Scat (3 page)

Dr. Dressier thought:
There seems to be a pattern here.

The mystery of how a person such as Duane Scrod Jr. got accepted into the Truman School was solved when Dr. Dressier came across a letter from the previous headmaster reflecting a large cash donation from Duane's wealthy grandmother, who was also paying his tuition.

Dr. Dressier concluded that it would be bad for the Truman School and its future endowments if young Duane became seriously ill from devouring Mrs. Starch's pencil. He put away the file and somewhat wearily headed for the parking lot, where he got into his car and-using his nifty new dashboard GPS-made his way to the address of Mr. Duane Scrod Sr.

The unpainted block house sat along an unpaved road through some pine scrub on the outskirts of Naples. By the time Dr. Dressier arrived, the sun had set and the woods were humming with night insects. In the driveway sat numerous vehicles, none of them well maintained. There was a battered pickup truck, a motorcycle with crooked handlebars, a mud-splattered ATV on blocks, a dented minivan missing two doors, and an SUV upon which someone had painted, in bright orange letters: BOYCOTT SMITHERS CHEVY!!!!!

Although no lights were on inside the house, the front windows were open and Dr. Dressier could hear classical music, which he found encouraging. It was a Bach concerto.

The headmaster straightened his necktie and rang the bell. When no one responded, Dr. Dressier began to knock.

Eventually a lean, unshaven man appeared at the screen door. He wore hunting garb, a red trucker's cap, and no shoes.

"You from the guv'ment?" The man pointed aggressively at Dr. Dressier with a rusty pair of pliers. "If you're here about the taxes, don't be surprised if I pull off your lips and feed 'em to my bird. I got a macaw speaks three languages."

Dr. Dressier resisted the impulse to run away. "I'm f-f-from the Truman School," he stammered. "Are you Duane's father?"

"I am," the man said. "How 'bout some ID?"

Nervously, Dr. Dressier drew a business card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Duane Scrod Sr. snatched the card and disappeared for several minutes. When he returned, a large bird with brilliant blue-and-gold plumage was perched on his left shoulder. With its crusty hooked beak, the macaw was shredding Dr. Dressler's card.

Duane Scrod Sr. opened the screen door and propped it ajar with one knee. "What did D.J. do now?" he asked.

"D.J.?"

"Duane Junior. I know he must've done something bad because (a) you're here and (b) he's not. You wanna come inside?"

Dr. Dressier shook his head and politely said no thanks. "Your son had what I would call a disagreement with one of his teachers today. A homework issue, from what I understand."

"And this is front-page news?" When Duane Scrod Sr.

laughed, the macaw laughed, too. It was a perfect imitation, and Dr. Dressier was totally creeped out.

He realized that he'd made a mistake by visiting the house. Duane Jr. obviously hadn't told his father what had happened in Mrs. Starch's class, and undoubtedly he had no intention of telling his father, even if he got sick as a dog from eating the pencil.

"I don't see why you drove all the way out here," Duane Scrod Sr. muttered. "Did my dear old rich ex-mother-in-law call up the school or somethin'? Light a spark under your butt?"

"No, Mr. Scrod. This was my idea." Dr. Dressier was itching to leave. "I just wanted to check on your son. Get his side of the story. Clarify our homework policy, you know, to avoid any further confusion about his responsibilities."

"Confusion?" Duane Scrod Sr. cackled, followed uncannily by his macaw. "D.J. ain't confused. D.J.'s just D.J."

"Well, his teacher and I were concerned," Dr. Dressier said, which was only half true. Mrs. Starch hadn't seemed concerned at all. "You should be aware that D.J. swallowed a pencil at school today. He might need to see a doctor."

Duane Scrod Sr. snorted. "The boy's got an iron stomach. When he was a little shrimp he used to eat rocks, oyster shells, lug nuts, even a piano wire. A pencil won't hurt him, that's for sure."

"Still, I'd feel better if I could speak with him," the headmaster said.

"Well, like I said, he's not here. He didn't get home from school yet."

Dr. Dressier couldn't hide his concern. "But classes ended hours ago. It's already dark out, Mr. Scrod."

"You got good eyes."

"Did D.J. call to say why he'd be late?"

"Just chill out, guy."

"Wasn't there soccer practice this afternoon?" the headmaster said. "Maybe he's still at the ball field."

Duane Scrod Sr. informed Dr. Dressier that Duane Jr. wasn't on the soccer team, the football team, the lacrosse team, or any other team at the Truman School.

"He keeps to himself," Duane Sr. explained. "Rides solo, you might say. His granny bought him a cell phone but I don't believe he's ever answered it."

Dr. Dressier felt a sickly wave of apprehension. He had a mental image of Duane Jr. lost in the woods and writhing in agony, his innards full of needle-sharp pencil splinters. This was followed by an equally unpleasant vision of Dr. Dressier himself being fired by the Truman board of trustees and then getting dragged into court by the Scrod family.

"Sometimes D.J. doesn't come through the door until way late," Duane Sr. was saying. "I don't bother to wait up- he's a sizeable young man, and not many folks are dumb enough to mess with him."

Dr. Dressier took out another business card and wrote his home phone number on the back. "Would you mind calling me as soon as you or Mrs. Scrod hear from your son?"

"There's no Mrs. Scrod around here," said Duane Sr., "at the moment."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"What for? We get by just fine, don't we, Nadine?"

The macaw made a purring noise and nibbled the frayed collar of Duane Scrod Sr.'s hunting jacket.

Dr. Dressier handed the card with his phone number to the man, who immediately gave it to the bird.

"Don't you worry about Junior," he said, letting the screen door bang shut. "He'll show up when he shows up. G'night, now."

Dr. Dressier hustled down the driveway toward his car, which out of habit he had locked. While groping for his keys, he heard an animal scurrying through the scrub, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

The scent of pine needles made Dr. Dressier sneeze violently, and he was startled by a voice from inside the darkened house.

"Bless you!" Nadine squawked. "À
vos souhaits! Gesundheit!"

THREE

The students, groggy and rumpled, gathered shortly after dawn in the school parking lot. Nick was sitting alone on a curb when Marta walked up. "You okay?" she asked.

"Just tired is all." He'd been on the computer since 4 a.m., but no e-mails had arrived from his father in Iraq.

Marta sat down. "Where's Smoke?"

"Haven't seen him," Nick said.

"Good. Maybe he quit school-he's old enough to drive, he's gotta be old enough to drop out, right?"

"Don't get your hopes up."

Marta said, "I'm sorry, but he seriously scares me."

"Worse than her? No way," said Nick.

Mrs. Starch had arrived wide-awake and in high spirits. She wore wading boots, stiff canvas pants, a baggy long-sleeved shirt, and a frayed straw hat under an upturned veil of mosquito netting. Mrs. Starch always prepared for the worst.

"Slather up, people!" she barked. "Sunblock, bug juice, lip balm-it's a jungle out there!"

Nick and Marta got in line for the bus. "Maybe she'll get bit by a scorpion," Marta muttered.

"That would be awful," Nick whispered, "for the scorpion."

Mrs. Starch whistled sharply. "Did everybody in my classes remember to bring their journals?" She held a black writing notebook above her head. "Keep a list of everything you see-insects, mammals, birds, trees. This will count as a lab grade."

Graham, who was dressed like a pint-sized version of the Crocodile Hunter, raised his hand. Mrs. Starch ignored him, as always.

"We have three portable first-aid kits," she went on, "and each teacher will be carrying one. If you get into a situation where you need help, speak up right away. Remember: Stay with your hiking teams, do
not
wander off, and, most importantly, be respectful toward this very special place that we're exploring. Turn off your cell phones-if I or any of the other teachers hear one ringing, it will be confiscated."

Mrs. Starch put down the black notebook and picked up a device that Nick recognized as a portable boat horn. They made loud, gassy honks and were a favorite toy of drunken idiots at Buccaneers football games. Nick's dad had season tickets.

"This will be our emergency signal," said Mrs. Starch, demonstrating the boat horn with a short, earsplitting eep. "If you hear that sound, immediately line up behind your teacher and proceed straight back to the bus. Any questions?"

Graham hopped up and down, waving one arm.

Mrs. Starch stared past him. "All right, people," she said, clapping. "Let's enjoy our day in the Black Vine Swamp!"

The bus was roomy and clean and air-conditioned, unlike the one they rode to school. Nick and Marta sat together toward the front, their backpacks stowed under their seats.

Marta nudged Nick and pointed out the window. Mrs. Starch was getting into her car, one of those teardrop-shaped hybrid models that ran on both electricity and gasoline. It had a "Save the Manatee" license plate.

"I guess she left her broomstick at home," Marta said.

Nick thought it was odd that Mrs. Starch wasn't riding out to the swamp with everybody else. He wondered if, after what happened the day before, she might not want to be on the bus with Smoke.

But, to Nick and Marta's relief, Smoke was nowhere to be seen. The other science teachers, Mr. Neal and Miss Moffitt, moved up and down the aisle, collecting forms from each of the students. The forms, which were signed by the parents, said that it wasn't the school's fault if their kid got hurt on the field trip.

"I almost called in sick. I do not like swamps," Marta confided to Nick.

He said, "I hope we see a panther."

"Are you crazy?"

"Seriously-that would be so cool." Never in the recorded history of Florida had a panther harmed a human being. Now there were fewer than a hundred of the big cats left in the whole state.

"I got a video camera," Nick said, "just in case."

Marta said her mother wanted her to bring home a ghost orchid. "I said, 'Yeah, right, Mom. It's against the law.' And she goes, 'But I'll take good care of it!' And I'm like, 'You want me to go to jail, or what?' Gimme a break."

Nick could tell that Marta was in a better mood because Mrs. Starch wasn't on the bus. The absence of Smoke was a bonus.

"How's your dad?" Marta asked, which caught Nick off guard.

"He's okay."

"When's he get back?"

"Twenty-two days." Nick hadn't told Marta or any other friends that his father had been sent to Iraq; the Naples newspaper had published the names of those serving in the war zone, and the list had been posted on the bulletin board outside the Truman gym.

"And after that he's home for good?" Marta asked.

"I sure hope."

Nick put on his iPod, and Marta put on hers. The ride took almost an hour because a truck full of tomatoes had flipped over on State Road 29, blocking traffic. A fire-engine crew was hosing the ketchup-colored muck off the pavement. Nick spotted a dead buck by the side of the road, and he figured that the tomato truck must have struck it in the early fog. He wondered if the deer had been running from a panther.

Eventually the bus made a slow turn onto a rutted dirt track that was very narrow. Twice the bus had to pull over to let flatbed trucks pass from the opposite direction. Nick noticed that both trucks had red diamond-shaped logos on the doors and looked brand-new. They barely slowed at all, churning dust as they rumbled by the bus.

The wet prairies that usually glistened in the morning had turned brownish and crispy without rainfall. Ahead, Nick could see a rising tree line that marked the edge of the Black Vine Swamp.

He dug into his backpack for a tube of sunblock, and he smeared some on his arms and neck.

"Don't forget your nose," Marta said. "Here, let me do it."

"No, that's okay-"

"Hush." She snatched the tube, squirted a dollop of white goo into the palm of one hand, and then carefully coated every square inch of Nick's face, like she was painting on a mask. He was terrified that the other kids might see what she was doing.

"Now it's my turn," Marta announced, tugging off her iPod.

"What?"

She handed him the tube and shut her eyelids tightly. "Careful. That stuff burns if it drips in your eyeballs."

Nick felt trapped. He hunkered low in his seat.

Marta said, "My uncle gets basal cells all the time-that's a kind of skin cancer. They cut 'em off at the doctor's office."

Nick hastily smeared the sunblock cream on Marta's cheeks and forehead. "Okay," he said in a low voice, "you're good."

"Ears, too," she told him. "Aw, come on."

"What's your problem, Nick? I'm sorry, but it runs in our family. Basal cells-you can ask my mom."

He couldn't say so, but touching her skin felt weird. Not bad, just weird. Afterward Marta checked herself out in the bus driver's rearview mirror to make sure that Nick hadn't missed any exposed places.

"Good job," she said. "That wasn't so awful, was it?"

For the rest of the trip, Nick pretended to be fascinated by the view out the window. Finally the bus jounced to a stop and the kids piled out.

Mrs. Starch was waiting. The mosquito veil wasn't quite long enough to cover her jutting chin, leaving her vivid anvil-shaped scar on display. Beneath the mesh she wore enormous purple sunglasses that made her look like a mutant dragonfly.

"Come on, people, get organized," she said, clapping again and starting to pace.

Each teacher had a team of fifteen students. The kids milled around anxiously while the names were called out. Nobody wanted to be on Mrs. Starch's team, because they knew that Mrs. Starch would make them work harder than the other teachers. The whole point of going on a field trip was to goof off.