Between the Lines

by Jane Charles

  “They’re students, not soldiers.”

  “Studies have shown that disciplinary incidents decrease dramatically when uniforms have been implemented.”

  “We don’t have disciplinary problems at Baxter.” She turns to face me. “This is an art school and we encourage individuality. As long as clothing is modest, the students are allowed to wear whatever they wish.”

  A high school with no problems? With five hundred students? Unheard of. Just another lie to make me further question this place. Just like there is no fraternization among the students. They aren’t robots and this isn’t the high school version of Stepford Wives.

  Robots! Hadn’t the girl at the hospital claimed the school wanted perfectly behaved robots and that’s why they were drugged? The kids don’t seemed drugged, but they are well-behaved. The loudest classroom we came across so far was Gabe’s. What was that about?

  “Do all the teachers and staff go by their first name?”

  “Yes,” Jenna answers.

  “Why?” I’ve never called a teacher by anything other than their last name, except when I was in preschool.

  “Privacy.” She shrugs.

  Jenna leads me to a large patio outside of a practically all window building. “When it’s nice, a lot of the students like to sit outside during lunch.”

  There aren’t any tables, but there’ll probably be once we can be certain the temps are going to continue to rise and the chance of snow has disappeared from the forecast. It might be April, but that doesn’t mean it can’t get cold, and snow.

  Inside the building are rows upon rows of tables and chairs are set. “Cafeteria?”

  “Yep,” she answers with a smile. “Lunch is in about ten minutes. We should grab something before the students get here.”

  There are a group of adults sitting at two round tables not far from the front. I recognize them from working in the administration building, not that I met anyone. They probably eat early to avoid the five hundred student rush.

  I opt for a salad and can’t remember the last time I ate at a salad bar. Besides the lettuce combo, with more toppings than I’ve seen in most restaurants, there are several different side salads, some with vegetables and others with fruit. And, even fresh fruit at the end. A vegetarian’s dream. Not that I am one, but I do like my produce.

  The students are wandering in as Jenna and I take a seat at one of the round tables. There are only a handful of these and the rest are rectangular. Teachers follow the students in and while the kids sit at the long tables, the adults choose the round ones. This must be where the staff sits.

  The adults who were here before us, get up and leave and other adults take their places. I try not to be obvious, but I’m hoping and dreading Gabe comes in.

  Nobody is sitting at our table and the conversations at the other tables are hushed, like they’re afraid I might overhear something. Why so fucking secretive?

  Gabe – 18

  “What’s up with the reporter?” I ask Tara as we walk toward the cafeteria. I intentionally don’t use Ellen’s name and hoping Tara has more insight than I do.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Why should I know any more than her?

  Tara looks at me out of the corners of her eyes. “I thought you might know her or something. The way you two first looked at each other. Recognition, though not exactly pleasant.”

  “I met her last week.” She doesn’t need to know the details. “She’s taken an apartment above me and Mateo.”

  She simply nods, as if accepting my explanation. “I’m not sure why she is here, but I’ll be asking Mag the first chance I get.” She glances around, even though nobody is near us. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to have anyone snooping around.”

  She start’s walking again, strolling to match my gate. At least the leg’s better than it was when I was in New York, but not exactly great. The sky is blue, the weather is warm, but my knee feel like a storm’s brewing. I should probably just suck it up and call the ortho. I’m just afraid of what he’ll suggest. “What if she starts writing about these kids? It’s nobody else’s damned business who’s here and why,” I finally say.

  “Let’s just hope she doesn’t.”

  I hold the door and follow her in, stopping to see what’s on the menu. “Chicken.”

  “Yuck,” Tara groans. “Salad bar for me.”

  I follow her over, grab a tray and hook my cane over my forearm. I can walk well enough without it, but I like to have it with me if I feel like my knee is going to give way or there’s too much pain. By the time I make my way to the soups it’s killing me. This may have been a mistake. I might not make it back to the table after getting something to drink, and end up spilling everything down my front. It’s time to call the doctor. Hopefully another injection will get me through for a while.

  “I’ll get that, Mr. Gabe.” Mick grabs my tray before I can stop him. This isn’t the first time one of the students has taken my tray, even though I don’t need their help. It’s just another reminder of how observant these kids are. They only help when I’m limping more than usual. They’re a thoughtful group of kids and they don’t need Ellen trying to uncover their secrets.

  Mick carries it to the table where Tara and Jenna are sitting with Mateo. It’s the only one with seats left. “Thanks, Mick.”

  “No problem, Mr. Gabe.” He steps aside, returning to his own table and that’s when I notice her. Shit. So much for having a pleasant conversation at lunch. Now I’ll have to watch every fucking word I say.

  Ellen

  My day got better the moment Gabe sat at the table. Mateo had just sat down too. He seemed surprised but said nothing, though the tightness of his mouth and narrowing of his eyes convince me that Gabe didn’t exactly have great things to say when he got back. I’m guessing that nobody else knows I’ve met Gabe and Mateo before so I’m certainly not going to say anything. He’s entitled to have a private personal life, as am I.

  “Do you teach in the afternoon as well?” I ask Gabe.

  “Yes.”

  He doesn’t even look at me. He probably hates me and I get it. I just wish I could feel the same but I don’t. I never will. He’s a great guy and if things were different, who knows how much better our time in New York could have been.

  “The creative arts classes are in the afternoon, correct?” I ask Jenna.

  “Yes. Three hours.”

  “Wow! Three hours of one class or three separate classes?”

  “Depends.” Tara answers. “Usually, three separate classes.”

  I look back over to Gabe, who has remained quiet. “What do you teach, Mr. Gabe?” I intentionally address him like the students do.

  He looks up at me, eyes cold. “Creative writing.”

  Of course I knew this already, but I want him to talk to me. “Isn’t that what you were just teaching?”

  “Last hour was to meet the English requirement for high school graduation and it touches on the various types of writing.” He goes back to eating his salad, pretty much ignoring me.

  “In the afternoon Gabe teaches non-fiction writing in the first hour, fiction writing in the second,” Tara answers after shooting Gabe a look.

  He returns it with narrowed eyes.

  “The last hour is spent on the school newspaper,” Jenna adds.

  “School paper?” This immediately sparks my interest. I wonder if I can get back issues. Surely I can discover something from them that I can’t get from the adults.

  “I’m sure it isn’t nearly as interesting as your blog!” He tosses his napkin onto his half eaten salad and stands. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  I watch him limp out of the cafeteria. He doesn’t seem to be walking as bad as last Thursday or Friday, but he’s still in pain. Why the hell won’t that guy get to a doctor?

  The door to the cafeteria opens and another woman enters, followed by about a dozen teenage girls. They go straight to the restroom, with the woman
. As they each exit, they grab a tray and go to the salad bar, picking over the items available, then fill glasses with water and take seats among their peers. I suppose it’s normal that students would go to the bathroom before eating, but it all seemed rather strange, uniform, and why would an adult be with them? Where could they go? Is she afraid they’ll light up in there or something?

  The woman glances at each of the female students she came in with, as if checking to see what they are eating before filling her plate and walking to our table.

  “Hannah,” Mag begins. “This is Ellen West.”

  She grins. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Miss West is an investigative reporter,”

  The smile immediately slips from her lips. Damn, they are all the same. “What do you do at Baxter?”

  “The—”

  “—Counselor,” Mag answers, cutting off whatever she was going to say as she joins us at the table.

  “Ah, Kian is having lunch with Alexia,” Jenna blurts out. I get the oddest feeling she wants to change the subject, but why?

  A couple had just entered. I’m not so much interested in her as I am him. A cop on the campus of Baxter? I thought they had no disciplinary issues. Then I remember, Kian is a friend of Gabe’s, or so I assumed from the conversation that first night we met. Or maybe he’s friends with Mateo. And, he is dating an art teacher.

  The two grab salads and head over to our table and I look around the cafeteria. Only a handful of kids are actually eating the chicken. Is it because this is the healthiest group of high schoolers I’ve ever seen, or because the chicken sucks?

  I mentally shrug. The chicken probably sucks.

  Kian and Alexia pause after putting their trays on the table when they see me. I’m assuming she’s the art teacher, and she does have smudges of pain on her arms, but I haven’t met either of them.

  Jenna quickly makes the introductions and I file way more questions in my mind. Kian isn’t just a cop.

  “Why, exactly, does Baxter need an officer, or liaison?” I try to make my question casual, but if all is perfect in this school like they all want me to believe, a cop wouldn’t even need to set a foot on the campus.

  “Because of an incident last fall,” Jenna shakes her head.

  “Incident?”

  “You might not have heard about it,” Tara says. “A guy robbed a liquor store and killed the owner. He was being chased by the police when he wrecked his car on the other side of the wall. To get away, he hopped it. The police had to chase him through the campus though it was two students who brought him down.”

  As intrigued as I am in the story, and I will research it, it’s not what I expected to hear. So, the trouble came from outside and not in.

  “And that’s how I met this beautiful woman,” Kian says, looking at Alexia. Love shines in his eyes, and hers as well.

  He turns back to me. “Baxter has always been its own entity. After that happened, the community thought it best to have a liaison keep an eye on the school, and the kids.”

  If my suspicions are correct, the cops need to take a much closer look. This isn’t Mayberry, but they act like it may as well be.

  Alexia turns to Jenna. “How are you doing? Kian and I wanted to come by more over break but…” She glances in my direction before finishing. “Kian had family in and we were so busy.”

  Okay, I get that she has a personal life, but really, what could be so secretive that she would have told Jenna if I hadn’t been here?

  “I’m fine. Some days are harder than others. Cole has been my rock.” She smiles sadly. “The house is coming along faster than we thought and we moved into the upstairs. I just can’t wait for the kitchen to be done so I can cook again.”

  “Are you renovating?” I ask, even though I’m prying and I know it.

  “You could say that,” she laughs dryly, with no humor. “My grandmother’s house caught fire a while back and we’ve been deep in repairs.”

  I’m sorry I asked. That isn’t any of my business. I can’t imagine having to rebuild, or renovate after a fire.

  “Your grandmother’s memorial was lovely,” Tara says. “Be sure and let me know if you need anything.”

  Memorial? Did she die in the fire? I’m sure as hell not going to ask, but the investigator in me is certainly going to research it.

  Were the two close? If Jenna was as close to her grandmother as I was to my grandparents then she’s probably still in deep mourning, but trying to hide it. I watch her, without trying to be obvious and see it. There is a great deal of sadness in her eyes. Why didn’t I pick up on that before?

  I wish I had words of wisdom to help her, but I don’t because there is nothing anyone can say or do. It just takes time and even then, the pain of loss will strike from nowhere and you’re crying all over again. The incidents may become fewer and farther between, but they still happen and probably always will.

  Gabe – 19

  My two writing classes after lunch are my easiest of the day. All of the students in the fiction class are writing a book, novella, or short stories. Well, except Mick and Louie. They are the only two visual art students writing graphic novels. There are five more students interested in doing the same and will be joining us in the summer, when the classes switch up.

  I don’t necessarily grade on the work as much as I do on how much they’ve worked toward their goal for the grading period. You can’t really “grade” a creative project, but you can grade on the effort, offer a critique and there’s always editing. The students have gotten close and have started to share ideas, talk out plot points and go to each other when stuck, or when a story start to unravel.

  It kind of makes me wish I was still writing. It was because of the pompous and degrading critique partners I had in college that ruined it for me. I just couldn’t put myself out there anymore. I may love literature and want to write, but that doesn’t mean I can. What’s the old adage? Those that can, do and those that can’t teach. Well, I’m a teacher, and I couldn’t be more proud of each and every one of my students.

  I’m also pretty sure it’s going to be a cold day in hell before I put myself out there for a woman again too. I’ve got my pride and not ready to get kicked in the balls again anytime soon.

  The students in the nonfiction class are working on journals and memories. I originally tried to get them to do biographies, but they are more interested in autobiographies. These, I don’t read, unless they ask me to. As with the fiction, the students read each other’s work, and I’ve seen them bond over whatever they’ve read. The therapists read the work to make sure the assignments are getting done, but what these kids are writing is too personal to be shared with anyone they don’t wish to know about their past. About half of them ask me to edit their work and my respect and admiration of them has only grown because of it. Some of these kids have lived through some of the worst imaginable circumstances and they’ve found a way to move forward, rise above and not let it define who they are. They’ve taken what has happened and become stronger for it. I’m not sure I could have, or even wanted to survive what some of the kids have experienced.

  It also puts my life in perspective. I may have been hurt by Ellen, and a few other things in the past, but in comparison to these kids, those are just minor bumps in the road.

  As the students have their own work, I pretty much just supervise during these hours. It’s not much different than when I sat at my desk reading during study hall and detention when I was a substitute, so I take this time to do a little research on Ellen and read her blog.

  She doesn’t write fluff pieces, that’s for sure, and she doesn’t follow a regular schedule. Some weeks have a couple of articles, other times she has gone a month or more because she was investigating. Her posts are well-researched, detailed articles from corruption in politics to nursing home abuse. From drug cartels and the borders to screw ups in in the foster care system. Nobody is safe if they’ve been suspected of hurting children, the eld
erly, and every type of innocent in between. She a voice for the innocent, injured and victims.

  So, what does she expect to find at Baxter? If she wants to focus on the worst of the worst, she should be investigating the adults who were supposed to keep these kids safe and protected.

  I have half a mind to pull her aside and insist she go away, and that there is no story, but I’m afraid that will only make her more determined, like a dog going after a fresh bone.

  Besides, I don’t really want to talk to her. Well, I don’t think I’m ready. I’m not sure I ever will be.

  I sit back and look at my class. They’re busy writing or quietly discussing their projects. Was she using me? Was this all about a way to get into Baxter? Did she figure if she had me, emotionally at least, I’d start spilling secrets?

  Is Scott her lover, or her boss? Did he put her up to this, or was it all on her own?

  Did she just use her body to get to me?

  My stomach knots. Was she fucking using me the whole time for a fucking story?

  But, she never really asked about Baxter. We talked about a lot things, and about nothing. So many times she could have probed further, and I wouldn’t have thought anything about it because we were getting to know each other. Not that I would have told her anything that wasn’t on their website, but whenever it came up in conversation, she didn’t ask a damn thing.

  Did she decide to report on the school because I was here?

  No, that’s ridiculous. She knows where I live if she wanted to talk, so that isn’t it.

  Not that I really want to know anything about her, but it’s better for Baxter if I learn all I can about Ellen West. I type her name into Google to see what pops up. The more I learn, the more I can combat the warring in my chest of wanting to get an explanation for what she’d done or hate her.