“I’m glad to see him enjoying friends like you, Cherry. If Lukey’s happy, I’m happy. Thank you.”
Damn, Tara was good. I tossed my trash in the red plastic basket and stood up. “Nice to see you again.”
“See you around, Cherry.” She pulled a hand sanitizer bottle from her purse and began squirting it on her arms.
“I’m sure you will, Tara.” Like whenever Luke happened to show up in my proximity.
I said goodbye to the kindest, most thoughtful crazy ex-girlfriend of all time. If Luke decided to file stalking charges, maybe they’d let Tara continue to bake pies in prison.
Tamara would like that.
Four
I left Tara to talk the Lickety Pig staff into making her a salad and hurried back to Peerless Day Academy. With Uncle Will’s warning about the timeliness of work clearance, I wanted to get my paperwork turned in, speak to the drama teacher in person, and secure the job before their faculty meeting. I had a roommate now to help with some bills, but money was tight. My local art patrons had essentially disappeared after my last few scrapes, but Peerless parents could open a whole new market for me.
Zig-zagging back to the northwestern border of Forks County and Line Creek city limits, I drove through the stacked stone pillar gate just before the dismissal bell. Parents paid plenty for Peerless’s acreage and bucolic landscaping that included a stable and jumping arena, tennis courts, nine-hole golf course, lacrosse fields, and a working garden with greenhouses.
And judging by the line of vehicles waiting to pull into Peerless Day, the parents also paid a lot of money burning gas.
I pulled around the car pickup line, passing a Bentley and a hybrid Lexus, and found one empty slot in the visitor’s section. In a row filled with Porsche Cayennes and Acura MDXs, my poor Datsun P.O.S. stuck out like a pit bull at a poodle show. I grabbed my portfolio bag and drawing satchel and slid from the Datsun. As I walked toward the line of cars waiting before the front doors, the window on a Mercedes-Benz M Class rolled down.
“You’re back.” Pamela Hargraves dangled an arm out the window. A diamond tennis bracelet slid over her wrist and she shook it up her arm. “They’re going to have a faculty meeting. After-school activities are suspended.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I stopped at her door. “I want to catch the drama teacher, Mr. Tinsley, before the meeting.”
“Mr. Tinsley is a weasel. Watch out for him.”
Either Pamela Hargraves ate a bowl of negativity for breakfast or she had a finger on the pulse of gossip in this school. “Why would you say that?”
“He counts on big wins in the state and national drama competitions to get alumni dollars for his productions. He’s taught Disney kids, you know. If he doesn’t think you’re up to his standards, he’ll air his grievances publicly. He’s got a blog that has hundreds of readers. They like his brand of snark.”
Holy shit. Did I really want this job?
“But if he likes you, guess who gets star billing on his blog and in the community?”
“He’s got a voice in Line Creek?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Who cares about Line Creek? He’s a board member on a number of art and culture committees in Aureate County and Atlanta.”
Aureate’s boundaries stretched into the North Georgia mountains. The mountains meant tourist towns. Tourist towns meant galleries and community cultural events.
“So if he liked my work, he’d recommend me as an artist in other towns? Maybe Atlanta?” I ran my hand over my portfolio bag.
Pamela nodded with a smirk. “Or sink your career faster than a solid gold anchor.”
I chewed my lip. “And if he liked my work, folks in Forks County might notice, too.”
“If that matters to you, then yes. But watch your back. And keep an eye on his blog. He’ll leave a trail of backstabbing bread crumbs before he finishes you off for good.”
“Thanks for the advice, ma’am.”
“Good luck to you. Kadence is trying out for Romeo and Juliet. I’m running her to an extra voice lesson today.” She waved and the tinted window zipped to the top of the door, hiding Pamela and her leather and wood grain interior.
I sighed and gazed at Peerless’s castle-like facade, wondering if this venture was worth it.
A carillon rang from the stacked stone bell tower. As if cued to the Peerless schedule, my phone erupted with its own musical preference. The Spice Girls “Wannabe,” my best friend Leah’s ring tone. That song always made me smile. I still remembered the girl power dance moves Leah and I performed in the Halo Middle School cafeteria.
Strolling to the sidewalk, I jerked the phone from my satchel and plugged my free ear from the noise of cars and bells. “Hey, friend.” I backed toward the side of the building as an avalanche of kids poured through the front doors. “What’s going on?”
“Cherry, honey.” Leah’s sultry drawl could race drying paint and lose. “I’ve got some bad news about Peerless.”
“If it’s about the secretary dying, you’re too late. I got that news after I sat in her office for twenty minutes without her appearing.”
“I’m so sorry. My cousin, Faith, just called to tell me, and I remembered you had an interview today. It’s so upsetting. Are you coming back to Halo, then?”
“Actually, I had to get my background check done and I’m going to drop it off before the faculty meeting.”
“Faith is pretty upset.”
“She’s the chorus teacher, right? Must be hitting the faculty pretty hard.” I sidestepped three young girls, their eyes and thumbs on their phones. “Can’t say the parent I met was too upset over Maranda Pringle’s death, though.”
“I’m not sure Faith liked Miss Maranda much either, but a suicide does rock your world a bit.”
“Suicide?” I jumped behind a trashcan as another group of teens glued to iPads threatened to barrel into me.
How could they run, read, talk, and type at the same time? That was serious multi-tasking.
“You didn’t know? I guess they wouldn’t spread that news around.” Leah paused. “Faith said Miss Pringle had been drinking and took a bunch of pills.”
“Was she depressed?”
“I don’t know. I met her last week when I went to help Faith set up for her fall choral concert. Miss Pringle seemed distracted, but what school secretary wouldn’t be? The office was crowded. I couldn’t get anybody to show me the way to the chorus room, so I wandered lost in the maze of hallways until a sweet child finally pointed the way.”
“Sounds like something was going on that day.”
“Everyone was worked up,” Leah agreed. “Faith was too busy with her concert to notice, though.”
“I hope this drama teacher isn’t going to be a pain. I just got word that he loves to make and break careers on his blog.”
“Merciful heavens. Maybe you should rethink working for him.”
“Don’t worry, Leah,” I said, more for my sake than hers. “I’m sure I’ve faced tougher critics than Terry Tinsley. Shawna Branson will make him look like banana pudding.”
We said our goodbyes and I slid my phone back in my satchel. I looked up and locked eyes with a boy of about sixteen. With a mohawk of curly blond hair and his Peerless blazer inside out and backwards, he stood with his hands shoved in his Peerless gray trouser pockets. Which looked difficult as they hung off his nonexistent hips at a precariously low angle.
“Who are you?” He squinted behind red Wayfarer sunglasses.
“Who are you?” I countered. He looked familiar in a deja vu-ish way.
“I don’t give out my name to strangers.” He slid his glasses down, peered at me with brilliant blue eyes, then shoved them back up his nose.
“Me neither.”
He nodded and ambled off with the back of his tro
user cuffs dragging on the cement.
Mesmerized, I watched him before turning back toward the door. The tide of exiting teens had slowed to a trickle, and I decided to brave the gauntlet into the building. The sidewalk opened onto slate tiles surrounded by an inlaid stone mosaic making up the crest of the school. Passing through the open front doors, I waved to the security guard and headed across the wide foyer to the front office.
Behind that set of glass doors, faculty members and students huddled in clumps, heads bent and whispering. I strode to the counter and flagged a nearby student to call Mr. Tinsley. A row of chairs lined the two glass walls near the door. I dropped into a chair near a group of girls, their school jackets and ties tossed into a pile on the chair next to me. The girls all wore the same gray and blue plaid pleated skirt hiked to mid-thigh and white blouse unbuttoned to expose their clavicle. All had straight hair falling midway down their backs. All spoke in chirps and squeals. I counted thirteen OMGs in the first thirty second interval.
Gradually my hearing tuned to their teen girl decibel and I gathered they were talking about a message that had gone around the school.
“I couldn’t believe it. How did they know about Preston? You think someone, like, ratted him out?” said a dark haired teen.
“I know, right? Probably the drama department,” said a blonde. “It’s so uncool.”
I eyed the third girl, only differentiated by a slight wave in her dark hair and beautiful mocha skin.
“You think Preston knows?” she asked.
“Of course he knows,” said the brunette.
“Everybody knows now,” said the blonde.
“Not everyone knew about Ellis,” said the girl with the wave.
“True,” said Brunette.
As I watched the girls, the name Ellis clicked into place. The sophomore who had committed suicide from cyberbullying the previous year. Curiosity got the better of me. I leaned into their group. “Excuse me,” I said. “Did y’all know Ellis?”
I received three eyebrow raises and crossed arm hip pops, which I took as a why-are-you-talking-to-us move.
“Just curious,” I said. “I understand last year they shut down your Internet and didn’t allow phones.”
“That was so uncool,” said the blonde. “And stupid. You don’t need Wi-Fi if you have 4G or whatever. And we don’t need phones if we have tablets or whatever. And PeerNotes is a joke anyway.”
“So Miss Pringle’s plan didn’t work?”
The brunette lifted her lip. “Of course not. But it made the parents feel like the school was doing something.”
“They better not do it again,” said the ebony haired beauty. “I mean it’s not like the school secretary would kill herself over some stupid texts like Ellis.”
“You think they’ll take away our phones?” The brunette dropped her cool stance and twisted a lock of hair around her finger.
“Was Miss Pringle cyberbullied?” I guessed the news of Pringle committing suicide had already made it into the Peerless grapevine. Probably by electronic memo, judging by all the devices. “I heard she was kind of mean.”
“Yeah, really mean,” said the brunette.
“Miss Pringle got a ghost text, too,” said the third girl.
“What’s a ghost text?” This conversation made my head spin.
“You know, when you get a text and it’s not from a phone and like a random name. Ghost text,” said the blonde. “You can tell someone what you really think of them and it’s totally anonymous.”
How do you get a text that’s not from a phone?
I jumped, hearing my name.
“The artist Cherry Tucker,” the droning voice called.
I turned and witnessed a balding, goateed man with glasses sweep into the room in a long, black cape. With one arm held out and the other drawing the cape to his chin, he called my name again, this time adding a long, mocking laugh.
What in the hell was going on at this school?
Five
“Mr. Tinsley?” I guessed, figuring the whole dramatic bit fit the stereotype.
“‘Seal my fate tonight.’” He moved forward, the velvet cape billowing as his hands swept toward me and retreated to cover his face. “‘I hate to have to cut the fun short, but the joke’s wearing thin.’”
My eyebrows landed somewhere near my hairline. I glanced around the office. The groups had stopped chatting to watch the performance. No one looked particularly shocked or confused. I didn’t even detect any eyeball rolls, whereas this little stunt deemed eyeball-rolling worthy material. However, I was from a less genteel background. My brother probably gave wedgies to a Mr. Tinsley-type in high school.
“‘Let the audience in.’” He extended his arm to acknowledge the faculty and students glued to his performance.
I had dealt with some divas in art school, but I felt a bit lost among this theater crowd.
“‘Let my opera begin!’” Holding the cape out, he stopped in front of me and finished with a round of maniacal laughter. Followed by an enthusiastic applause by the office audience.
I waited for the producer of the reality show to walk out with the camera crew.
No producer or camera crew appeared.
Pulling off the cape, Tinsley folded it over one arm, then bowed. “Pardon me, Miss Tucker. A parent just handed me this to add to our costume collection, and I found myself carried away by this vehicle of creativity disguised as a cloak.”
I suppressed my confusion. “Mr. Tinsley, I came by hoping to catch you before the faculty meeting. I have already turned in my background check.”
“Your ‘can do’ spirit is duly noted and appreciated.” Tinsley pulled a folded envelope from his pocket, handed it to me, and pointed toward the doors. “Shall we walk?”
Glancing at the envelope, I noted that it was check sized and peeked. With a gasp at the zeros, my mercenary heart blessed the Disney parents of Peerless for their generosity and shoved the check into my satchel. We left the office, walked through the half-moon shaped foyer and toward the first of a series of long halls spoking off the main lobby.
“This is the arts hall.” Tinsley pointed toward the first sets of double doors that lined both sides of the corridor. “The chorus and band rooms. They both feature state-of-the-art recording studios.”
“Nice.” I wondered how these students handled the depravity of university life after leaving Peerless. College must feel like a mission trip to some impoverished nation.
We proceeded at a fast clip down the football field length hall.
“The dance studios.” He waved at another set of doors, then to the double doors on the opposite side. “The art classrooms.”
“Wait,” I said. “Can I see the art studios?”
“If we must,” he sighed, plodding toward the entrance. We entered an anteroom lined with more doors. “The sculpture lab is on the far right. Computer animation and graphic design over there. Drawing and painting in the middle. I believe there’s also some kind of press in one. And something for textiles.”
I peered through each of the narrow windows set inside the doors. “These are nicer than some of my classrooms at SCAD.”
“Did you attend college in Savannah or Atlanta? I know a few faculty members in Atlanta.”
“Savannah.” I backed away from the last window as a tall, thin woman with a short crop of salt and pepper spied my gawk.
The door swung open. The tall woman stepped into the vestibule, crossed her arms over her chambray tunic, and fixed a cold, death-ray glare on Tinsley. “I told you to stay out of the art wing.”
Tinsley shrugged. “Calm down, Camille. I was just showing your facilities to the art director for the new production.”
She set her cool, hazel eyes on me. “The art rooms are not available for outs
iders. Don’t even think about using my supplies.”
“I hadn’t thought about it, ma’am,” I said, disappointed to start on the wrong foot with a fellow artist. “I figured the theater department had their own stuff.”
“They have plenty of ‘stuff.’” She whirled around, slamming the door behind her.
“Well,” said Tinsley, ushering me back into the arts hall. “I certainly lose to Dr. Vail on dramatic outbursts today.”
I reminded myself of the zeros on the check and kept my mouth shut.
At the end of the hall, the double doors had been draped with red satin swag. A gold, sparkling lettered sign, entitled “Tinsley Town,” hung next to the door. Like the art wing, these double doors led to a room with more doors. This area had been painted green and crammed with a table and beanbag chairs. Students were draped across and over the seating, all with various devices in hand. One mop-topped boy lay on the long table, viewing an electronic tablet held above his face while he popped goldfish crackers into his mouth.
“Ignore the denizens,” said Tinsley, readopting his grandiose voice that included the wide arm sweep.
I did my best to ignore as I tripped over gangly teens, making our way to his office entrance, complete with another gold, sparkly sign.
The office had the wood and leather vibe that reminded me of my friend Max Avtaikin’s office. I wandered behind a full length mirror standing before floor to ceiling bookshelves. With my back to Tinsley, I scanned the shelves holding stacks of both bound paper and hard cover scripts, various knickknacks that I took to be props, and framed theater programs. I felt surprised to find no personal photos of him, his family, or the students. The room appeared as staged as his gimmicky caped character.
“Have a seat.” Tinsley pointed toward a chair before his mahogany desk. “Would you like some coffee? I always need a stimulant this time of day.”
I thanked him, glad he had dropped his booming affectation and wild gesturing. Dropping into the chair, I watched as he gathered coffee materials from a credenza. Without his audience, his posture slumped and his facial features relaxed, exposing a fine network of lines around his eyes. Doling out ground coffee into a press, he added hot water from an electric tea kettle, then massaged his goatee, waiting for the coffee to steep.
DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE Page 4