Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  “All right.” Stepping into my office, I took the CD from my briefcase.

  Barry was at my door. “Thanks, Ms. C,” he said, then cleared his throat and added, “I mean, see you later on.”

  “See you later.” I allowed myself the pleasure of watching him walk away, his shoulders straight and a lightness in his step. A new man, living in a new world, where there was a cute girl who actually knew his name. What could be better than that?

  It was almost enough to rub the tarnish off the day. Almost.

  The moment Mr. Stafford stepped into my office, halfway through second period, it became clear that the day was more than just tarnished. Stafford looked sick and tired, red faced and ready to bite off someone’s head. Mine.

  Closing the door, he flung a hand in the air, stabbing a finger toward the front hall. “I’ve just been in my office for over an hour trying to calm down Cameron Ansler’s mother. She has been calling anyone and everyone, outraged that we have maligned her and made completely unwarranted accusations against Cameron. In her mind, this is all part of a plot to undermine her in the custody battle between herself and Cameron’s father. She’s talking about suing for slander. She called the superintendent at six a.m., at home, saying that because of Mr. Ansler’s position on the school board, we were trying to aid him in gaining custody.” His hands moved emphatically in the air, then flopped to his sides. “What the h-e-double-went on around here yesterday?” The speech sent him staggering sideways, and he leaned against the back of a chair, coughing into his sleeve.

  Offering him a tissue, I waited for him to catch his breath, and tried to get my head together. Be calm. Be calm. You did the right thing. When Stafford had finally regained control, he wheeled toward me with a murderous glare, then caught the back of the chair again. “I want to know what happened yesterday.”

  “Cameron Ansler had a meltdown in the hall.” I hoped my voice sounded self-assured, determined, unwavering. The words felt like Jell-O in my mouth. “Not just a little meltdown, Mr. Stafford. He was out of his head. He didn’t know what he was saying, what he was doing. He barely knew where he was. He had no control over himself, and he was so drowsy that we couldn’t keep him lucid. He was coming down from something and crashing hard.”

  Stafford began forming a reply before I’d even finished speaking. “Did he admit this to you?”

  “Well, no but it was obv …”

  He held up a hand. “The boy was having a bad day. His mother concurrs that he’d been to a birthday party with friends the night before and he forgot to study for a history test. When he got to class and discovered there was a test, he panicked. He got emotional.” Stafford’s body language added, All perfectly normal—could happen to anybody.

  “Mr. Stafford”—I half stood from my seat—“this was not just a kid having a bad day. Cameron walked out of class, made it as far as his locker, and went crazy, screaming and crying and banging his head against the door. He was off the deep end.”

  Lifting his chin, the principal cleared his throat, peering at me through the bottom of his glasses. “There was a mix-up with his ADD medications. His mother admits that occasionall—”

  “Mr. Stafford.” I could feel my temper ratcheting up. I could not believe he was willing to swallow that load of hooey, and now he wanted me to quietly slink off to a corner and agree. “The kid’s mother lets him ride to school with some older student—Sebastian … something. This is not the first time I’ve seen Cameron come in looped, hopped up, under the influence, whatever you want to call it. It’s not the first time he’s stepped over the line. When he stays with his mom, he’s out of it. His behavior is bizarre and unpredictable. He’s either so hyperactive he can’t function, or so drowsy he can’t stay awake. When he’s with his father, Dad drives him to school and drops him at the door—no time to hang out or run around town with older kids. Cameron shows up sober. What does that say to you?”

  “It could mean any number of things. Teenagers are volatile creatures.” Stafford pointed a finger at me again. “Your obsession with this drug issue has gone too far. You need to step back and gain perspective. This is a good kid with solid parental involvement. A school board member’s kid, for heaven’s sake.”

  Standing up, I slammed my hands on the desk. “This kid is sinking down a well, and nobody’s pulling him up!” My voice reverberated around the office. Reining myself in, I pressed a hand to my forehead and closed my eyes momentarily, thinking, Breathe, breathe, breathe. This isn’t doing any good.

  “You’re out of line!” Stafford bellowed. “You are a recent college graduate with only two months’ experience. I have been in school administration for over thirty years!” His protest filled the room, then died, and we stood in a stalemate.

  I stared at my desktop—at the clutter of sticky notes, attendance sheets, grant paperwork. What was any of it worth if we couldn’t help these kids when they needed us? “Mr. Stafford.” I waited as he staggered sideways, slumping against the chair, exhausted. “I’m sorry if my decision was not the one you would have chosen. You weren’t here, and I dealt with the issue in a moment of crisis—”

  “I explained to the Anslers that you are inexperienced.” He cut me off with a patronizing expression of sympathy. “I explained that, given the heat of the moment, and the fact that other members of the administration were unavailable, you were forced into a position for which you are unqualified, and as a result, made a novice error in judgment.” He smiled slightly, and I felt the invisible pat on the head, the silent, Good girl, now how is the grant paperwork coming along? “They seem to have calmed down, but they do expect an apology—both to the mother and to Cameron. Your accusations have been very upsetting to him.”

  Gripping the sides of the desk, I leaned across, feeling myself come close to some boiling point I hadn’t approached in years. For so long, my temper had been tamped down by the idea that, since I’d screwed up my own life, I had no business giving advice to anyone else. Now, I was filled with righteous indignation. How dared he sweep this under the rug, smooth it over, and order me to do the same? What was wrong with him? Didn’t he care about these kids at all?

  I met his eyes—tired, vacant eyes that reminded me of Mr. Verhaden’s. If there had ever been passion in Stafford’s soul, it was gone now. He looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere else but here. “I will not.” My fingers tightened, my elbows a shaking brace between my body and the wood. “I will not stand here and tell a student and his parents something I know is not true. Especially when the secret could kill him. I don’t have what it takes to do that.” What does it take to do that? I looked into Stafford’s face and tried to figure it out. “I won’t. I can’t. It’s wrong.”

  Sighing, the principal rubbed his forehead, then drew the hand slowly downward, dragging droopy layers of skin so that his eyes sagged, red rimmed and weary. His stomach billowed with a long, raspy breath, then deflated again, and he coughed into his sleeve. Reaching up, he mopped his brow. “I suggest that you calm down and consider who you are talking to. Convictions are a wonderful thing, Ms. Costell, but the fact is that we can’t afford to operate in la-la land, here. In the real world …” He paused to cough again, and I took advantage of the conversational gap.

  “In the real world, there’s a police stakeout just a few blocks from here, Mr. Stafford.” I motioned toward the window. “They’re taking down license plate numbers at the taco stands on Division Street.” The irony of that name suddenly hit me. “The taco stands sell drugs. Probably meth, weed, crack, buzz bombs, who knows? When the police net closes, some of our kids are going to be caught. We’ll be the ones who stood by and did nothing to prevent it.”

  He raised his chin indignantly. “We do everything that is reasonable and customary in terms of drug prevention. We have search dogs; we provide student activities, antidrug curricula.” The words sounded rehearsed.

  “We can’t turn a blind eye when the problem becomes real, Mr. Stafford. We have to do
something.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he rocked back on his heels, then lost his balance and braced himself against the door frame like a plastic soldier, slightly melted. “There has never been a drug problem at Harrington, Ms. Costell,” he refuted, leveling a determined glare. “And there will not be. Not on my watch.”

  Therein lay the rub, the heart of the matter, and I knew it. Stafford was only a few months from retirement. He didn’t want this problem; he didn’t have the energy for it. He wasn’t going to have it on his record. Period.

  The only trouble was, the problem was coming to us, whether we wanted it or not. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stafford.” And in a way, I was. In spite of everything, I had sympathy for him, standing there sick with the flu, confronting such a huge issue at the end of what was probably a long and successful career. “But I won’t lie to Cameron or his parents.”

  Lacing his fingers, the principal brought his hands to his mouth and blew into them, slowly shaking his head. “This isn’t the time to get on your high horse, Costell. Next year’s contracts, including yours, come up for renewal at the board meeting Monday night.” The threat in those words was unmistakable, the implication clear. Make nice with Cameron’s parents, or else.

  Outside in the corridor, the first bell rang, and shadows passed by the door. Glancing over his shoulder, Stafford softened, then turned back to me. “We can’t help these kids if we’re not here, Ms. Costell. We all have to play the game.”

  I let my head sag between my shoulders, confronted with the reality of my situation, not knowing what to say. In a twisted, pathetic way, Stafford was right. If I didn’t play the game, I could lose my job. If I wasn’t here, I was no good to the kids at all.

  “I want you to take some time to think things through,” Stafford said softly. “Pack up whatever you were going to do today; take it home. Simmer down over the weekend. I’ll let everyone know you’re out with the flu.” Turning away, he put his hand on the doorknob. “Go home, Julia. Consider the implications of what you’re doing. You have the makings of a good guidance counselor. It would be a shame to throw it all away in order to stand on principle. This isn’t the time for rash decision making.”

  Opening the door, he stepped into the flow of students, and was gone.

  Chapter 22

  As I gathered my things, my mind whirled like a leaf caught in the vortex of a tornado. I couldn’t focus on any specific thought, on any one action, a but wandered numbly between my desk and the file cabinet, trying to decide what to do. Dell came by and poked her head in the door, and I jumped, then caught my breath.

  “Ms. Costell?” she said, as if suddenly I were someone she didn’t know. “Barry brought me the CD of the wedding music. Mrs. Levorski says she’ll help me practice it in my vocal class this week. I was wondering, instead of using the instrumental track off the CD, do you think maybe Keiler could play the guitar? I bet he’d do it, and we could practice at home this week… .” She paused as I braced my shaking hands on the desk. Around me, the world was shifting and spinning, moving so fast that everything was a blur. “Are you all right, Ms. C?”

  “No … yes … I’m sorry, what did you say?” Think, Julia, think. The wedding music … I tried to focus as she repeated the question. “I think … that sounds … good.” The reply was robotic, distracted.

  Dell’s brows drew together apprehensively. “We don’t have to if you don’t want—”

  “No, it’s good. It’s fine.” My head reeling, I sank into the chair. “I’ll check with … ummm … Bett, but I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Is something wrong, Ms. C?”

  “Yes.” The words trembled. I felt myself cracking. I wanted to tell her everything, as if somehow this thirteen year old child, who was almost as lost as I was, could fix the problem. “I just … I’m going home … sick.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t have the flu like Mrs. Mindia.” Behind the words, there was a thread of concern. If you get the flu and go to the hospital like Mrs. Mindia, who’s going to tutor me? Leaning against the door frame, she rested her head near the hinge. “We’re starting a new book in English on Monday. Flowers for Algernon. It looks hard.”

  “I’ve read it.” You can’t help them if you’re not here. Stafford’s words echoed in my mind. “It’s a good story. It’s about how difficult it can be, sometimes, to know what’s right.” What’s right … ? What is right?

  Chewing a fingernail, Dell studied me narrowly, sensing something wrong, unsure how to react. She pushed off the door frame and hovered there. “Do you think we could start working on it at lunch Monday?”

  Stafford’s dire warnings repeated in my head. “Next year’s contracts, including yours, come up for renewal at the board meeting Monday night… .” “I hope so.”

  “Are you sure you’re OK, Ms. Costell?”

  “Yes. You’d better go on to class now.”

  “ ’Kay.” She turned to leave, then came back and stood absently toying with a pen on the corner of my desk. “Keiler went around with me this morning, and we asked my teachers for my grades.” Her lips twitched upward. “ ‘B’ in math—I did good on the test Wednesday—’C’ in social studies and science, ‘A’ in vocal, instrumental, and chorus, and Mrs. Morris doesn’t have her grades figured yet, but she told Keiler I was doing better.” The smile bloomed fully, like a flower caught in time-lapse photography. “That’s not too bad.”

  A nugget of joy slipped into the oily soup of the morning, glittering out of place in the darkness. “That’s not bad at all.” Reaching across the desk, I squeezed her hand. “You’re on your way, kid. You just keep with the study plan and next nine weeks you’ll see even more improvement.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, she looked away, then back. “I have to do better the next time. To stay in chorus and to have a solo in Spring Fling, you have to have ‘A’ and ‘B’ grades. You’re still going to help me, aren’t you?”

  An invisible vise tightened around my throat. What if I wasn’t here? What would happen to Dell? Would she be able to get by with Barry’s help, and Keiler’s, if he stayed on as a sub? Who would Dell talk to if her adoption became complicated by the appearance of a father, and she didn’t feel comfortable confiding in her foster parents? What about all the other kids at Harrington? What about Cameron? If I wasn’t here, I couldn’t even attempt to convince him to come clean with his parents.

  Then again, if I stayed at Harrington under Stafford’s terms, I couldn’t either.

  “I plan to,” was the only answer I could come up with. “You’d better head to class now.”

  “ ’Kay,” she replied, shooting a final look of concern over her shoulder as she left. “Hope you feel better, Ms. C. See you Monday.”

  “Have a good weekend.” My stomach constricted until I felt hollow inside. This weekend was going to be anything but good.

  Packing the rest of the grant materials into a box, I headed for the door without bothering to put on my jacket and without stopping to say a word to anyone. I burst through the front exit and onto the steps, feeling as if I couldn’t stand the scent of textbooks and lockers, plaster and aging woodwork a moment longer. A burst of March wind pushed me down the steps to my car, and I left without looking back.

  I was almost home when I remembered that I was supposed to pick up Bett’s wedding dress today. Exiting the highway, I headed back downtown, perversely relieved by the diversion. I wasn’t ready to calmly analyze Stafford’s ultimatum yet, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. Arriving home so early would only prompt a conversation with Mom. With the extra delay of going back for the dress, I would get home after Mom left for her Friday bridge game. Neither she nor Dad would return until suppertime. I would have the afternoon to sort things out in private.

  When I reached the cleaner’s, the street was quiet. The undercover police car was nowhere in evidence, and for a split second, I had the perverse thought that I’d imagined the whole thing. Inside the cleane
r’s, neither Mim nor Granmae was present. I struggled to gain a grip on what was real as the young woman behind the counter brought out the dress and hung it on the counter hook.

  “Here it is,” she said. She had Granmae’s smile. “Granmae’s newest masterpiece. She said that if it doesn’t fit with the alterations you had marked, have the bride bring it in next week and we can adjust it. Granmae will be sorry she wasn’t here to give it to you herself. She had to go to a funeral today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I had a subtle awareness that in spite of my own cataclysmic day, the world was still turning, life playing all the normal rhythms. “Tell her I’ll snap a picture of my sister in the dress and bring it by next Friday, when I pick up the rehearsal flowers.”

  The young woman found the bill and laid it on the counter, widening her eyes and whistling at the total. “They got you for dress restoration and flowers, huh? I’ll tell you what, I don’t even know why I’m in nursing school. I just need to hang around Granmae and Mim. They can talk more people into more stuff.”

  “Actually, I had to talk them into this one,” I said, running my finger along the carefully restored lines of golden pearls before pulling out my checkbook. “This dress was almost too far gone to save, but it’s going to mean a lot to my sister. She’s always wanted to wear it.”

  The salesgirl smiled, punching the calculator to add tax to the bill, then writing it on the receipt. “Listen, none of them are too far gone for Granmae. I’ve seen her take half an old dress that got burned in a fire, and rebuild around it. She just likes to make a big deal about how hard it’ll be, so that when you get the bill, you’re not shocked.” Grinning, she turned the slip of paper around and slid it across the counter.

  Four hundred and twenty-five dollars seemed a surprisingly small price for a dream, and now, seeing the dress, I knew we would have gladly paid twice as much. “It’s worth every penny.”