I did not care if she had ridden a brontosaurus to the first meeting. I cared about escape, a hot bath, and a world populated by adults with minimal interest in education. I opened my mouth to protest, but Miss Dort had sailed away to her paperwork, smug in the knowledge that I was nearly trapped. I rather wished I knew a Latin expletive; my Anglo-Saxon ones would have caused a three-cornered swoon.
The bell rang in the middle of my decorous growl. I ambled down the hallway in time to shoo a few stragglers into the cave, then forced myself to follow them. My darling daughter was perched on the desk like a leprechaun on a toadstool.
“How’s it going, Mother?” she chirped.
I pushed her off the desk and pointed at a girl with frizzy hair. “You, what’s your name?”
“Bambi McQueen, Mrs. Malloy.”
“On your birth certificate?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the student editor for the Falcon Crier, and your fourth-period aide.”
I tossed the roster book to her. “Take role, send in the attendance slip and the little blue things, and then tell everybody what to do.”
“But, Mrs. Malloy, if the newspaper isn’t going to come out next week, then I don’t know what to tell everybody. Should we just read or something, or should we go ahead and do assignments for the paper anyway?”
I glared at Caron as I spoke to the cervine whiner. “I don’t care what you do, Bambi. I hope not to be here more than a few days; thus I have no interest in your academic progress, the next issue of the newspaper, or your interim activities. Think of something to amuse yourselves.”
The candor perplexed her. She chewed on her lower lip for a long minute, gauging the potential limits. “Maybe some of us should go to the printer’s to let him know that the newspaper won’t come out as scheduled?” she suggested.
I flipped a hand. “By all means, let us not keep the poor man in suspense.”
Bambi and ten eager volunteers dashed for the door. When we were alone, Caron flopped down in a desk. “That was dumb, Mother. They just wanted to leave the campus; they could have called the printer. Seniors!”
“They may drive to the West Coast, for all I care. I have to devise a way to avoid a barbaric tradition known as a teachers meeting-this afternoon after school.”
“What about Miss Parchester? Have you figured out who framed her yet?”
“I have been here slightly more than five hours. For some inexplicable reason, students keep appearing in the room in droves, expecting to be supervised if not regaled with mature insights. An opportunity to figure out who, if anyone, framed Miss Parchester has not yet arisen. I need an excuse to avoid the teachers meeting.”
“Have you met Mr. Weiss or any of the teachers?” Caron said without a flicker of sympathy for my plight. The child knew nothing of meetings; her day would come. Of death, taxes, and committees, I preferred the first two.
I ran through the list of those I had encountered during the morning. When I mentioned Miss Hart and her coach, Caron interrupted with a noisy sigh.
“Aren’t they the cutest couple? Miss Hart used to date Mr. Timmons, but he wouldn’t marry her so she could have babies. When she saw Coach Finley, it was love at first sight, and now everyone except Mr. Timmons knows that they’re secretly engaged.” More sighs.
“How do you know all this?”
“This is a school, not a monastery, Mother. Do you want to hear what Mr. Timmons said when he found out that Miss Hart was dating Coach Finley? It was in Latin, but it was still dirty.”
“No, I don’t. This zoo may be a microcosm of society, but I have no desire to delve into its social interactions.” I sat down behind the desk and produced a few sighs of my own. “I suppose I’ll have to stay after school for this silly meeting. You can go home and cook dinner.”
“But what about the newspaper-and Miss Parchester?”
There was that. I shrugged and said, “The accounts are not here; Miss Don must have them in her office. Even if I had some idea of what to do with them-and I don’t-I haven’t seen them. I don’t know the procedure for depositing money or writing checks to pay bills.”
Caron gathered up her books and purse. “Ask Miss Hart. She’s the cheerleader and drill-team sponsor, the business club sponsor and the senior class advisor, so she deals with oodles of club accounts. I’m going to the library, Mother.” She left with the briskness of a Don.
I picked up a copy of the Falcon Crier from the previous month and flipped through the pages. Miss Demeanor was on the second page, which was dated October 22.
Dear Miss Demeanor,
My boyfriend wants to take me to a fancy French restaurant for our one-month anniversary. He wants to order champagne, but the waiter probably won’t serve us. What should we do- walk out?
Dear Reader,
Miss Demeanor must sympathize. Coq au yin does not go well with coke au cola. However, Miss Demeanor prefers to cater to her stomach before she caters to her sense of injustice. Eat, pay the bill, and then walk out. That will show ‘em.
Dear Miss Demeanor,
Two boys have asked me to the homecoming dance next week, and I don’t know which one to say yes to. One of them has pimples, but he also has a neat car. The other one is really foxy, but he baited on my dress at the September Mixer. I’m not sure I’d feel safe with him anywhere near. Besides, I have a really nifty new dress. What do you think?
Dear Reader,
How much did the dress cost? How much did the neat car cost? How much will the dry cleaners cost? If you can’t figure it out, sign up for general math.
Dear Miss Demeanor,
The reason I was at the Xanadu Motel was because I was following the married man. His wife has brown hair, but the woman he was with didn’t. What do you think about that?
Dear Reader,
Nothing at all. Why should I? For that matter, why should you? There are at least three people more qualified than either of us to ponder the situation.
Puzzled, I folded the Falcon Crier and stuffed it into Miss Parchester’s middle drawer. The first two letters sounded like typical adolescent stuff, but the third had an edge that neared nastiness. I wondered why Miss Demeanor had bothered with it. I wondered where the Xanadu Motel was, and who would want to go there. I then dismissed the muddle to wonder if there were any way to disappear at three-thirty without risking the wrath of Bernice Dort.
The bell rang once again, and shortly thereafter the room swelled with Photo II, a.k.a. the newspaper photographers. We exchanged the necessary courtesies and they managed to talk among themselves until the class was over. Ho hum. Teaching wasn’t all that hard.
My last (thank God) class was the mysterious “Falconnaire.” Although I was less than frantic for an explanation, I was mildly curious. Once the dozen or so students were seated, I asked them.
“The Falconnaire is the yearbook,” said a blond girl with the body of a lingerie model. Her blouse did little to discourage the comparison; buttons were nearly bursting out all over. She made no effort to hide a broad yawn as she added, “I don’t think we can do anything until they find a replacement for our embezzling teacher.”
“What’s your name?” I said peevishly. Now I was going to have to withstand the compulsion to yawn for fifty minutes.
“Cheryl Anne Weiss,” she said. When I failed to react with any visible astonishment, she produced a pout of superiority. “My father happens to be the principal of Farberville High School.”
“That’s right,” grunted a hulking form in the back of the room. “Cheryl Anne’s daddy is the king of this dump. She’s kinda like a princess.”
I tried a stern, teacherish frown. “What’s your name-Prince Albert?”