Stunts, page 27
Except for the stunt decree.
There were teachers you could talk to, and teachers you avoided. The two who stayed at Neeba’s were still on probation.
On the other hand, Miss Gough had already cornered Blue’s lust without knowing it; and Miss Atkins, in the morning no matter what she wore, always looked like a spring fawn—wide eyes, soft and cuddly, too cute and young to be a teacher. Which thoughts weren’t getting him anywhere but close to trouble.
He ate.
“Your dream,” Miss Gough reminded him a few seconds later, cup rattling now on her saucer. “Whatever we may think of the man—”
“Lyanna,” the other woman warned a second time.
“—you obviously have reason to hate him. Or to think that you hate him. And it’s obvious to everyone who has two eyes why you’ve included Shane this time, considering all that’s happened to the poor dope so far this year. So why shouldn’t you dream about doing the schmuck in?”
“But I liked it!” he protested, dropping his spoon to the table. “I’ve never had dreams like that. Never. I was having a good time, don’t you get it?” He shook his head. “You should have been there!” He stared at the back door without seeing a thing. “Shane was.”
She bowed her head for a moment, but not before he saw her smile. When she looked up again, she said, “It wouldn’t do you any good, give you any satisfaction, if you didn’t like it, now would it? It wouldn’t help Shane, either.”
He considered it, and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
“Sure. So, in your dreams, you enjoy yourself, and you give Shane a bit of revenge. It is, Brian, only a dream.
Yeah. I guess.”
Miss Atkins walked over and put her hands on her friend’s shoulders, leaned over her head, and said, “Brian, don’t sweat it, okay? If you had truly liked it, had really gotten into it, it wouldn’t have been a nightmare. Then, kid, you’d definitely have something serious to worry about.”
Brian waited for the “bullshit.”
But the art teacher only sighed. “You know,” she said to him, “I hate people who are so damned clever and cheerful on school mornings. It isn’t natural.”
“It’s Friday,” Miss Atkins reminded her. “Two days of freedom dead ahead.”
“It still ain’t natural.”
He laughed and pushed his chair back.
“I’ll tell you what’s not natural,” countered Miss Atkins. “It’s people who sleep until noon on Sundays, eat everything in the house while they read the papers, then go take a nap until supper.”
Miss Gough reached over her head and slapped at her awkwardly.
Brian headed for the back door.
“Damnit, this is teacher abuse, Gough, and the kid is a witness.”
He laughed again and slipped out to the back porch, let the hard autumn chill bring him the rest of the way awake. The night’s rain blown into New York. A beautiful day left behind. White on the grass, his breath in puffs and clouds. Later, much later, he would think about his dream, and think about what the teachers had told him. Meanwhile, he’d better get the garbage cans out to the curb for collection before Neeba thought he was goofing off.
Down the steps, a right toward the garage, and he glanced up at his grandmother’s bedroom window. The shade was still drawn. He frowned. A first—she never overslept, not even on Sundays when her boarders had to fend for themselves until dinner. He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, wondering if he should go up and knock on her door. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she was still upset about Mr. Naze.
Then Miss Gough laughed, startling a jay off the grass.
Brian decided to mind his business. Besides, he ought to be at school early, he and the others had final plans to make if things were going to work. Assignments, Corky called them, making it sound almost like a war.
The jay scolded, and he watched it dart low over the yard, swerve into an elm at the last second and vanish. For a minute he thought it was Soldier’s doing. Then he remembered finding the cat in the street last night. What was left of him, that is. And he hurried.
3
“Miss Gough, why do we have to draw apples?”
Lyanna wiped a palm over her knee-length smock and used her best patient smile. “Because,” she said, having said it a thousand times before, “round isn’t as easy as it looks to give dimension to. You give dimension to round, you learn shading, you learn light, you learn passing.” She grinned. “How simple can it get?”
Eighteen students, most of them unwilling, in a large room that still managed to be crowded, each facing an easel, each with a smock, glaring and squinting and studying and leaning away from eighteen shapes that might, given time, be transformed into apples.
Because, she wanted to add, we only have fifteen minutes today because the Führer is probably going to wreck your Halloween with another goddamn speech about the difference between good citizens and not graduating.
On the back wall, a series of oversize, cluttered pigeonholes for dumping texts and notebooks into while class was in session; low tables beneath the windows with paper cutters and jars of paste, bottles of paint and stacks of colored paper; on the left wall an exhibition of artwork, much of it mediocre, some of it fine.
“I hate apples,” the student said.
Lyanna heard rebellious muttering spread, and grabbed a small yellow pad from her desk. She tapped it against her wrist once, then made her way to the back, stood behind the black-haired girl, and saw that indeed apples were not high on her list of favorite things.
“Miss Galiano, you’re hopeless.”
Rita shrugged. “My mother says I’ve got talent,” in a tone that told her the kid didn’t believe it either.
“Right.” She scribbled Rita’s name on the pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to her over her shoulder.
“What’s this?”
“Freedom,” Lyanna whispered. “Go to the girls’ room and hide out until the assembly.”
Rita hesitated, sensing envy in the others, then grabbed the pass gratefully, hastily unsnapped her smock and practically tore it off, turned around to thank the teacher, and her elbow bumped the easel. It rocked. She grabbed for it, saved it, and managed to kick the easel’s forward leg. It toppled backward, smacking into her neighbor’s back, who yelped in surprise, turned, and in turn knocked over a small table that held all her oils.
“Oh boy,” Rita said.
“Out,” Miss Gough told her. “Out of here, kid, before you murder someone.”
Rita snatched her gear from its cubbyhole and escaped, slowed her rush to a walk midway down the hall when she decided just to wander. As long as she stayed away from the front office and didn’t look too guilty, she didn’t think she’d be caught.
Her elbow stung where it had caught the canvas’s corner.
She rounded the corner and headed for the central corridor and its breezeway, orange lockers on her left, red lockers on her right, the pale tile beneath her heels gleaming like ice under the ceiling’s recessed lights. Murmuring in classrooms. A burst of laughter. One darkened door and the sputtering whir of a projector.
Dom Pastori leaning against the wall beside a door, arms folded over his chest, heel kicking back. Exiled, no doubt, she figured, for causing trouble in class.
“Hey,” he said as she passed him.
“Dom.”
She was several yards by when he called, “So what’re you doing tomorrow?”
She stopped, half-turned. “What?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Saturday. What’re you doing?”
She couldn’t believe it. “You asking for a date?”
“Get real,” he said, lip curled. “You know what I’m talking about. What do you got planned?”
She shook her head and tried a scowl, denying she had anything planned at all.
“Right,” he said, in clear disbelief. A glance up and down the corridor. “But if you want to have real fun, give me a call, okay?” A teacher opened the door, told him to come back in. Dom took his time unfolding himself. “Call me,” he said as Rita turned to move on. “It’ll be a hell of a lot more fun.”
She doubted it. She knew it. The only thing Dom would do for her was get her fifteen-to-life in Rahway. A hesitation in her step when she realized that he was planning a stunt too, and she decided Brian or Corky had better know. There was no way Pastori wouldn’t target the school. Which meant big trouble unless they stayed out of each other’s way.
God, she thought, I don’t need this too.
June had intentionally avoided her all week, and the more she thought about it, tried to be reasonable about it, the angrier she became. The girl had had no right, no right, to hit her, or treat Brian the way she did. Christ, she had only been talking to him, not hanging all over him. And so what if she had been? What claim did the girl have anymore?
Her heels, louder.
She hugged her books tight to her chest.
So what if she had been?
Blindly, she swung into the next hall, and collided with Corky, who had been carrying a plate of pasta until the impact jarred it loose and shattered it on the floor.
“Jesus!”
“Oh god!”
“God, I’m sorry!”
“My fault, I wasn’t looking.”
“Sorry!”
“No sweat.”
They knelt on the floor, tackling her books and papers first, then staring at the meat sauce and the noodles and the pieces of cafeteria china.
Corky shook his head. “It isn’t my day, Galiano.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
He giggled. “We go through all that again, we’ll be here until graduation.” He made a move to wipe it up with his hands, drew back when a shard pricked his thumb, and stood instead. “The hell with it. I’ll get a janitor. Miss Atkins can wait for her morning snack. Runners,” he added, “are totally nuts, have you ever noticed?”
Rita didn’t move.
He held out his hand, waggled it in front of her eyes until she saw it, then pulled her easily to her feet. “Does this mean I get to be on Spinner’s major hit list?” he asked with mock concern, and smacked himself mentally when he saw her dark expression. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t, not really. Just one more nail in Rita’s lovelorn coffin. He smiled gently, pushed her gently on her way, and scratched his head as he examined the mess spread at his feet.
Like a squirrel after a shotgun, he thought.
“Corky?”
It was Rita, stopped and looking nervous.
“Yeah?”
“I think Dom’s going to do a stunt too.”
He nodded. “Makes sense. He doesn’t have anything better to do with his life.”
She started to say something, changed her mind and hurried off.
He knew what she meant though—the guy was trouble. But who cared? Dom was a paint-and-shit guy, no imagination, and for damn sure no class. He’d probably come to the school, but so what? Blue would be here, in case the jackass wanted trouble.
He grinned suddenly.
In fact, that might be a good thing. Maybe they could figure a way to blame it on Pastori. The perfect way to end the century’s perfect stunt.
A check over his shoulder, then, to see if anyone had been nosy enough at the commotion to poke a head out of a classroom. A nod to himself as Rita ducked into the breezeway. Then he sucked the tiny cut thoughtfully, stepped over the debris, and marched down the corridor, passing the intersection Galiano had jumped out of, and headed for the back of the school. He’d tell Miss Atkins what had happened, she’d tell him to find the janitor, and if he worked it right, he’d be able to miss the whole assembly.
He grinned.
The Führer could, and probably would, the bastard, talk until he was red in the face about maturity and civic responsibility, but nothing in this world was going to stop tomorrow’s celebration. Especially now. Yesterday afternoon, with Blue’s help, he’d managed to liberate a mannequin from the Drama Arts storage closet. It hadn’t been easy, but it was in his garage now. Waiting.
A quick laugh, a snap of his fingers.
Life, he thought, can be so goddamn good.
He kept close to the lockers, dragging his knuckles along them and humming to the hollow rattles, the clicks, the every-so-often knock he gave one to see if it would pop open. A week ago, he’d found a box of crackers; the week before that, a pack of cigarettes. Treasure. Nothing spectacular; he wasn’t dumb enough to steal money. Treasure. Enough to keep life interesting.
Left turn.
Eyes straight.
Hard heels, arms swinging.
And a yelp and belated jump when a door swung open and the edge caught his forearm.
“Damn!” he said.
Brian looked at him, looked at the door, and said, “You okay?”
Corky rubbed the stinging. “Yeah, I guess so.”
At a teacher’s weary command from the room behind him, Brian closed the door and walked with Corky.
“Where you headed?” Ploughman asked.
“Office.” Brian rolled his eyes. “Seems I was two minutes late today. Gonna get fried.”
“Late? You were late?” Corky’s eyes widened comically. “Oh my lord, Oakland, I’ll never see you again.” He grabbed Brian’s hand and pumped it. “God, it’s been good knowing you, though.”
Brian looked woefully at the floor. “I know. Same here.”
“Can I have your coat? You know, the green one with the tassels?”
Brian hit him, not easy, and Corky laughed as he pushed open a door at corridor’s end. “How about Rita?” And was gone.
The urge to give chase was quickly suppressed. If there had been time, he might have tried a foot to the guy’s rump, send him down the short flight to the outer door on his pointy head, but time was something he didn’t have. And he didn’t have an excuse. No note from Neeba explaining why he was late, and since he didn’t take the bus, no excuse there either.
He had been late because Neeba had come down to the kitchen just as he was ready to leave. She looked horrible. Old. Incredibly tiny wrapped in a robe as drab as Miss Gough’s was gaudy. And when he’d asked if she was all right, if she needed any help, she’d nearly snapped his head off, swinging into a tirade about all the sacrifices she’d made, first for her husband, then for him, and what thanks did she get for working herself to death. He was stunned, could think of nothing to say, yet had to stand there until, as if she’d been slapped, she blinked fiercely and stared at him.
“Neeba?” he’d said.
“Go away,” she’d told him flatly. “I didn’t sleep very well. Just go to school.”
He had, but on the way, he had promised himself that today he would find out what the hell had happened when she’d been in Mr. Naze’s apartment.
Not to mention finding out where June got off slugging Rita the way she had.
He stopped.
He leaned against the wall, poked his head around the corner and stared at the front office wall—all glass, floor to ceiling, the secretaries at their desks, the dark door on the left that led to the lion’s den. In front, Gunnar Weldmar, the grey-shirted, grey-haired head janitor with a wheeled bucket at his side, passed a dripping mop over the floor, a small warning sign placed at the rim of the area he was washing. Brian pulled back and blew out a slow breath. Take it easy, man. There was nothing to worry about. He had been late; big deal. Two lousy minutes. What would he get, a day’s detention? An essay? Fifty lashes? Ten years? What’s the big deal?
What could happen?
A hand touched his waist.
He spun away from it, hit the corner with his shoulder and felt his arm go numb. “Hey!”
Mickie, bosom fluffed in a bulky sweater, snug in a skirt a size too small and an inch too short, covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes bright with laughter.
He massaged his arm gingerly. Jeez, that hurt.
“You free or something?” she asked.
“Nope. Linholm calls. I was late.”
She patted his cheek, kissed it, and said into his ear, “See you later, okay? We still have things to discuss.”
She walked away, back down the hall, and he knew she knew he was watching—hips slow and easy side to side, tugging at the back of the sweater so he would imagine how it looked from the front, a hand briefly brushing across her buttocks.
He turned away quickly.
This was definitely getting out of hand. He wanted no part of whatever stunt she was planning; he had awakened wondering if he really wanted any part of her.
Why me?
He had no idea.
Nervously, he rubbed a thumb over his fingertips, took a condemned man’s deep breath, and stepped into the front hall. Ahead, beyond the wide entrance foyer carpeted in dark red and lined with display cases for the school’s suddenly growing list of trophies, he saw Shane swing into the lobby from the front door; at the same time, Blue staggered out of a room, lugging a stack of books.
Brian waved as he aimed for the office.
Shane waved back.
Blue called, “Wait up, Oakland,” and tried to hurry.
Brian saw it before it happened and tried to head him off, but Blue, chin resting on the top of the stack to keep it steady, didn’t see the warning sign, didn’t see the wet floor.
He slid.
The janitor stood, cursing loudly as the sign clattered over the tiles, and caught Blue’s weight, caught the shower of books, and was slammed into the glass wall.
Which shattered as Blue fell backward, Weldmar fell, and icicles of glass fell into the man’s chest, sliced the side of his neck.
A secretary screamed.
Shane ran up, slipped in the soapy water, and skidded on his buttocks to the office entrance.
Brian ran to Cross, who was on his knees now and staring at the red that turned the grey shirt dark.
“It was an accident,” Blue said plaintively. His face, when he looked up, was streaked with dusty tears. “Jesus, it was an accident!”
