Confessions of a Murder Suspect

68

I’d told Hugo and Harry that we were going to return to school on day seven. At the time, of course, I hadn’t known that our dirty laundry was going to be aired on national television the night before.

And so that morning, I was paralyzed. I couldn’t get out of bed. Embarrassment was an emotion I’d been shielded from for most of my life, either by the mood-altering drugs or simply by being sheltered from my peers. Now, humiliation was crippling me.

Don’t let this crush you, Tandy, the little voice inside said. You’re stronger than this. And you’re much stronger than those drugs ever were. Trust yourself.

And that’s what I did. I roused my brothers and forced myself out the door with my chin up, convinced that academics would be just what I needed to reestablish some normalcy and balance in my life.

All Saints is kind of like an old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse—except that it’s not. All Saints is a privately owned, Gothic-style, former Lutheran church on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Malcolm and Maud loved this school for its small and exclusive enrollment, and because Headmaster Timothy Thibodaux is unfailingly demanding and uncompromising. The law of order is maintained there, and Harry and I had front-row seats because of our consistently high grade point averages.

But as Harry, Hugo, and I entered the school, I wondered for the first time if our top grades were due to our hard work or simply the result of Malcolm’s jelly bean–colored pills.

What kind of mind did I have without them?

I had to know.

I was hoping for a rigorous academic workout that morning. I wanted to be pushed and pressured so much that I couldn’t think about anything else.

We turned right off the narthex and climbed the familiar stairway. Our classroom was there, under the soaring cathedral ceiling, with a view of the altar and the nave that had been turned into a gallery for the works and awards of all the kids who’d ever graduated from All Saints.

Mr. Thibodaux was waiting for us at the top of the stairs. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his snappy jacket and trousers—in autumn bronze and green tones—were as crisp and pressed as if they’d been put together by a celebrity stylist.

Mr. Thibodaux is a smart man, generous with his praise and crystal clear in his criticism. He is exactly the kind of teacher compulsive overachievers like the Angels appreciate. I can usually find the twinkle in his bespectacled blue eyes, but I saw none of that the morning we returned to school. Mr. Thibodaux must be worried about us, I thought.

I smiled up into his scowling face. “It’s really good to be here, Mr. Thibodaux.”

“Not for us, Ms. Angel. You didn’t get my messages? You’ve been suspended—all three of you,” he said sternly. “And I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave these premises right now.”