Between the Lines (12 page)

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 elderly, 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.

And I’m a
fucking fool because I’m hoping there’s an explanation that I can accept.

I deserve
to get kicked in the balls again. This time for real.

By the
time the bell rings for the last class, I’ve learned a lot and nothing.

Some of
my students leave to go to their final class while the journalists remain and a
few others trickle in. Tara agreed to return, in case more questions are asked
and kids want to report on what they think happened. But, instead of Tara,
Jenna enters with Ellen on her heels.

She’s
still here? Why doesn’t she go to another class? Ballet would interest her, or
the music or theatre department. I’m pretty sure nobody is talking to her so
this day has probably been boring as hell.

They take
a seat at the back of the class and I hope these kids don’t say anything Ellen
will consider worthy enough to write about.

I go
around to the front of my desk and lean back against it before picking up the
memo that’d been left in my mailbox off of my desk. These kids get the news
before anyone else in the school. And, if they leak what is to be reported
before the paper goes to press, and before it’s been thoroughly researched, they
lose their spot in the class. It’s the first rule I implemented for control of
reporting and not rushing to print without facts.

“Before
you give me your ideas for the next articles, I have some suggestions on what
you might want to investigate.”

The kids
open their notebooks and grab their pens. Ellen sits forward, ready to listen.
Jenna opens her laptop and begins typing. I know her well enough that she’s
doing her own work and not paying any attention to what I’m saying. Her only
purpose is to babysit the reporter.

“There
are going to be new changes with the new school year.”

Ellen
raises her hand and I force a smile at her interruption. “Yes?”

“Your
school year runs from July 6
^th
, or the next Monday after the 4th,
through May 31
^st
, correct?”

“Yes.”

She sits
back and relaxes. I don’t dare hope that this will be the end to her
interruptions.

“Baxter
will be implementing three new areas of study. Culinary arts, fashion design
and physical education.”

Jenna
perks up, a bright smile on her lips. I know this is her doing. We talked about
it a few times, after she found out what else these kids are interested in and
what they wish to pursue in college. I don’t know which students want these
things, and I could lose a few writers, but it’s all about setting the kids up
for success.

“Physical
education,” one of them groans.

“Yes,”
Jenna answers from the back of the class. “None of you get enough exercise, and
it’s a requirement for college admission.”

The only
kid not making a face is Ethan Cook. He’s actually grinning.

“Why are
you so happy about phys ed?” Tamara asks.

“Endorphins.”
Ethan laughs. “And, it’ll be fun.”

“Endorphins?”
Tamara questions. I’m sure she knows what they are. She’s a smart girls whose
vocabulary goes beyond the many college graduates. Of course, I hung out with
the jocks, so there is that.

“Yes.”
Ethan grins. “’
Exercise gives
you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their
husbands, they just don’t’.
”

She’s looking at him as if he’s lost his mind.

The quote is familiar but I can’t place it.
“What is that from?” I ask.

“Legally Blonde,” Ethan and Ellen answer at the
same time.

“I miss running and kicking a ball around. I
know
I’ll
be happier at least,” Ethan adds.

I bite back a chuckle and look down at the memorandum
from the office. I’m not sure Ethan’s ever written an article that doesn’t have
some type of movie quote in it. If he had it his way, he’d spend his time
writing movie reviews, if he’d be allowed to go to the movies that is. Instead,
his afternoon is split between this class and at the piano.

“We are
also going to have a soccer team.”

Ethan
straightens. His hand goes up and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear there are
tears in his eyes.

“You are
serious. Baxter is going to have a soccer team?”

“Yep,
that’s what they tell me.”

“Who is
going to coach? You?”

I laugh.
“Just because I played football doesn’t mean I can coach soccer.”

Ellen’s
quietly chuckling at the back of the class. How many discussions did we have
about the girlie sport? Not that either of us think it is, just my dick of a
dad. Soccer takes a hell of a lot of stamina, more than most football games I
ever played, and the only protective gear they wear are shin guards.

I tear my
eyes away from her and back to Ethan. “Besides,” I gesture to my left leg.
“Running and kicking balls isn’t something I excel at these days.”

Ethan
looks back to Jenna. “Do you know who the coach is?”

“I may.”
She smiles. “Maybe you should take this assignment then you’ll be the first to
have all the facts.”

He jerks
around in his seat and raises his hand.

“Fine.
Ethan, you’ll report on the new soccer program.”

There’s a
quick knock at my door and I call for them to come in.  Tara enters, and I’m
glad she’s finally here even though the kids haven’t mentioned Jesse. 

“We have
a new student, Mr. Gabe, and he’s also a writer.”

She steps
aside and the young man comes into the room.

My heart
falls to my stomach.

Ellen

It’s as
if the color has completely drained from Gabe’s face. I look from him to the
new student and back again. Both are stunned. Clearly they know one another.
What’s the big deal?

Jenna and
Tara both stiffen, as if they realize something is wrong too. At least I know
my instincts are still intact.

“Class,
let me introduce you to Isaac. He’s a junior and just transferred in.”

There are
hellos called from around the room, but it’s as if the kids sense something is
wrong too. This Isaac hasn’t taken his eyes off of Gabe and Gabe hasn’t stopped
looking at him.

“Hello,
Mr. K…”

“Mr.
Gabe,” he quickly interrupts. “It’s good to see you again, Isaac.”

Jenna’s
eyes go wide, as do Tara’s. Students around the room share questioning looks.
Very interesting.

The kid
has had him as a teacher before, or so I assume. I don’t understand why there
seems to be a problem. Not that anyone has said it is, but by the reactions in
this room, I suspect it is a very big problem.

Tara
glances over at me and quickly recovers, smiling.  “Jenna, I’ll be staying if
you want to go back to your office.”

She
closes her laptop. “Have a great class,” she says a little too brightly before
leaving and closing the door behind her.

I sit
back, listen and observe. It gets more and more interesting with every minute
at this school. But, instead of answers, the questions keep piling up.