been just another student, one of hundreds, and I cared about them all?

  He sat on the desktop, pupils dilated, eyes overly bright. Was he on drugs? Was he dangerous? Why was I even wondering. Of course he was dangerous. He was a murderer. But no, not a real murderer. As Susan had pointed out, he’d killed his father after years of abuse, but he’d never been dangerous to anyone else. Unless you counted all the kids he beat up. And unless he’d killed Mrs. Marshall. Dammit, what did he want from me? Did he imagine that I’d return his crush and fall into his arms? What could I say without hurting him and making him mad? I glanced at the door. Where the hell was Becky?

  “Ty—” I began, but he interrupted.

  “I had lots of time to think these last years, Mrs. H. And a lot of that time, I was thinking about you.”

  Oh God. Stop. “Ty, sorry. I just noticed the time. I have an appointment. An important meeting. I’m late. So, maybe we can finish talking another time—”

  “Like I said, you were the only one who ever was good to me.” He kept talking as if I hadn’t spoken. “The only one who listened. Even now, you’re the only one I can to talk to.” He stood, stepped over to me. His eyes never left mine. “That’s why I’m here.”

  His hands engulfed mine. They were bony and moist. I took in a breath, held it. Needed to escape. But how? Could I just thank him for stopping by? Tell him it was great to see him? I worked my hands out of his, grabbed my bag, edged toward the door.

  Ty edged along with me.

  “Like I said, I’ve got to go,” I blurted.

  “So how about we talk another time?” His eyebrows lifted. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” What? Why had I said that? I kept moving toward the door.

  Ty grinned. “Okay, cool. Tomorrow.” He moved with me, matched me step for step.

  Never had the classroom seemed so long, the hallway so far away. I kept walking, picturing my car waiting in the lot.

  “What time?” Ty asked.

  Damn, seriously?

  He watched me, waiting.

  “I don’t know. After school.” Good God, what was wrong with me?

  He tilted his head, dimples popping. “Great. How about I meet you at Pete’s. Three o’clock?”

  The classroom door was just feet away. I was practically running now. So was Ty. Was I never going to get away from him?

  I had my hand on the light switch when his arms closed around me, awkward and long. I stiffened, bit my lip. Put my hands lightly on his arms, trying to brush them away, but they wouldn’t brush off. His head lowered against my shoulder, pressed against my neck. I felt his breath. His weight. As he clung to me, an unfamiliar darkness rolled through me, waves in an ocean of tension, loneliness, despair that made me shudder. The shudder hadn’t ended when Ty released me and stepped back. Putting his hands together, he bowed to me. Without another word, he sped out of the room.

  I called Becky on her cell. Her “hello” was a whisper.

  “Where are you?”

  “What do you mean? Where are you? I’m at the faculty meeting.”

  Shit. Of course she was. Everyone was in the cafeteria for the first-day-of-school ritual.
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br />   “I saved you a seat. Are you with Joyce?”

  “No—”

  “Cuz she’s not here either. So are you on your way?”

  “No, I can’t make it.”

  “It’s mandatory—”

  “What will they do, fire me? I just can’t get there.” I wouldn’t be missing anything. The meeting would be the same as it was every year. Attendance forms and permission slips handed out, parents’ night schedules reviewed. Same old same old.

  Becky sighed. “But the cops are here, telling everyone more about the murder. And asking questions.”

  Really? The cops were there? They’d been just down the hall when Ty had snuck in and cornered me in my classroom? How reassuring. He could have killed me, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  “You ought to be here, Elle. Detective Stiles is here. He’ll wonder where you are.”

  No, he wouldn’t. Why would he? Anyway, I wasn’t going, needed to be far away from the school, off the roads, safely behind my own locked doors. Besides, I was already in my car, driving out of the parking lot. “Call me after,” I whispered. “Let me know if they say anything interesting.” Why was I whispering?

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m not.” Well, I wasn’t anymore.

  “Are you all right? You sound weird.”

  “Call me after.”

  I ended the call, raced home. Wanted to get inside, curl up on my overstuffed sofa cushions with some hot tea, a bag of cookies, and a daytime talk show. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen Ty. That he hadn’t fixated on me or scared the bejeebees out of me.

  That I hadn’t agreed to see him again.

  I felt sullied. As if I’d done something wrong. But I hadn’t, had I? Yes, of course I had. I’d managed to encourage him by not refusing to meet him for a soda. But I hadn’t meant to encourage him—I’d just said anything to get away from him. Besides, how bad could it be to have a soda in a public place in the middle of the afternoon? Why was I so nervous about it? I’d see him and explain that, while I hoped he was doing well, I wasn’t going to spend more time with him.