At Risk of Being a Fool Page 2

  “Quinto, you’re a graffiti artist, a shoplifter, but you’re not violent. The police know that.”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t hurt nobody. I don’t got the balls for that.”

  “It’s not a matter of balls, Quinto.”

  The aged eyes in the childish face studied her pityingly. “Yeah, well. Mr. Maldonado, you know, the supervisor at Dandridge? He told the cops that, they looked up my record. Mr. Rivera, he talked for me too, said how Mr. Wogan was okay with me. I ain’t got no reason to do that stuff. I mean, I got me a job there, when I get out the House, you know? Like I’m going to throw that away?”

  “Of course not, Quinto.”

  “Of course not, Quinto,” mimicked Brynna. “Like Quinto gives a shit about that son-of-a-bitch.”

  Quinto shied back, edging his chair another foot or two from Brynna. He clamped his mouth shut, snatched up another sheet of paper, and sketched a battered truck as if his life depended on it.

  “Brynna, hush. This is a private conversation.”

  Brynna rolled her eyes. “Jeanie, get real, would you? Wogan was a first-class bastard, sticking his damned nose into everything, a real prick. Ask Dillon, he worked there last summer, until Wogan—”

  “Shut up,” said Dillon, his voice flat.

  Brynna cut her eyes at Dillon, and took another tack. “Quinto don’t care nothing about no job. Nine to five, work your guts out—”

  Sorrel’s voice stabbed the air. “Leave Quinto alone, bitch.”

  Oh no, they were back on the merry-go-round again. Jeanie jumped out of her seat. She should have seen it coming. Consciously or not, Sorrel had decided to drown her fears in rage.

  “Who you calling a bitch, bitch?”

  “Stop it,” Jeanie yelled over the screams. She waved her arms. She’d broken up fights in the high school by walking between the combatants, putting an arm around one and literally walking him away. Try it here? Fat chance. Sorrel or Brynna, either one, would view it as an assault or a deep insult.

  Sorrel slapped the desk and threw out one hand, middle finger rigidly extended. “Fuck you, whore. If I had me a knife—Bitchmeat!” She writhed in her seat, but stayed in it, as though riveted into place. Fear of the State Detention Facility fueled the restraint. Sorrel was maddening, but she wasn’t stupid. Not at all.

  “Yeah, like you did that one guy?” spat Brynna. “You fucking bitch, need a knife to get tough, huh? Or a pipe bomb, maybe, like your boyfriend? Well tough shit, slut. All you got is your hands. Come at me, why don’t you?” Brynna also remained plastered to her chair.

  Jeanie grabbed a portable room divider and yanked it between the girls. The classroom had come equipped with several, a fact for which she frequently thanked God and Mackie Sandoval. Mackie had scrounged them when a state office revamped its cubicle farm.

  Dillon seemed amused. “Let ‘em fight, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, hush up,” Jeanie snapped.

  Dillon’s mouth shut and his eyes narrowed to slits. Snake eyes, just what she needed. Jeanie ignored him, zipping her own mouth closed before she said anything worse. Soon, rules or not, the girls would be rolling on the floor scratching out each other’s eyes. She couldn’t have that. One of them might break a fingernail.

  Jeanie grabbed Sorrel’s chair and pulled it and the screeching girl backwards. She kicked open the door to Mackie’s office and towed Sorrel inside. Back out again, she grabbed two more partitions and boxed Brynna into a cubicle all her own.

  The screams reached new crescendos. Jeanie marched to Dillon’s desk. “Excuse me,” she said tartly, as she unplugged his earphones and thumbed up the volume as high as it would go. She put it on the table near the office door. Music blared, the raucous beat pounding its way through the screams. Jeanie blinked as the lyrics filtered into her brain, but shrugged. For drowning out screams, she couldn’t beat it.

  Jeanie stood by the boom-box and met four pairs of eyes. Rosalie and Quinto gave her the excited, joyful looks of small children at a slumber party; Dillon and Tonio were stony-faced. Two to two, then. They were tied.

  Someone pounded on the classroom door. Jeanie opened the door and popped her head into the hallway.

  An aggressively clean-cut young man stood there, his fist poised in mid-air. The inexpensive, immaculate suit, combined with the arrogance of frustrated superiority, marked him as a freshly graduated, professional something-or-other. She recalled the business listings in the lobby, and ran them through her mind. Not a dentist, social worker, or civil servant. They were all too accustomed to loud, angry people. Who did that leave? Ah yes, a lawyer, Mr. Oscar Kemmerich. It had struck her as an improbable name.

  She couldn’t hear his words. She raised a finger asking for his patience, and turned back to her room full of live wires. She pointed to the hallway and raised an eyebrow. Rosalie and Quinto took her invitation and bounded into the hallway. Dillon and Tonio glowered. Jeanie stepped out and closed the door. The shrieks dimmed.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Would you kindly maintain some order in your insane asylum? This caterwauling is totally nonconducive to a professional environment.”

  Almost absently, Jeanie returned a soft answer as she glanced to the end of the hallway. Rosalie tip-tapped back and forth, like Judy Garland on the Yellow Brick Road. Quinto wedged himself into the corner at the far end of the hall, next to the building’s side exit. He wore his hunted look again. His eyes were riveted on Mr. Kemmerich.

  “That’s the boy who worked at the construction site.” Mr. Kemmerich said, following her glance. He sounded darkly triumphant, as though vindicated in some private opinion.

  Jeanie jerked to attention. “How would you know?”

  Mr. Kemmerich stepped back half a pace and recovered himself. “It was in the newspaper.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she stated. No newspaper would list Quinto’s name. They couldn’t publish Quinto’s name or picture without Dandridge House’s permission, and they would never give it. This man had special knowledge, either of the crime or of her students. “Excuse me, Mr. Kemmerich, but how did you know that?”

  The classroom door bumped into her from behind. Prudently, she turned toward it and wedged the toe of her shoe into the crack under the door to jam it. The girls were still carrying on, and she didn’t need Tonio or Dillon charging into the middle of this little confrontation. The door hit her again, and then shuddered with heavy blows. The door scraped over her toe. Ouch. It had to be Dillon, not Tonio.

  The pounding stopped. After a moment, she relaxed her stance. She wriggled her toes, trying to get back some feeling.

  Mr. Kemmerich leveled a finger at Quinto. “Keep away from my motorcycle, punk. If it goes missing, I’ll sic the cops on you.”

  Oscar Kemmerich didn’t have a brain in his head, she thought tiredly. Imagine saying such a thing to a kid with a criminal record. “Quinto would never steal a motorcycle,” she said. Spray-paint it, possibly, but not steal it. “Mr. Kemmerich—”

  At the far end of the hall, Mackie’s office door flew open and banged against the wall. Dillon erupted through it and checked his stride at the sight of Mr. Kemmerich. He straightened slowly, and stood there, immovable, stiff-legged, hackles raised, his fingers curved like claws at his sides.

  Well, thought Jeanie, it’s about time to break this up. She grabbed Mr. Kemmerich’s right hand, which she pumped vigorously. “Thank you very much,” she said, in the kindly but firm “teacher-voice” known throughout the world. He retreated without conscious volition. Mr. Kemmerich, newly out of law school, still had all the reflexes of youth. “I appreciate your concern for my young ladies,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll calm down shortly. Good day to you, Mr. Kemmerich. I’m sure we’ll meet again sometime.”

  Mr. Kemmerich found himself on the stairs. “If they do not calm down shortly, the police will be here to investigate. I will see to it,” he blustered. With a final scowl at Quinto, he left.

  Jeanie walke
d down the hall. Dillon stared down at her with burning yellow eyes.

  “Nobody touches my stuff,” he said, voice grating.

  Tonio appeared in the doorway behind Dillon. He rested his hand on the doorframe and settled there watchfully.

  “Nobody touches my stuff, nobody. You took my box.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” said Jeanie with an involuntary chuckle. “I apologize.”

  “You laughing at me?” There was a deep rumble through his voice.

  The wolf is nothing to laugh at. The wolf is dangerous, and attacks only when the moment is right. He’s a wolf; I’m a rabbit.

  “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself, an old woman standing in a hallway, listening to a catfight. Maybe I should bring in a fire hose, and squirt them both. Or maybe we could sell tickets. What do you think?”

  Dillon’s eyes were unwavering. She tried again. “I’m sorry.” Actually, she understood it. People confined him, leashed him up, and taught him tricks he had no desire to learn. Of course, he wanted her out of his stuff. “I’m sorry I took your box without asking. But things were a little,” she waved her hand to the door, “hectic.”

  “Don’t touch my stuff again.”

  “Okay.”

  He stalked past her and went through the classroom door. The volume decreased, held steady. Dillon had left his boom-box where she put it. Surprise.

  “I think they’re done fighting,” Rosalie said. “You want I should go see?”

  Tonio cocked his head to listen. “Can’t hear ‘em,” he said. “Good music.” Tonio glinted at her, with what might have been mischief.

  “Never,” Jeanie said, “in my life have I heard two girls carry on that way.”

  “Should have let ‘em fight.”

  “I don’t think their parole officers would be happy. Besides, I’m morally opposed,” said Jeanie, “to getting blood all over my classroom. Did you see the length of those fingernails? I’m still not sure what started it. Sometimes I think I’m blind in one ear and can’t see out of the other.”

  There was silence. Quinto said tentatively, “Uh, Jeanie? That don’t make no sense at all.”

  “You’re right, Quinto, it doesn’t. My small attempt at humor.” It had been a hell of a day. She’d spent every second watching her back and her mouth. She was sick of it. “For heaven’s sake, Tonio,” she burst out, “work with me here. I joke with you, and you get it, I know you get it. And you give nothing back at all.”

  Unprofessional, she told herself angrily. She had no business seeking reassurance from a student. It was this rootless feeling she had, of walking in the sand and leaving no footprints. Everyone who loved her was so distant, one way or another. “Sorry, Tonio, forget it,” she managed. Jeanie closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands. Annalisa was dead; Shelley was far away, and so were the boys. And now there was this thing with Edward. I am not alone, she told herself. I am not.

  “Me,” Tonio said, “I think I’m deaf in one eye.”

  Jeanie’s eyes flew open. “Must be the one I see the twinkle in, huh?”

  “Must be.”

  Tonio turned to Quinto. “Hey, buddy, get back in, okay? Either of them does anything, we need to know. You’re lookout, okay, homey?”

  Quinto grinned. “Sure thing, man.” He strutted into the classroom. Rosalie followed.

  Tonio looked at her. “You got to watch it, Jeanie, with Dillon.”

  “And the others? And you?”

  He seemed to make a decision. “It’s just, shit happens, you know?” he said, jerking his head towards the room. “I know the guy Sorrel carved up. Maybe he had it coming, but still, Jesus Christ! You want to watch it. You could get hurt. These ain’t your regular kids.”

  “But you’re here, all of you,” she said softly. “Studying.”

  “Court says we gotta be here.”

  “Maybe so, but Mackie says some kids fail their exams on purpose. She screens carefully, before taking anyone in the work-study program. Why are you six here, and a dozen more aren’t?” There was a pause. “That’s it, then. That’s where I come in. Isn’t it?” She waggled an eyebrow at him. “Blind ears and all.”

  Rosalie bounced out of the room. “Phone’s ringing.”

  Jeanie went to the office, skirted the stone-faced Sorrel, and picked up the phone. “GED School. Oh hi, Mackie. The testing schedule? We’ve only got one going in this week. Right, Thursday, Tonio’s going in for Social Studies. Uh huh. Sure.”

  Jeanie gave Sorrel a lingering glance. The girl’s leg swung spasmodically. Her chin jutted out and her cheeks were flushed. Her chest heaved with angry drags at the air. No doubt, Brynna was in a similar state. Rosalie was roaming; Quinto was ready to fly apart at any instant, and Dillon was in a royal snit. A man had been pipe bombed, and she was fairly certain three, if not four, of her students knew more than the newspapers, and so did a total stranger upstairs.

  Habit held firm. These kids were hers. “Thanks, Mackie. Everything’s just fine here. Not a problem in the world.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Maybe a midget could use this mirror, but Sorrel sure couldn’t. Probably Torrez picked it out with the rest of this crap. Bright Futures Transition Home for Girls was stacked to the ceiling with crap. Sorrel snatched at the mascara and knocked it off the dresser. With a muttered curse, she grabbed it.

  The clock sucked her eyes in for a moment and released her. It blinked its numbers, red and threatening. Like the rest of the furniture, it was institutional, barely sufficient and nothing more. The small bed sat in the corner, neatly made up. The dresser had two tiny drawers. A hook on the wall held her few clothes. The door stood open the regulation foot and a half, as it always did at six twenty-three in the morning.

  The mascara fell onto the dresser. Sorrel inspected her face in the mirror, her fingers drumming the dresser top. She froze and inspected her hand. Good, she hadn’t messed up the polish. It was decent stuff; it had a nice shine. It had better, at that price. Sorrel’s eyes flicked to the clock, and back to the mirror. Pictures of her daughter Tiffany brightened the mirror. She was a pixie of a girl, with dark eyes and hair, and a gleeful grin, romping through an array of pictures: Tiffy at her second birthday party, ice cream plastering her mouth; Tiffy riding a trike; Tiffy jumping into a plastic wading pool. Sorrel’s glance lingered painfully on shots of herself with Tiffany, her mother, and grandmother. At least she had family. Her little girl wasn’t stuck in a cruddy foster home, like Rosalie’s boy.

  The door slammed back against the wall. Lisabet poked her head in the doorway. “Better get a move on girl, or you’ll be in demerit city again. Hear me?”

  Sorrel rounded on her. “Get the hell out of here.” Her expression backed the girl out of the room. “Leave me alone, I’ve got five minutes left, and you know it.” Lisabet acted like she was staff, the damned bitch. Sorrel adjusted the door to the correct angle.

  None of the pictures were polluted with Carlos, Tiffany’s father. Men were shits, and Carlos was a bigger shit than most. At least she’d gotten her baby away from him before he left. Left, huh. Two seconds before she’d kicked him out. It took a big man to hit a baby like Tiffany, a big man. Fuckin’ asshole.

  There were no pictures of the other one either, the “boyfriend.” Damn Brynna and her big mouth. Boyfriend, like hell. He was gone, down Interstate 5 to L.A.—flying the Five. When they chased him out of Portland, he dropped by to see her in Salem before he split. Good riddance. He was trouble, big-time. Exciting, a good screw, but too risky. No way he was getting near Tiffany. He could take his guns and shove ‘em right up his ass. Not that she’d dare say that, not to him. A girl watched her mouth around that one.

  He didn’t have nothing to do with that pipe bomb. Couldn’t have, he’d been gone for months. And what would he care about some construction guy? Construction, staple guns, acetylene torches, pipe, nails, gasoline, maybe even welders ...So what if he stole stuff, played with explosives, followed firem
en to grin at blazing houses. That didn’t mean he was still here in Salem, blasting some guy into bits.

  If anybody knew about him, linked her up with him, she’d be in deep shit. Randy and Torrez between them—she didn’t want to think about it. She’d be lucky to see Tiffy at all, if that happened. She had to see Tiffy. She’d die without her.

  Tiffy, Tiffy—Mustn’t cry, can’t cry, they’ll all see it on my face. They’ll laugh at me.

  Nobody laughed at Sorrel. Nobody pushed Tiffy around either. The next man who tried it would be dead meat. She’d grab her a knife and carve him up good, like that one guy that grabbed her at the party. Forget him, I heard enough about him and his medical problems in court. He had it coming.

  Damn Torrez and her rules. Seeing Tiffy twice a month was murder. Mama took good care of her, just like she had of Sorrel. God, my heart’s breaking. No demerits, can’t get demerits— Two minutes left.

  She wiped away a tear and checked her mascara. She craned her head, trying to get a look at her body in the mirror. She threw her small store of makeup into her purse, and the purse in the top drawer of the dresser. She swung the door back into its daytime position and stepped into the hallway.

  ~*~

  Locks and doors snapped shut behind her, cutting off the air, as she traveled from one prison to another. Why had Mackie put her in a courthouse, for God’s sake?

  A long countertop bisected the front office of the District Court Clerk. The public huddled on one side and the clerks on the other. Sorrel, her position ambiguous, spent her mornings balancing on a tight wire between them. She lifted the bar and crossed behind the counter, matching Hilda’s baleful stare. Hilda, front counter clerk, spoke into the phone, and didn’t have time for her customary digs.

  Carol, office manager, and Dorrie, her assistant, had coated the desks with cutesy little decorations: beanie babies glued to computer monitors, and potted plants on the file cabinet. The attempts at a homelike atmosphere failed. It was all sugar coating on yet another prison. The falseness of it used to make her mad, but now it just tore at her stomach, along with the professional smiles and the security guards. Everything she ate, except chocolate and Coke, tasted like cardboard.