Relative Danger (17 page)

“Everybody get to class!” Hannah called.

Anne Little motioned with her arms. “Back up! Give them room!”

Students shifted when someone forced a path to let the others get through. I’d been on tiptoe but began making small jumps so I could see above shoulders of those who’d abruptly grown quiet. Policemen and women forced spectators further away. People in uniform moved into the room that was emitting chemical smells. A strong odor of bleach filled my nostrils. “Let her through,” a cop hollered.

“Clear this hall!” others ordered, moving the crowd. I was pulled away with the wall of kids. Tears stung my eyes, and my nose ran. I was reacting to the foul smells the room gave off.

“Will she be all right?” a whimpering girl asked.

I spied the stretcher. What my limited view let me see made my whole body tremble. A blanket partially covered a woman who wasn’t moving. Her blond hair reached denim-clad shoulder.

Marisa Hernandez!

Chapter 13

Emergency workers rushed her past me. I had a clearer view of the woman, and although oxygen tubes stuck out of her nostrils and blocked part of her face, I was certain of one thing: She wasn’t Marisa Hernandez. She was the person I’d seen earlier whom I had thought was Marisa. Both of them had pale blond hair and wore denim today.

“Who is that?” I asked any of the numerous students surrounding me.

Teens jabbered to each other. “Man, she might be dead.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“No, they’d cover her face if she died.”

I stared directly into a girl’s wide brown eyes. “Who was that?”

She sniffled. “Mrs. Peekers.”

Police blocked off the fetid room down the hall and the area outside it with yellow tape. Others joined teachers to shoo away students. In a reassuring tone, Anne Little told the teens backing up that they would learn about what had occurred, and the kids quieted to hear. “We don’t know what happened yet,” she said. There would be an investigation. Then everyone would be told. “In the meantime, you have one more class. And remember, seniors, exams start Monday.”

Groans echoed off the walls. Students moved off, wondering aloud what happened to this teacher. Hannah told a group she’d be coming to Mrs. Peekers’s room. A few teens and teachers stood talking, but most moseyed toward classrooms. I glanced at the school’s front doors, where the last white outfits turned and rolled Mrs. Peekers down a ramp.

Sirens wailed, and big girls near me cried. From the end of the corridor, I watched a man snapping pictures of what appeared to be a custodians’ supply room. Outside the room, a liquid wet the floor. Custodians thrust huge fans into the area and turned them on. Beside the room stood cardboard boxes, the flaps on two of them open.

A policeman ordered the rest of us back to classes. I hurried to my room. Students spoke loudly while they neared. I saw the girl that I’d spoken to outside Abby’s room and asked her about Mrs. Peekers.

“She teaches English. She went in the janitors’ room to get an eraser and somebody locked the door.”

Goose bumps sprouted on my arms. “Locked in—just like me.”

The child frowned. “You just didn’t turn the knob all the way.”

“Yes, I did.” My statement made the girl look annoyed. “But why was Mrs. Peekers on a stretcher?” I asked.

Another girl turned and said, “Some kind of cleaning stuff spilled under the door.”

“What cleaning stuff?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet whoever left those boxes there is gonna be in real trouble.”

My animated students had become too riled. I made them sit, assured them Mrs. Peekers would be all right, and gave out worksheets. It took a while for everyone to calm and get to work. Then I stared over their heads, my thoughts reeling. Was what happened to Mrs. Peekers and Grant Labruzzo related? And someone
had
locked me in this room. The purpose?

I envisioned the woman I’d first thought was Marisa Hernandez, lying motionless on that stretcher. Spasms jerked through my stomach. What the hell was I doing in this place? I felt weak, with a headache looming. Hunger? Or fumes from out there and earlier inside this room? I wanted Kat away from this school!

The final bell rang. The kids went out, and I scribbled a note for Miss Fleet.
Nice students. Completed worksheets are on the side table. I let one class take theirs home to complete because a fire alarm shortened their period. A beaker accidentally broke in here.
I signed the sheet, left it on her desk, and scanned the room. How different without students. With a skeleton, formulas, and scientific posters, the classroom appeared a center of learning. I noted the quiet. And then the door, making certain it had remained open.

I went out and shut it. I’d already returned the keys.

In a hall, girls wearing shorts practiced cheers. Boys wore baseball uniforms and lugged smelly canvas bags, following a coach. Teachers flocked, peering at the now cordoned-off hall area. I waved to the male and female custodians pushing wide dust mops. Two men I didn’t recognize sauntered ahead of me. Marisa Hernandez fell into step at my side. “How did it go today?” she asked, glancing at my face and my hair.

I remembered the duty hair and swept my hand across it, feeling one section patch up. “Routine, I imagine.” We exchanged small laughs that said we both knew what my day had been like. “I hope Mrs. Peekers will be all right,” I said, eyeing Marisa for her reaction.

She stared at me, making a grim nod. Her eyes showed compassion. I wasn’t afraid of this person. She touched my hand. “I’ve been so fortunate to have gotten to know Kat.”

I really liked Marisa.

She gave my hand a squeeze. “I know Kat’s worried about me.” A flicker of concern reached her eyes. Something captured her attention, and her hand slipped off mine. Three uniformed police officers were striding toward the office. Marisa looked at me. “Please tell her I’ll be all right.”

“Couldn’t you tell her yourself? Kat really misses getting to talk to you.”

Marisa’s gaze flitted toward the officers. “I’ll try. I’m glad I met you, Mrs. Gunther.”

“I’m glad, too.” We exchanged smiles with closed lips. She took off toward an exit, its doors propped wide open. I liked the way some teens yelled, “’Bye, Miss Hernandez,” and she called back to them. I truly loved the way she’d helped my granddaughter. And I hoped like hell she wasn’t a killer.

Turning away, I almost rammed into Abby Jeansonne.

“One of those,” she said, eyeing Marisa. To Abby’s silly expression, I merely grinned and walked past. “Just like Kat,” she said.

I spun around. “What do you mean, just like Kat?”

“She’s one of those, too.”

“One of those
what
?”

Abby shoved her bangs aside. “Females that Grant liked.”

“Grant—Labruzzo?”

Abby’s nod flipped the bangs over her eyes. She started away, but I caught up and grabbed her hand. “What do you mean, he
liked
them? Not Kat?”

“She and John Winston broke up, didn’t they?” Abby yanked her hand away from mine and stormed off.

Implications of her statements froze me in place. I needed to talk to Kat.

“Damn kids can’t even drink their crap or throw their papers in here!” a lanky man holding a dust mop complained to a male teacher. The custodian indicated empty chip bags lying around a trash barrel. Dark liquid spilled from dumped cola cans.

Little gratification must come from his job. And he and a couple of others had to clean this entire school. I couldn’t imagine. “Now I’m going to have to mop all this,” the custodian said, although the other man had walked off. “Aw, crap, I can’t go in there.” He’d turned toward the room holding his supplies, the entire hall blocked off with police tape. Numerous fans blew toward an exit.

On a whim, I spoke. “Are custodial supplies kept anywhere else in this school?”

He peered at me, his face clouded. Was I some foreign creature? He stared as though I were, and then jerked around, dragging his mop to some other place.

Could Mrs. Peekers have gone somewhere else to find clean erasers? And would the same thing have happened in that room if someone besides her had been inside?

Grant Labruzzo liked Kat? And he liked Marisa, Abby said. Earlier, she’d mentioned Anne Little as “One of those.”

I opened my cell phone. Kat answered on the third ring. “You weren’t at school,” I said, experiencing mixed feelings about that fact.

“No,” she said, unapologetically, “I wasn’t.”

I waited until a young couple holding hands walked past me. “Kat, was Grant Labruzzo interested in you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever flirt with you?”

“No. Where’d you get that idea?”

“I just thought…”

“Gram, I really need to go.”

I reminded Kat that I loved her and let her click off. I wanted to sit in a corner and dwell on all I had learned. More students and teachers moved past, glancing back at me. I was standing in the hall, staring at my phone. I put it away and headed for the office.

Had someone tried to kill that teacher? A chemical could have accidentally fallen over, but she’d been locked in that room, just like I’d been in mine. Hair on my arms sprang up. Were our locked doors connected to the custodian’s death?

Kat would surely tell me the truth about him showing her any interest.

A group of students hustled out an exit door, and others scrambled in. New voices came from girls carrying tennis rackets. They headed toward another exit. Today so many people were scurrying about after school hours. How could anyone have found Grant Labruzzo alone and killed him?

My mind whirled around questions and the day’s unsettling events as I reached the office and barreled past the counter. Only Anne Little was left, except for a few students waiting for a phone. I stared at them, and Anne told me they needed rides home. She blew her nose and sounded hoarse.

“Today was kind of nice,” I told her. “Except for the emergencies.”

She shook her head, making the gold hoops on her ears swing. “Kids will be kids. They aren’t happy unless somebody’s pulling a fire alarm or dumping things. And now my sinuses are driving me crazy.”

The teens near the phone frowned at her.

“I hope that teacher will be okay,” I said.

“Me, too. What a stupid accident.”

I watched the students, their changed expressions suggesting they didn’t believe the latest incident was accidental. They saw me watching and took on stony expressions. Hannah’s voice emerged, along with a man’s. Policemen came with her from the rear hall. They were speaking about Mrs. Peekers. The oldest cop noted people out here and changed topics. “We’ll see about who pulled that fire alarm,” he said. His gaze skimmed the waiting students as if searching for information.

I headed out. Exiting propped-open doors, I inhaled. Fresh air expanded through my lungs.

“Thank God duty’s over,” one woman told another. Beyond her, the last students climbed into a bus that squealed and rumbled off.

Duty. Duty hair. My lunchtime duty and—I’d missed afternoon bus duty!

I rushed toward the students’ parking lot. Only about two dozen vehicles remained. No smashed bodies on the ground.
Excellent
. I took bouncing steps toward my mail truck. I was glad I hadn’t taken that final duty. I’d done enough. I was famished.

Gil would be especially cheerful on his birthday. That would make me happy, at least for a short time, even if he was going off with Legs. I needed to call Chicken Boy to finalize my gift.

Bliss filled me while I neared the mail truck. “Yes!” I shouted, throwing my arms up. I was free to leave and never had to return to a school.

My vehicle sat like a big chartreuse box as I walked closer, drawing out the key.

A red marker had scrawled across my door LEAVE OR DIE BITCH.

Seeing the stark crimson letters bleeding across my mail truck’s ugly green, I cursed and spun around, searching for anyone who could have written this.

In a field near the parking lot, boys practiced baseball. I couldn’t see anyone around the school’s extension that housed the swimming pool. Across a narrow road, girls slammed tennis balls across nets. Hard to imagine any of them writing this graffiti. Easy to envision Sledge, with a stolen red marker, penning these mean words on my vehicle.
My
vehicle? I already had one car in a shop for repairs.

I slung myself into the mail truck and slammed the door so hard that anybody around would know I was furious. I cranked the engine and sped out of the lot. Whatever the school board paid substitute teachers wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover my repair bills. What had I done to warrant all this vandalism?

The Lexus wouldn’t be ready yet, and I couldn’t bring this truck to the same repair shop. Explaining the damage to both was beyond what I wanted.

I drove around until I found a decent-looking repair center. I told the man with a broken front tooth that some kid who thought he was clever wrote this. “How long till you can repaint it?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes up as though the answer were inside his eyelid. “Couple a days, if I can match this color. You got insurance?”

I said I’d pay cash and left my phone number and address. Then I strode across a boulevard and walked the long block to Sanders Auto Sales and Rentals. Along the way, I phoned Chicken Boy. We made final arrangements while my belly did flip-flops and yodeled. I reached the dealership and went straight to a rental lot that was filled with numerous makes and models. I didn’t want a truck and I wouldn’t have to worry about kids at school anymore. A vulture-like creature swooped down on me. I said, “I’d like that one.”

“The white Mustang convertible? Yes, ma’am!” Drool drizzled down the man’s craggy beard. I filled out the paperwork and paid. Putting the top down, I took off.

“This isn’t duty hair,” I told Chicken Boy when we met outside Cajun Delights, his gaze steady at my head. “This is Mustang hair.”

Chicken Boy carried the yellow head, a heavy-looking appendage with eyeholes. He seemed to be in his late teens. Dark brown eyes, long black hair, too-thin face. A breeze puffed up the feathers of his costume. “Did you know we got other costumes?” he said, holding the head up toward me like an offering.