The Witch of Agnesi

THE WITCH OF

AGNESI

ROBERT SPILLER

Dedication:

For my wife, Barbara Spiller.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements:

Beth Groundwater

Barb Nickless

Maria Faulconer

Jimmi Butler

Annette Kohlmeister

Shawn Rapjack

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

Stephanie Templeton shook back her Barbie-doll tresses. “Just explaining to Morticia Addams here that The Witch of Agnesi doesn’t have anything to do with witches.”

The headache excavating the inside of Bonnie’s cranium ratcheted to six on the Richter scale. Her finger twitched at the trigger of her fantasy pistol.

The other girl, Ali Griffith, opened her mouth to speak.

Stephanie cut her off. “It probably got its name because the curves look like witch’s hats.”

“Play nice, Stephanie. No name calling.” Bonnie pointed with her chin toward the other girl. “Your turn.”

Ali bristled.

Straight, jet-black, shoulder-length hair, black eye shadow, nail polish and lipstick, Ali—short for Alexandria—bristled better than most. Her dark eyes flashed, and she looked every centimeter the witch she claimed to be. It was easy to believe she might turn a sneering debutant into a spotted salamander.

Ali’s ebony lips curled in disgust. “I never claimed The Witch of Agnesi had anything to do with the craft. I just said it seemed a weird name for a curve. Then this, this . . .” Her mouth formed around a Bword.

Bonnie was sure the word in question had nothing to do with Beelzebub. Though she agreed with Ali’s unspoken assessment, she gave the girl a warning look nonetheless.

I’m getting too old for this shit.

Red-faced, Ali waved her hand at Stephanie and drew a long breath. “When I told Stephanie, she pulled a Cruella DeVille on me.”

Stephanie huffed.

Ali shot her a threatening glare.

Time to take a nap, ladies
.

A pair of well-aimed darts from Bonnie’s fantasy pistol sent the two arguing girls into the arms of Orpheus. They slumped across their desks, hands dangling each to a side, a look of angelic peace glowing on their unlined faces.

From the hip, no less
.

Unfortunately, the real Ali and Stephanie remained painfully awake.

The wall clock showed ten minutes until the end of first period.

Not likely to get more done anyway.
“All right, I meant to work with some of the actual math of the curve today and save the story until tomorrow, but what the heck.”

Several students settled themselves into their seats, giving Bonnie the vague fear that in her impending senility she’d become one of those teachers who could be distracted into wasting time. To quell a guilty conscience, she wrote both the Cartesian and parametric representations of the Witch of Agnesi equation on the board then drew the corresponding graph.

“As a matter of fact, you two, each of your points is well taken.” She pointed to the Cartesian representation. “This implicitly defined equation and its corresponding curve have nothing to do with witch-craft,
per se.
However, how The Witch of Agnesi got its name makes an interesting tale.”

The door to her classroom burst open. Edmund Sheridan, a tall Asian boy with blond-tinted spiked hair lurched into the room. “Missus P, Jesse Poole’s beating the crap out of Peyton Newlin.”

The roar of hallway commotion echoed into the classroom. Bonnie fixed a hand on Edmund’s shoulder.

“Go get Principal Whittaker.”

“He’s not in the school.”

“Check the Adbuilding.” She let go of Edmund’s shoulder then turned to her class. “Ali, you’re in charge until I get back. Call down to the office on the intercom. Tell them what’s happening.”

When Bonnie saw Edmund still standing in the doorway she shoved him. “Get going. Take the back hallway.”

She legged it out of the classroom. At the far end of the gymnasium/library hallway, past yellow lockers lining both sides, a raucous crowd screamed derision and encouragement.

What the hell, don’t their teachers wonder where
they are?

Opening and closing her mouth like an oxygen-starved goldfish, the new librarian, a twenty-something blonde who looked maybe fifteen, gazed out of her wire-glass window at the chaos in the hall.

Bonnie shook her head and strode toward the up-roar. I’m definitely too old for this. Grappling shoulders and pulling herself through, she worked her way into the deafening crowd. “All right!” she bellowed. “Step aside.”

Jesse Poole, a bull-necked, teenaged Neanderthal with a glistening bald head sat astride the chest of a bloodied Peyton Newlin.

Bonnie grabbed Jesse’s arm.

His meaty paw shoved her back.

She lost her footing and fell into the crowd, her beige wool skirt flying high across her chest. A bolt of pain lanced between her eyes as her headache notched to Richter seven. She rejected assistance and struggled to her feet. Smoothing down her skirt, she shouted, “Mister Poole, stand up immediately!”

A silence fell over the crowd.
All right, that’s more
like it.

Jesse stood. Chest heaving, fists balled at his sides, he faced her. Tears poured from his red and swollen eyes. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his shaved head. He locked eyes with Bonnie for an eternal moment then advanced, stopping an arm’s length in front of her.

Not liking this much
.

“You don’t know shit.” He brushed past her and pushed through the crowd. “None of you know shit!” he screamed. Waving his hands as if fending off a swarm of gnats only he could see, he lumbered, hunched over for a few more steps. Then with a loping gait, he ran toward the back door and slammed through it.

No way did Bonnie consider challenging him. The satisfaction of control she’d felt moments before gave way to numbed shock. Jesse Poole was a force of nature when angered.

“Back off, people. Let me through.” Principal Lloyd Whittaker’s nasal voice rose above the crowd murmurs. A white handkerchief in his hand, he knelt and wiped at the blood pouring from Peyton’s nose.

As Bonnie approached, Lloyd looked up.

“I was over at Admin speaking with the superintendent. What happened?”

She spread wide her hands. “Jesse Poole—at it again.” With a tilt of her head she pointed back the way Jesse had run.

“What did happen, Peyton?” Lloyd helped the boy to his feet.

“I didn’t fight back.” Peyton took Lloyd’s kerchief and held it under a still bleeding nose. He peered at Bonnie over the cloth’s reddening folds.

At four-foot-ten, his blond crew-cut rose only to the height of her chin.

“We’ll talk about this in my office.” Lloyd took him by the elbow. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted. “This is over. Anyone still in the hall when the late bell rings better have a pass.”

He hurried the boy toward his office. “What was he doing out of class?”

I’m thinking he spent a portion of his time getting
his tiny ass kicked.

Bonnie scurried to catch up. “Peyton and Edmund Sheridan do Calculus independent study in the Library.” She followed Lloyd and the boy through the main office and into the principal’s smaller one.

Peyton gave his nose a last swipe and set the handkerchief onto Lloyd’s desk. He fell into a burgundy overstuffed chair and looked up at Bonnie. “Don’t let him keep me out of Knowledge Bowl.” He thrust out a defiant and split lower lip. “That would be just bunk. I didn’t do anything.”

Despite his posturing, she saw the pleading in his eyes. But what could she do? If he participated in a fight, a suspension wouldn’t be long behind, which in turn would wipe out any possibility of his competing that night. She tried to ignore the selfish voice that whispered—
without Peyton your Knowledge Bowl
team will fare pretty much the same as Peyton did a
minute ago with Jesse.

“I’m afraid that’s up to Principal Whittaker.”

Peyton’s face turned red to his hair line. “It wasn’t really a fight. I didn’t hit back, Mister Whittaker. Jesse, he just pounds on me for no good reason whenever he feels like it.”

Lloyd gave the boy a hard stare and poked his head out the office door. “Doris, get the school nurse down here.”

He shut the office door and sat behind his battered oak desk.

Bonnie pulled a gray-cushioned folding chair up next to Peyton.

Lloyd leaned toward the boy. “Whether you compete tonight depends on how much I like your answer to my next question. And don’t even think of lying to me, son. What did you do to provoke Jesse Poole?”

Peyton folded his pipe-cleaner arms across his chest and slumped back into the deep chair. A storm of emotions played across his freckled face. “He’d been picking on me, taking my books, pushing me in the hall, calling me names. He’s a stupid jerk, just jealous because he knows I’ve got more smarts than he’ll ever have.” His voice rose with every justification until the final words broke into a squeak.

Lloyd’s expression never changed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

And you’re beginning to annoy me
, Bonnie thought.

“I was getting a drink from the fountain when Jesse kicked my feet out from under me. I fell into the fountain, hit my head.” He touched a bump on his forehead. “I had water in my face, down the front of my pants. Jesse said I pissed myself.”

“How did you respond?” Lloyd asked, not even trying to hide his impatience.

Peyton’s glance darted from Lloyd up to Bonnie. “I was mad.”

She’d just about had enough of this boy’s equivocating. She laid a hand on his thin shoulder. “Stop stalling, Peyton. Tell Principal Whittaker what he wants to know.”

“I said I bet his mother would be real proud of him, picking on a thirteen-year old.”

Bonnie drew in a long breath.

Lloyd sat back in his chair, tapping the pads of his fingers together.

A knock sounded on the door and Marcie Englehart, the school nurse entered. A gaunt woman with grey-blond hair, she wore a flowered apron over a blue denim jumper. She glanced about the room, nodded to Bonnie and Lloyd and bent over Peyton. After prodding his nose and the bump on his forehead, she pulled a cotton swab from an apron pocket and dabbed at the split lip.

Peyton winced and squirmed beneath her ministrations.

Marcie unclipped a tiny flashlight from a belt loop. She steadied Peyton’s head with a heavily veined hand and trained the flashlight first into one eye then the other. “I don’t think he has a concussion, but that lip’s going to need a stitch or two.”

Peyton shook his head. “No stitches.”

She shrugged bony shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

Looking past the boy to Lloyd, she said, “Stitches are what I’d recommend, but I can rig a butterfly for the lip.”

Lloyd stood and stared down at Peyton. “Young man, this is your third altercation in the last month. I’m inclined to pull you from the team just to catch your attention.”

Bonnie sat up to speak.

Lloyd quieted her with an upraised hand. “However, unless I find out you lied about your part in this, you can compete tonight. You know I’ll have to call your parents?”

Peyton’s eyes went momentarily wide and he nodded. “I suppose.”

“You suppose right. I know you were angry, but that was an unwise thing you said to Poole. Now go with Nurse Englehart while I talk to Missus Pinkwater.”

In an expression which lasted no longer than a second, Marcie articulated the demand that Bonnie fill her in later. Then with a hand to his back, Marcie ushered the boy through the door and shut it behind her.

Lloyd waited until the door clicked shut. Leaning forward, he whispered, “Truth is, Bon, I don’t much care for our resident genius. He’s sneaky and manipulative. My gut tells me there’s a lot more to this business between Poole and him than he’s telling.”

Bonnie eyed her longtime friend, unsure how she should reply.

On the one hand, she agreed with Lloyd’s assessment of Peyton Newlin. The boy was easy to dislike. Aware of his intelligence, he rubbed people’s noses in it. On more than one occasion she’d wanted to wipe the smirk from his face and let him know she was unimpressed with his cleverness.

Lately however, she’d developed a grudging affection for the little schmuck. Behind the arrogant posturing she saw an anxious kid hungry for approval.

“I hear you,” she said. “And you’re probably right. I’ve never seen Jesse Poole cry before, but he did today. No doubt, Peyton said more than he’s admitting to.”

Lloyd ran a callused hand down his face. “If I were Jesse I’d have beat the daylights out of Newlin myself. My mother’s dying, and this arrogant pipsqueak used the situation to—”

“He’s just thirteen, Lloyd.”

He waved away her excuse as if it lent a foul smell to the room.

“Bon, this is a bad situation. Poole’s going to come after Newlin. You be careful tonight. Everybody in the school knows Knowledge Bowl is at the Interfaith Academy. Jesse Poole’s no exception.”

BONNIE SQUEEZED PAST PEYTON ON HER WAY INTO THE school infirmary. A white bandage-mustache made the boy’s face seem lopsided, like Adolph Hitler after an unfortunate session with a barber.