by Jane Charles
Maybe I should move.
But, I don’t really want to.
We stop in an office down the hall and a pretty, brown haired woman glances up. “Hi!” she says as she stands. “Let me show you Baxter.”
Jenna walks quickly and I hurry to follow her outside. “How many students does Baxter have?”
“Approximately five hundred.”
My graduating class was almost that size. “What are the requirements to get in?”
“Talent.”
There are a line of cabins toward the back wall. “Are those the former slave cabins?” I ask, feeling a bit uncomfortable.
“At one time, yes.” She frowns. “The cabins were renovated when this place did the living history weekends. Now, they’re offices for our counselors.”
I would have thought the counselors would be in the main house, with the other administrative staff and secretaries like all other schools. Is Jenna like the head counselor and that’s why she isn’t stuck out here away from the other adults?
“Can I look in one?”
Jenna studies me for a moment and then nods.
So far, Jenna has seemed friendly enough. More friendly than Mag. I wonder if she’ll tell me anything beyond schedules because I didn’t come for a tour of the fucking plantation. Yet, if it leads to answers, I’ll go along.
There are several sidewalks laid out between the buildings, for which I’m grateful. It may be spring and getting warm, but the ground is still soggy from melted snow and spring rains, and I’m in two inch heels. I follow as she leads me to the middle cabin. The sign on the outside of the door says, “Miss Tara”.
Well that name certainly fits with the plantation house. I keep my snort to myself.
At least it’s not Mateo’s. His name is in the next one over. I’m so not ready to encounter him yet. Then again, it might give me insight to how Gabe will react when he sees me.
Hell, I already know what it will be. The man hates me and will probably make Mag kick me off campus.
Jenna goes up the three wooden steps and onto the narrow porch before knocking on the screen door. The inside door is open, but I can’t really see anything from where I’m standing. Someone calls for her to come in and I’m assuming it’s this Miss Tara. Mag opens the door and steps in. “Are you with a student?”
“No,” the voice answers. “Come in.”
I follow Jenna inside and am brought up short. This is not what I was expecting. Directly in front of the door, situated between two rooms, is a stone fireplace that I suspect is open to both rooms. To my right is an office and a young woman with long, light brown hair and the most striking blue eyes is sitting behind a desk. Files are piled on her desk and a computer screen is at the center. On the surrounding walls are overstuffed bookshelves and file cabinets.
The opposite side of the cabin is in complete contrast. There are comfortable chairs covered in a warm, soothing upholstery and look soft enough to sink into. In the center is a table and the only thing on it is a box of tissues. A multi-colored rug covers the wood floor. Lamps are set around the room and a few paintings hang on the wall. And, in each upper corner of the room is a camera.
Jenna must have noticed what I was looking at. “There are cameras everywhere at Baxter, except in the bathrooms and individual dorm rooms.”
I get that they want to be protective, but isn’t that a bit excessive?
“Tara, this is Ellen West, she is a reporter doing a story on Baxter.”
The young woman’s blue eyes widen in surprise, but only for a fraction of a moment.
“Miss West, this is Tara, one of our counselors.”
Tara holds out her hand for me to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m giving Miss West a tour of the campus.”
Alarm shoots through Tara’s eyes and a tight smile forms on her lips. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” Jenna says brightly.
The two are acting oddly. “Why isn’t your office in the main house?”
“There isn’t enough room,” Tara answers as we step outside and she locks the door. “From the outside it looks huge, but it’s very limiting as to the number of rooms. We could expand into the attic, but that’s where the files are stored and it gets as hot as Hades up there.”
I go down the steps and look around. Directly across from each other, with the campus between them are identical three story structures. Both are a long with rows of windows, but built in a style that they could have been part of the main plantation. “What are those?”
“The dorms,” Tara answers. “The one to the right is for the girls and the one to the left is for the boys. Each houses approximately two hundred and fifty students.”
“They’re so far apart from each other.”
“Did you forget teenagers attend this school?” Tara laughs and turns to Jenna. “Where to?”
“Can I see the dorms?” I can’t imagine there are that many rooms in those buildings. They can’t be any larger than a closet. What type of living conditions are these kids subjected to? The girl did say she slept in a cell at night, didn’t she. Or at least likened her room to one.
“No,” Jenna answers quickly. “They are residential halls and we will not invade the privacy of the students.”
“If they’re in class, it won’t be an invasion,” I point out.
Tara looks at me, her eyebrows raised. “Then, you wouldn’t mind tours being conducted for strangers in your home while you are not there, without your knowledge or permission?”
She has a point, but I don’t like it. And, the more they don’t want to show me, the more I know it was right to come here.
There are other buildings surrounding the campus and I can only guess what’s inside. Classrooms? Cafeteria? Library?
“What about school dances?”
“There are no dances at Baxter, Miss West,” Jenna answers firmly. “Nor is dating allowed or any type of fraternization among the students.”
How very odd. With five hundred high school students, you can’t tell me that there haven’t been a couple of relationships. These are teenagers with raging hormones and nobody has ever even liked someone else?
“It’s a high school, not a social club.” With that she turns and marches toward the next building. Tara smiles and shrugs and then turns to follow Jenna.
Gabe – 17
Before the bell rings, the kids are seated at their desks, staring at me. There’s anger and frustration in their eyes, but I’m pretty sure none of its actually directed at me.
“Did each of you pick a news story from last week, write a paper on the weakness and strengths and draft the article as you think it should have been written?”
They all nod.
“Put them in the basket on my desk as you leave and I’ll grade them tonight.” I pick a book up off of my desk. I spent the weekend revising my lesson plans to move away from journalism and into biographies in light of what happened with Jesse. I had to do something to keep from constantly thinking about Ellen and it helped. A little at least. “How many of you have read a biography?”
Only two hands go up. I’m surprised any of them have. It isn’t exactly a favorite genre for any high school student.
“This is one of my favorites.” There’s a picture of Abraham Lincoln on the cover. “Did you know that there have been roughly fifteen thousand books written about our 16th President?”
“Hold up, Mr. Gabe,” Louie calls from the back of the room.
I should have known it’d be Louie who stopped me. Half the time he doesn’t even raise his hand or wait for me to call on him. He just blurts out what’s on his mind.
“Yes, Louie.”
“What about our homework?” He throws up his hands in frustration. “That’s it? We ain’t going to discuss it?”
“We are not going to discuss it! Or, are we not going to discuss it?” Marissa, an art student, corrects him.
Louie rolls his eyes the
n crosses his arms over his chest, challenging me with a lift of an eyebrow. It’s all show. He may look tough, but he’s not. We all know it, but I’m sure it’s a persona that served him well before he got to Baxter. Not that I know where that was, but a kid doesn’t exude such a tough threatening exterior without having needed to do so in the past. Louie has the look but none of the bite and is the quickest to apologize if he thinks he hurt someone’s feelings.
“After I’ve read them, if anything needs to be discussed we will.”
A student raises her hand.
“Yes, Katie.”
“Are you still going to pick the best ones to go in the school paper?”
“I’ll have to read them before I decide.” It had been my intention to publish the best articles. I assumed each student would find something different to write about. Recent events cancelled any further journalistic pursuits. I’m pretty sure they picked the same damn topic. “I thought we’d move onto biographies and autobiographies.”
Mick shakes his head and slouches down in his seat.
Tyler stands abruptly, his chair falling back against the desk behind him. “But what about the truth and ethics of journalism?” He’s waving papers above his head and I suspect it’s his homework. His reaction also takes me kind of by surprise. Tyler never speaks without being called on. He’s also extremely respectful to everyone. This outburst is way out of character.
“We’ve already covered those topics,” I say calmly.
“Well, I think we need to cover them again.” Tyler slaps the papers against the desk.
Tensions are rising in the room. This has never happened and I need to get it under control. Just because I don’t know the history of the kids, that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the potential danger of what outbursts can lead to.
“You can’t expect us to pretend it didn’t happen. That girl lied,” Emma says.
I know she’s talking about Jesse. They haven’t said his name, but they figured it out and are upset. I can’t really blame them. “I’m not asking you to. We simply won’t be discussing it in this class.”
“Sweeping it under the rug,” Maria, a theatre and music student, says with disgust. “That’s the problem with adults. Things get a little uncomfortable and they don’t want to talk about it.”
This pisses me off, but I don’t take it out on the kids. It’s not my intention to pretend it didn’t happen, or ignore the situation. I’m a fucking English teacher, not their therapist. The accusations against Jesse, the reporting and what memories, or nightmares, it may bring up for this kids is way beyond anything I can help with. If they have a meltdown, I’m the most unequipped person at the school to handle it. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss in this class.”
“But we lost a good teacher because of lies,” Mick yells. “They sure didn’t report on the truth after the fact.”
Okay, this is getting out of control. Maybe I used the wrong tactic in dealing with this. “Please sit down, Tyler, and please quit yelling, Mick.”
They both frown, but do as I ask.
“They made him out to sound like a creep.” Tears form in Jada’s eyes. “That he likes young girls. Mr. Jesse isn’t like that.”
“He liked art. He liked our art. He don’t like teenage girls,” Louie insists.
“Does not like,” Marissa corrects.
Some of the kids are nodding their head. This is so not what I wanted to discuss.
“We know that type. He is not one of them.” Maria says quietly and looks down at her desk.
My stomach churns. How many of these kids experienced the unwanted attention of adults when they were younger? Maybe they do need to talk about it, but not with me. I’ll have to send a note over to the cabins, where the therapists work, and make sure they touch base with their clients.
“There’s nothing sick, or wrong, with Mr. Jesse,” Emma insists. “He just wanted to teach art so his students could get better. Achieve and learn things.”
“No names were mentioned,” I remind them.
“They didn’t need to.” Tyler snorts. “Art teacher, gallery in town, babysitter. They might as well have put his picture on the front page.”
“I knew he didn’t do it, even before that bitch recanted,” Carlie grumbles.
I should discipline her for her language, but in this circumstance, I let it go. These kids are upset. But, as much as they may need to talk, they can’t with me.
Anya and Lara Babin, twins, and the only siblings at Baxter, are in the back of the class, sinking further and further into their seats, as if they want to escape. This is what I was afraid of. Not those two specifically, but any number of them suffering from anxiety. I’ve got to bring an end to this conversation.
Relief shoots through me when there’s a knock at the door. I don’t care who it is or the reason for them interrupting my class, as long as it changes the topic of discussion.
Mick, who is closest to the door opens it. Jenna, the school counselor, and Tara, a therapist, walks in. Their timing couldn’t be more perfect and I’m just about to ask Tara to take over when the women part and Ellen West steps between them. My heart skips a beat and our eyes lock. My stomach plummets. She’s the fucking reporter? Why else would she be here? It’s sure as hell not to see me and even if it is, I don’t want to see her, I lie to myself.
Was any of it real?
“Are we disturbing you?” Jenna asks hesitantly.
I hope they couldn’t hear the arguments out in the hall. It can easily be explained to Jenna and Tara, but not to Ellen. I don’t want to even look at her, let alone talk to her right now. If I could only convince that obstinate organ in my chest I was done with her, all would be just bloody great. “No, not at all.”
Jenna smiles. “This is Miss Ellen West. She’s a reporter and we’re showing her around the school.”
I can’t wait for this day to be over and it’s not even lunchtime yet.
Louie and Tyler raise their hands. I’m not about to call on them. Not with Ellen in the room at least.
“Yes, Louie?” Jenna asks.
I hold my breath.
“Which paper do you work for, Miss West?”
“I’m a freelance investigative reporter and write a blog.”
“What is it called?” Tyler asks.
“Looking West. With the question mark.”
He nods.
“Are you interested in journalism?” she asks.
“That’s what we’re studying at the moment,” Tyler answers.
Ellen’s eyes light up and she opens her mouth and I quickly cut her off. “Actually, we just finished.” I hold up the book on Abe Lincoln. “Were about to study biographies.”
Each of the students frowns at me.
Don’t they get it? They don’t know her. I don’t know her. At least, not like I thought. I don’t trust reporters and I sure as hell don’t trust her.
Katie raises her hand and I call on her. “Will you be visiting again, Miss West?”
“I’d like to.”
“Maybe you can give us your opinion with regard to the ethics of journalism at that time,” Tyler says.
Her eyebrows draw together. “Sure.”
“Only after we read your blog,” Tyler adds, as if he isn’t sure he can trust her either. The kid has good instincts.
“Perhaps later in the week,” Ellen offers hopefully.
“We’ll see.” I’m not about to make any promises.
“Well, we should let Mr. Gabe get back to teaching his class,” Jenna says from the doorway.
Thank God Ellen is leaving. “Miss Tara, can you remain? I have a question.”
She startles. “Of course.” She turns to Jenna and Ellen. “Go on.”
Jenna closes the door behind them and I wait until I’m sure they are far enough away and can’t hear through the door before quietly explaining the situation with the kids and the news story they eagerly want to discuss.
She frowns, b
iting her upper lip. We look at the kids. They’re watching us expectantly. Tara lets out a sigh. “It should be addressed.”
“And not by me.”
“True.” She smiles brightly and goes to the front of the class. “So, you have a few things on your mind.” Tara’s better prepared to deal with these students. She has the masters in psychology. I’m just an English teacher and former jock.
Ellen
He hates me. But, I should have expected it. I haven’t seen that same look of loathing on anyone’s face since I first took the stand. That time it was my father.
The same flash of awareness, excitement and wanting I’d experienced each time I was with him before rushed through my body the minute I laid eyes on Gabe. He clearly didn’t feel the same if the coldness in his blue eyes was any indication.
I blew it, but it’s for the best. But, I hate it.
This was a fucking mistake. I should have stayed away.
But I can’t. I can’t turn my back on what I’m afraid is happening here. I need to put my discomfort and pain aside, and focus on the story. On Baxter and what they are hiding. Focus on protecting the kids. It’s what I do.
Jenna leads me out of the building and into the warm sunshine. I’ve probably worn out my welcome but I’m not ready to go anywhere. Now that I’ve seen Gabe, I want to talk to him. I doubt he’ll give me a chance, but I need to try and explain somehow, but I’m not even sure that’s possible or what I could say.
I’ve got to stop thinking about him and focus on the story. “All of the teachers seem so young. Do you employ anyone over the age of thirty?”
“A few.”
Maybe it doesn’t pay well and this is the only job those teachers could get.
Still, each time I met an adult they immediately became guarded, as if they have something to hide. And, what’s it about the kids wanting to discuss the ethics of journalism when Gabe clearly said they were moving on to biographies? They must have been having a heated discussion right before we went in because I heard them out in the hall, not that I could make out what was being said.
“I’m surprised the kids don’t wear uniforms.” This had struck me from the beginning; I just hadn’t bothered to voice it yet. Whenever I’ve been on a private campus, and even some of the public ones, the kids are in some form a uniform, usually involving khaki or navy skirts and slacks, and polo or dress shirts.