At Risk of Being a Fool (3 page)

Tonio appeared in the doorway behind Dillon. He rested his hand on the doorframe and settled there watchfully.

“Nobody touches my stuff, nobody. You took my box.”

“I did, didn’t I?” said Jeanie with an involuntary chuckle. “I apologize.”

“You laughing at me?” There was a deep rumble through his voice.

The wolf is nothing to laugh at. The wolf is dangerous, and attacks only when the moment is right. He’s a wolf; I’m a rabbit.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself, an old woman standing in a hallway, listening to a catfight. Maybe I should bring in a fire hose, and squirt them both. Or maybe we could sell tickets. What do you think?”

Dillon’s eyes were unwavering. She tried again. “I’m sorry.” Actually, she understood it. People confined him, leashed him up, and taught him tricks he had no desire to learn. Of course, he wanted her out of his stuff. “I’m sorry I took your box without asking. But things were a little,” she waved her hand to the door, “hectic.”

“Don’t touch my stuff again.”

“Okay.”

He stalked past her and went through the classroom door. The volume decreased, held steady. Dillon had left his boom-box where she put it. Surprise.

“I think they’re done fighting,” Rosalie said. “You want I should go see?”

Tonio cocked his head to listen. “Can’t hear ‘em,” he said. “Good music.” Tonio glinted at her, with what might have been mischief.

“Never,” Jeanie said, “in my life have I heard two girls carry on that way.”

“Should have let ‘em fight.”

“I don’t think their parole officers would be happy. Besides, I’m morally opposed,” said Jeanie, “to getting blood all over my classroom. Did you see the length of those fingernails? I’m still not sure what started it. Sometimes I think I’m blind in one ear and can’t see out of the other.”

There was silence. Quinto said tentatively, “Uh, Jeanie? That don’t make no sense at all.”

“You’re right, Quinto, it doesn’t. My small attempt at humor.” It had been a hell of a day. She’d spent every second watching her back and her mouth. She was sick of it. “For heaven’s sake, Tonio,” she burst out, “work with me here. I joke with you, and you get it, I know you get it. And you give nothing back at all.”

Unprofessional, she told herself angrily. She had no business seeking reassurance from a student. It was this rootless feeling she had, of walking in the sand and leaving no footprints. Everyone who loved her was so distant, one way or another. “Sorry, Tonio, forget it,” she managed. Jeanie closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands. Annalisa was dead; Shelley was far away, and so were the boys. And now there was this thing with Edward. I am not alone, she told herself. I am not.

“Me,” Tonio said, “I think I’m deaf in one eye.”

Jeanie’s eyes flew open. “Must be the one I see the twinkle in, huh?”

“Must be.”

Tonio turned to Quinto. “Hey, buddy, get back in, okay? Either of them does anything, we need to know. You’re lookout, okay, homey?”

Quinto grinned. “Sure thing, man.” He strutted into the classroom. Rosalie followed.

Tonio looked at her. “You got to watch it, Jeanie, with Dillon.”

“And the others? And you?”

He seemed to make a decision. “It’s just, shit happens, you know?” he said, jerking his head towards the room. “I know the guy Sorrel carved up. Maybe he had it coming, but still, Jesus Christ! You want to watch it. You could get hurt. These ain’t your regular kids.”

“But you’re here, all of you,” she said softly. “Studying.”

“Court says we gotta be here.”

“Maybe so, but Mackie says some kids fail their exams on purpose. She screens carefully, before taking anyone in the work-study program. Why are you six here, and a dozen more aren’t?” There was a pause. “That’s it, then. That’s where I come in. Isn’t it?” She waggled an eyebrow at him. “Blind ears and all.”

Rosalie bounced out of the room. “Phone’s ringing.”

Jeanie went to the office, skirted the stone-faced Sorrel, and picked up the phone. “
GED
School
. Oh hi, Mackie. The testing schedule? We’ve only got one going in this week. Right, Thursday, Tonio’s going in for Social Studies. Uh huh. Sure.”

Jeanie gave Sorrel a lingering glance. The girl’s leg swung spasmodically. Her chin jutted out and her cheeks were flushed. Her chest heaved with angry drags at the air. No doubt, Brynna was in a similar state. Rosalie was roaming; Quinto was ready to fly apart at any instant, and Dillon was in a royal snit. A man had been pipe bombed, and she was fairly certain three, if not four, of her students knew more than the newspapers, and so did a total stranger upstairs.

Habit held firm. These kids were hers. “Thanks, Mackie. Everything’s just fine here. Not a problem in the world.”

CHAPTER
TWO

Maybe a midget could use this mirror, but Sorrel sure couldn’t. Probably Torrez picked it out with the rest of this crap. Bright Futures Transition Home for Girls was stacked to the ceiling with crap. Sorrel snatched at the mascara and knocked it off the dresser. With a muttered curse, she grabbed it.

The clock sucked her eyes in for a moment and released her. It blinked its numbers, red and threatening. Like the rest of the furniture, it was institutional, barely sufficient and nothing more. The small bed sat in the corner, neatly made up. The dresser had two tiny drawers. A hook on the wall held her few clothes. The door stood open the regulation foot and a half, as it always did at six twenty-three in the morning.

The mascara fell onto the dresser. Sorrel inspected her face in the mirror, her fingers drumming the dresser top. She froze and inspected her hand. Good, she hadn’t messed up the polish. It was decent stuff; it had a nice shine. It had better, at that price. Sorrel’s eyes flicked to the clock, and back to the mirror. Pictures of her daughter Tiffany brightened the mirror. She was a pixie of a girl, with dark eyes and hair, and a gleeful grin, romping through an array of pictures: Tiffy at her second birthday party, ice cream plastering her mouth; Tiffy riding a trike; Tiffy jumping into a plastic wading pool. Sorrel’s glance lingered painfully on shots of herself with Tiffany, her mother, and grandmother. At least she had family. Her little girl wasn’t stuck in a cruddy foster home, like Rosalie’s boy.

The door slammed back against the wall. Lisabet poked her head in the doorway. “Better get a move on girl, or you’ll be in demerit city again. Hear me?”

Sorrel rounded on her. “Get the hell out of here.” Her expression backed the girl out of the room. “Leave me alone, I’ve got five minutes left, and you know it.” Lisabet acted like she was staff, the damned bitch. Sorrel adjusted the door to the correct angle.

None of the pictures were polluted with Carlos, Tiffany’s father. Men were shits, and Carlos was a bigger shit than most. At least she’d gotten her baby away from him before he left. Left, huh. Two seconds before she’d kicked him out. It took a big man to hit a baby like Tiffany, a big man. Fuckin’ asshole.

There were no pictures of the other one either, the “boyfriend.” Damn Brynna and her big mouth. Boyfriend, like hell. He was gone, down Interstate 5 to
L.A.
—flying the Five. When they chased him out of
Portland
, he dropped by to see her in
Salem
before he split. Good riddance. He was trouble, big-time. Exciting, a good screw, but too risky. No way he was getting near Tiffany. He could take his guns and shove ‘em right up his ass. Not that she’d dare say that, not to him. A girl watched her mouth around that one.

He didn’t have nothing to do with that pipe bomb. Couldn’t have, he’d been gone for months. And what would he care about some construction guy? Construction, staple guns, acetylene torches, pipe, nails, gasoline, maybe even welders
...
So what if he stole stuff, played with explosives, followed firemen to grin at blazing houses. That didn’t mean he was still here in
Salem
, blasting some guy into bits.

If anybody knew about him, linked her up with him, she’d be in deep shit. Randy and Torrez between them—she didn’t want to think about it. She’d be lucky to see Tiffy at all, if that happened. She had to see Tiffy. She’d die without her.

Tiffy, Tiffy—Mustn’t cry, can’t cry, they’ll all see it on my face. They’ll laugh at me.

Nobody laughed at Sorrel. Nobody pushed Tiffy around either. The next man who tried it would be dead meat. She’d grab her a knife and carve him up good, like that one guy that grabbed her at the party. Forget him, I heard enough about him and his medical problems in court. He had it coming.

Damn Torrez and her rules. Seeing Tiffy twice a month was murder. Mama took good care of her, just like she had of Sorrel. God, my heart’s breaking. No demerits, can’t get demerits— Two minutes left.

She wiped away a tear and checked her mascara. She craned her head, trying to get a look at her body in the mirror. She threw her small store of makeup into her purse, and the purse in the top drawer of the dresser. She swung the door back into its daytime position and stepped into the hallway.

~*~

Locks and doors snapped shut behind her, cutting off the air, as she traveled from one prison to another. Why had Mackie put her in a courthouse, for God’s sake?

A long countertop bisected the front office of the District Court Clerk. The public huddled on one side and the clerks on the other. Sorrel, her position ambiguous, spent her mornings balancing on a tight wire between them. She lifted the bar and crossed behind the counter, matching Hilda’s baleful stare. Hilda, front counter clerk, spoke into the phone, and didn’t have time for her customary digs.

Carol, office manager, and Dorrie, her assistant, had coated the desks with cutesy little decorations: beanie babies glued to computer monitors, and potted plants on the file cabinet. The attempts at a homelike atmosphere failed. It was all sugar coating on yet another prison. The falseness of it used to make her mad, but now it just tore at her stomach, along with the professional smiles and the security guards. Everything she ate, except chocolate and Coke, tasted like cardboard.

“Glad to see you, Sorrel,” Carol said. “Your list is on the counter.”

Working passed the time. If only it weren’t so gut-wrenchingly boring. She couldn’t answer the phone, or do filing, or sort mail, or handle paperwork. A criminal working with court papers? Oh God, no.

Sorrel crouched in front of the copy machine in the side room, loading up paper. Hilda brushed by her, bumping into her. Sorrel gritted her teeth on a sharp remark, and swallowed it unspoken. Bitch, she does it on purpose. Sorrel closed her eyes, shielding herself with a memory of Tiffany. Her anger leaked into the background, joining the deadly pool in the back of her mind. She picked up the copier paper, fanned it, and squared the edges.

A security guard entered and leaned on the counter, bypassing the three people waiting in line. He wore that casual look that meant something was up. Sorrel tensed in sudden calculation. Was he looking for her? Maybe Hilda got somebody’s ear. What had she seen?

The guard tapped on the counter. “Carol?”

Dorrie looked at him inquiringly. He smiled and shook his head.

“Carol,” he said again.

Sorrel closed the copier and slid behind the door, where she could still see him. Carol and the guard huddled together. A folded piece of paper, bright red, slipped from the guard’s hand to Carol’s. The guard left.

Carol moved to Dorrie, nodding at the blond guy with the open briefcase. “I’m so sorry,” Carol said, “but the ‘powers that be’ have decreed an evacuation drill. So annoying. I’m sorry to disrupt you, but we need to exit to the south lawn. If you’ll all retain your number slips, we’ll handle your matters as expeditiously as possible once we return.”

The young man with the briefcase huffed loudly. “I must insist. The court hearing on this matter—”

“Yes indeed, annoying for you, but I’m sure the judge will understand. Dorrie, will you see our guests to the south exit?” Smiling, but as stubborn as Torrez, Carol got the small crowd moving. Hilda closed out a phone conversation.

“What’s going on?” Hilda said the instant the door closed behind the public. She hunted for Sorrel, but didn’t see her. “Did she do something?”

“Hilda.” Carol shooed her to the door. “Out on the south lawn, you know the procedure. It’s just a standard evacuation drill.”

“It is not, we just had one three weeks ago. I saw that red slip Vic gave you. It’s a bomb threat, isn’t it?” Her voice rose. “Where is it, where did they say to look? It’s these criminals, like her. In a normal office, we’d never worry about bomb threats.”

“Hilda, outside, now. Sorrel? Oh, there you are. Go with— Never mind. Sorrel’s with me. Move it, Hilda. Remember, they time us on these drills. The fire marshal’s out there with his stop watch.” Carol propelled Hilda out the door. “The south lawn.”

The door closed behind Hilda’s protesting figure. Carol muttered, “I can see why Judge Hodges got rid of her, but did he have to wish her on us?”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Sorrel said.

“Of course not,” Carol said impatiently. “I should have sent you out, but I’m not putting you with Hilda without a referee.” Carol whisked around the room, hitting hot keys on computers to throw them in emergency lock-down, snatching folders and a metal box with unerring accuracy. “Here, carry this.” She handed the box to Sorrel and bent over an open desk drawer. “There, I’ve got it all. Out we go.” Carol’s entire safety protocol took twenty seconds.