The Crazy School (9 page)
“She still kicks major Betsy Ross’s ass,” said Sitzman.
“Oh, like I actually picked Betsy Ross.”
“So pick someone else already, Wiesner,” I said.
Wiesner looked down at his desk. “Judy Garland.”
“What’re you, gay?” asked Sitzman.
“Suck my dick,” said Wiesner. “She was really good in
The
Wizard of Oz
. Especially if you do bong hits and watch it with Pink Floyd going.”
Sitzman wasn’t buying it. “What, like, ‘Another Yellow Brick Road in the Wall’?”
“
Dark Side of the Moon,
” said Wiesner. “You start the CD
right when the MGM lion roars the second time. Then all this stuff happens that matches the lyrics . . . like it goes to color at 7 5
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exactly the start of ‘Money,’ and then Glinda the Good Witch fl oats up in her bubble right when they say, ‘Don’t give me that do-goody-good bullshit.’ ”
“You have to start it at the end of the
third
roar, Wiesner,” I interrupted.
They both turned and stared at me, slack-jawed.
“Oh, please,” I said. “My
parents
did more bong hits than you guys.”
“Huh,” said Wiesner, “no wonder you’ve got such a shaky sense of boundaries.”
“Make up your mind,” I said. “Yesterday you told me I had issues around authority.”
“Six of one . . .”
“Whatever,” I said.
“Who’ve you got for therapy?” asked Sitzman.
“Sookie,” I said. “And I just made her cry.”
“Big deal.” Wiesner snorted. “Bitch is a total lightweight.”
“She’s your fi rst shrink?” asked Sitzman.
“Fourth or something,” I said, “since high school. Never had one burst into tears on me before.”
“Progress,” said Wiesner. “I made this chick at Lake Haven slap me once.”
“He grabbed the poor woman’s ass,” Sitzman explained.
“Out of pity,” said Wiesner.
“Pity? She was a grad student. With an ear-piercing shriek, I might add,” said Sitzman.
“But so damn ugly,” said Wiesner. “I fi gured it would cheer her up, you know?”
Sitzman looked skeptical. “And what about that guy last year?”
I wondered if he meant Gerald.
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“Which guy?” asked Wiesner.
“What’s-his-face from Ireland,” said Sitzman. “The one who quit halfway through his fi rst session with you.”
“Declan,” said Wiesner. “The guy had serious issues.”
“Dude, you lit him on
fi re
.”
“Wiesner,” I said, “you torched a shrink?”
“Accidentally,” he said.
“Um, yeah, except for the part where you chased him down the hall, flicking that lighter and yelling, ‘Freebird,’ ” said Sitzman.
“At which time I seem to remember
you
standing in a doorway behind us laughing your ass off,” Wiesner shot back.
Sitzman raised both hands in concession. “Still, poor Declan just kept going, straight to the parking lot. We never saw him again.”
“You guys didn’t even try to put out the fi re?”
“It’s not like he was consumed in fl ames or anything,” said Wiesner. “I, like, barely singed his sleeve.”
“Accidentally,” I said.
He dropped his head to beam me a picture-of-innocence look through those thick lashes, guilty grin making his dimples crease.
I was unmoved. “You’re a piece of work, Wiesner.”
“And you made Sookie cry,” he said. “How’d you manage that?”
“Nothing to do with lighters,” I said. “The rest of it stays between me and her. I’m not
entirely
boundary-free.”
“No fair,” he said. “I told
you
.”
“Not everything, though, right?”
Sitzman laughed, and Wiesner gave him a little punch to the shoulder. With affection, but still.
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I was about to say they should cut the shit when they went quiet, heads swiveling toward the doorway.
“Hi, Dr. Santangelo,” said Wiesner just as I turned to see who it was.
The man was back in his cape with a fresh Jefferson shirt, a beret added to the ensemble. “Nice to see the two of you spend-ing time with a teacher after class.”
“Madeline’s cool. She’s even making me kind of enjoy history,”
said Wiesner.
“We all appreciate the fi ne work she’s doing,” said Santangelo, giving me a nod. “You boys mind letting us have a moment alone?”
Wiesner and Sitzman booked out of the room so fast I could practically hear the whistle of backdraft.
Santangelo smiled and swung the door half-shut behind them.
Crappe diem.
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12
Santangelo took off his beret and sat down on the corner of my desk.
“We haven’t had any one-on-one conversations, Madeline, for which I apologize. I thought it was high time I checked in to see how everything’s going,” he said.
“It’s, uh . . .” I suddenly started feeling like there was a chunk of dust on my uvula. I coughed, then sputtered, “Fine.
Things are fi ne.”
“I’m making you nervous. That’s the trouble with running a school. I can’t spend as much time with everyone as I’d like, so when I do show up—well, I can’t blame you for being a little tense.”
“So you’re not here to discuss my lack of appreciation for the salad bar?”
He let out a bark of laughter and slapped the desk. “What a crock of shit, eh?”
“Sir?”
“Not a trick question,” he said. “My performance was
intended
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as farce. Making a complete ass of myself seemed to be the order of the day.”
“In that case, Dr. Santangelo, congratulations on a job well done.”
“It served a purpose. You’re familiar with the broken windows theory?” he asked.
“Fixing the small things. Attention to detail as a way to prevent larger-scale anarchy,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said. “In this case, substitute the salad bar for windows. I launch into a goofy rant, and the kids know we’re paying attention. They feel cared for. I’m willing to look like a buffoon for that.”
Wiesner’s pen lay next to my hand. I started rolling it back and forth across the desk.
“What about screaming at Tim this morning?” I asked. “Was that intended as farce?”
“You were shocked.”
“I was. Yes.”
“In fact, you thought I was a raging asshole.”
I gave the pen another roll.
He laughed again. “That’s the appropriate response.”
I looked up at him.
“I was hoping to hell it was the one I’d get out of Tim,” he said. “You honestly believe I’d condone what happened in that dorm last night?”
“You seemed to. I mean, threatening to shove his head through the blackboard, all that,” I said.
“Tim should’ve challenged the other dorm parents. He should’ve challenged
me
. Instead, he caved. That’s goddamn dangerous.”
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“I admit to some remaining skepticism, as to your method-ology,” I said.
“Tim is terrifi ed of his own passion. I wanted to push him until he pushed back,” said Santangelo.
“Does he know that? Poor guy’s probably in the dining hall right now, waving incense over the damn chickpeas.”
Santangelo winked at me. “Might be the best use for him.”
He crossed his chubby forearms and leaned forward. “Let me tell you something. When I looked around that meeting this morning, I was appalled. There were only two people in the room who didn’t suck down my line of shit and applaud it.”
“And I was one of them.”
“Yes, you were one of them. Your friend Lulu was the other,”
he said.
“Did that come as a surprise?”
“No. Especially considering how the two of you responded to the situation with Mooney and Fay. You think Tim would’ve handled that as well as you two did?”
I didn’t say anything, but my answer had to be pretty obvious. Tim would’ve puked and fainted. Not necessarily in that order.
“I’m not after setting up a cult of personality,” said Santangelo. “This school can’t succeed if it’s staffed with Tims.”
“Okay,” I said.
“If we’re going to make a difference for these kids, we’ve
got
to have people here with personality of their own. Not to mention courage.”
He made a fi st and tapped the table with it.
Once. Twice.
“Madeline, do you have any idea how rare those people are?”
he said.
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“In my experience? Right up there with hen’s teeth.”
“I’m here in this room because we need all the hen’s teeth we can get.”
“I . . . um . . .”
“That’s a compliment, Madeline.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Dhumavati and I talked about you earlier today, and I felt it was important to let you know how much we appreciate everything you’re doing here.”
That sure didn’t sound like Sookie’s take on their opinion of me. I wondered who was lying.
Santangelo gave me a smile. “Obviously, the kids see the same qualities in you that we do. Your students this afternoon . . . Fay and Mooney yesterday . . .” He picked up his beret. “We’ll be giving you a raise, and we may have some changes in staffi ng soon. I’d like you to consider taking on a little more responsibility. On a trial basis at fi rst, but we could make your new position permanent.”
“What kind of position did you have in mind?” I asked.
There was a tap at the door, and Dhumavati poked her head inside. “I’m not interrupting?” she asked.
“No, in fact it’s great timing,” said Santangelo. “I was just telling Madeline what you and I discussed this morning.”
Dhumavati walked to the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “You did a wonderful job yesterday. We’re very grateful.”
Santangelo stood up. “I’ve explained that we’re going to give her more responsibility. Of course we’ll need to bump up her pay. Can you fi ll her in on the rest? I’ve got a dozen calls to make.”
“My pleasure,” she said.
Santangelo settled the beret on his head and left us to it.
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“I have to run Mooney’s homework down to the Farm,” I said into the ensuing silence.
She smiled at me. “Why don’t I walk you there? We can talk on the way.”
I opened a desk drawer and took out two assignment sheets.
“What’s the date today?”
“November seventeenth.”
I jotted that down on each page—one for history, one for English—then didn’t know what else to write.
“Is this the fi rst time one of your kids has been sent to the Farm?” asked Dhumavati.
“Yeah,” I said, writing: “Finish reading
I Know Why the Caged
Bird Sings,
” on the top sheet, then looking up page numbers for the next three history book chapters.
Whatever.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m all set here, unless he needs textbooks.”
“His dorm parents took care of that,” she replied as we started for the door.
“Usually, the kids pack up what they need by themselves, but we didn’t want him to have to carry anything. They gave him fi fteen stitches yesterday.”
“Poor guy,” I said as we walked across the lobby. “Can someone help him with his notes and stuff ?”
“I’m sure Fay will want to pitch in.”
I shouldered my way through the outer door. “She’s allowed to go down there?”
“You haven’t heard?” she asked, following me outside.
“Heard what?”
“Fay got sent to the Farm this morning.”
“For what happened last night?”
“No, not for that.”
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I felt my stomach clench, wondering if Fay had done a turn-in about her pregnancy, given Mooney’s predicted outcome of any such confession.
Dhumavati sighed. “One of the kids found her in the dorm bathroom this morning, cutting herself.”
I stopped walking and looked at her. “Is she all right?”
“It wasn’t severe. Just ritualistic. Some of the girls do it. It’s rarer with boys.”
“Ritualistic?”
“It’s considered an effort to communicate distress that they’re unable to voice. It’s supposed to be soothing when someone is overwhelmed by a mood state they can’t cope with. Pain lowers the level of arousal almost immediately—makes it tolerable. It can become addictive.”
“She’s done it before?”
“For a long time.” Dhumavati touched my back and got us walking again. “Not within the last year, however. She’s made remarkable progress here. I’m deeply concerned that it’s started up again.”
“Understandably,” I said.
“Did she say anything to you last night that might indicate what’s behind it?”
I struggled with how to answer that. I wanted to believe that these people actually had the kids’ best interests at heart, but Santangelo’s freak-outs du jour still didn’t sit right with me, despite his effort at schmoozing. The idea of a raise made me even more uptight about it.
“She was . . . upset,” I said. “I don’t know the specifi cs beyond that.”
“She seems to feel comfortable with you,” said Dhumavati.
“I’d like you to talk with her, if you’re willing.”
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“Of course.”
“And if anything were to come up?”
“You’d be the fi rst to know,” I said.
The rain clouds were scudding away. In the stronger light, Dhumavati looked pale and tired, ten years older than she had the previous day.
She misjudged the height of a curb, catching her toe. She stumbled slightly and grabbed my arm to steady herself.
I braced her for a second until she got her balance back. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fi ne,” she said.
“You look exhausted.”