Dear Miss Demeanor

TWO

The high school resembled a collection of yellow blocks abandoned on a moth-eaten shag carpet. No ivy or any such traditional nonsense; just jean-clad students exchanging insults and displaying anatomy as they streamed into one of the four double doors. I felt like a first-grader on the first day of school. I did not hold Caron’s hand, however; she could not have survived the humiliation.

I was escorted to the central office, introduced to a pimply boy behind the counter, and warned to wait until Miss Don appeared. Caron then squealed a greeting to Inez and disappeared into the human tidal wave. My pimply baby-sitter eyed me incuriously, picked up a stack of manila envelopes and left. People of all sizes wandered in and out, ignoring me.

I read a poster that warned against smoking on campus, drinking alcoholic beverages on campus, running in the hallways, missing classes without excuse, and a variety of things I hadn’t known teenagers were aware of. I then scanned the list of honor graduates from the previous year, the school calendar for the next year, and everything else tacked on the bulletin board. When in doubt, read the directions.

A rabbity little man with oversized glasses scurried into the office. “Are you the new juvenile parole officer?” he gasped, looking thoroughly dismayed. “I haven’t done the seven-one-four forms yet, but I do have the nine-thirties from the spring semester.”

“I am not the new parole officer,” I said gravely.

“Oh, my goodness not” He disappeared through a door behind the counter. I heard a series of breathless disclaimers drifting out, as though he needed further reassurance of my identity-or lack thereof.

I was edging toward the nearest exit when a tall, unsmiling woman swept into the office. A gray bun was pinned to the top of her head like a mushroom cap, and pastel blue glasses swung on a cord around her neck. There was a hint of a mustache on her decidedly stiff upper lip.

“Mrs. Malloy I’m Bernice Dort. Sorry to be late, but Mr. Eugenia has made a muddle of his first quarter grades and someone had to explain it again. And again, It’s merely a matter of recording grades, according to the code in the manual, on both the computer card and the reporting form, but Mr. Eugenia seems unable to follow the simplest instructions.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if I ought to fill in for Miss Parchester,” I said, continuing to retreat. An elbow caught me in the back before I reached the doorway.

“Humph!” A large, red-faced man pushed past me to confront Miss Don. His silver hair had been clipped with military precision, and nary a hair dared to take a tangential angle. His face was florid, and his bulk encased in a severe blue suit and dark tie. “I want Immerman in my office, Bernice-and I want him now. That boy has gone too far! Perkins called this morning to tell me that Immerman had demanded reinstatement of his eligibility!”

“Oh, how dreadful, Mr. Weiss. Immerman has indeed gone too far. I shall have Mr. Finley send him to the office immediately,” Miss Dort agreed in a frigid voice. “Mr. Weiss, this is Mrs. Malloy. She’s subbing for Miss Parchester until central admin can locate a certified teacher for the journalism department.”

Mr. Weiss stopped in midstep, as if an invisible choke collar had been tightened around his neck. Two small, hard eyes bored into me. His mouth curled slightly in what I presumed was meant to be a smile of welcome, but the message was lost.

I fluttered a hand. “Hello.”

“Malloy. Aren’t you the woman who runs the Book Depot?” he barked in accusation. “Weren’t you involved in some sort of police investigation?”

Caron and Inez had every right to be awed. Although I was near forty, I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks and had to pinch myself to hold back a whimper. “That’s correct,” I said. “I assisted the police with a problem involving the Farber College faculty.”

“And now you’ve decided to be a substitute teacher?” he continued, still staring at me as if I tripped into his office under a beanie with a propeller on the top.

Miss Don cleared her throat. “Mrs. Malloy has offered to help out, Mr. Weiss. You know how difficult it can be to find a substitute six weeks into the semester, so we’ll simply have to make do with what we can get. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll take Mrs. Malloy down to the journalism room and get her settled. Her paperwork is on your desk, although I’ve already sent the triplicates to central admin.”

Mr. Weiss gave her a tight nod. “Then get Immerman in here. Tell his first period teacher that he’ll be in my office during class.”

Miss Don seemed on the verge of a heel-clicking salute, but she instead bobbed her head curtly and picked up her clipboard. Thus armed, she led me out of the office and into the battle arena. We marched down several miles of hallway as she rattled off names, departments, and other bits of meaningless information. Students leaped out of our path, and conversations were revived only in our wake.

We then descended into the bowels of the building. A bell jangled shrilly as we reached the bottom step; seconds later students scuttled through doorways like cockroaches caught in the light.

Miss Don pointed at a scarred door. “That is the old teachers’ lounge, Mrs. Malloy. The new one is on the second floor in the west wing; you may find the distance inconvenient. Most of the teachers in the basement still congregate in the old room, but you may use whichever you prefer.”

I suspected I would prefer the one with a well-stocked bar. Nineteen minutes had passed since Caron dragged me through the door. Nineteen incredibly long minutes. Seven hours remained in the school day. This scheme was insane. I would personally buy Miss Parchester a pad of watercolor paper and a bus ticket to wherever she desired to go. Caron could accompany her as a porter.

“This,” Miss Don announced as she opened a door, “is the journalism department.”

The room resembled the interior of a cave. The air was foul, reminding me of the miasma of a very old garbage can. Miss Don snorted, switched on a light and gave me a stony look meant to impede flight.

“You do not have a homeroom class, so you will not have to deal with the attendance reports until your first class arrives m seven minutes. Miss Parchester’s daily unit delineations will be in a dark-blue spiral notebook, and her rosters in a small black book. Good luck, and keep in mind the faculty motto: TAKE NO PRISONERS.” The woman actually started for the door.

“Wait a minute!” I yelped. “What am I supposed to do about-”

“I have to make the daily announcements, Mrs. Malloy. Homeroom will be over in six and one half minutes, and I must remind the students about the variations in the bus route on snow days.” She sailed out the door before I could argue.

I did not sink to the floor and burst into tears, although the idea crossed my mind. On the other hand, I did not linger to explore the murky corners of Carlsbad Cavern. I figured I had over five minutes of free time, so I bolted for the teachers’ lounge-which had to be more enlightening than any book of daily unit delineations.

The lounge was decorated in early American garage sale. The several sofas were covered with tattered plaid variations that would have convulsed a Scotsman; the formica-topped table was covered with nicks, scratches and stains. There were two rest rooms along one wall, and between them a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, soda machine, and-saints be praised-a gurgling coffee pot. A variety of cups hung on a peg board; not one of them said “Malloy” in decorative swirls, or even “Parchester.”

The situation was dire enough to permit certain emergency measures, including petty theft. I took down a cup, poured myself a medicinal dose of caffeine and slumped down on a mauve-and-green sofa to brood. Four minutes at the most. Then, if I remembered my high school experiences with any accuracy, students would converge on my cave, their little faces bright with eagerness to learn, their little eyes shining with innocence. Presumably, I would have to greet them and do something to restrain them for fifty minutes or so. Others would follow. Between moments of imparting wisdom, I was supposed to audit the books and expose an embezzler.

In the midst of my gloomy mental diatribe, a woman in a bright yellow dress came into the lounge. She was young, pretty, and slightly flustered by my presence. “Hello, I’m Paula Hart,” she said with a warm smile. “Beginning typing and office machines.”

“Claire Malloy. Intermediate confusion and advanced despair,” I said. My smile lacked her radiance, but she probably knew what daily unit delineations were.

“Are you subbing for Miss Parchester? This whole thing is just unbelievable, and I feel just dreadful about it. Poor Emily would never do such a thing. She must be terribly upset.” Miss Hart went into the kitchenette and returned with a cup decorated with pink hearts. “I’m in the room right across from you, Mrs. Malloy. If you need anything, feel free to ask.”

I opened my mouth to ask the definition of a delineation when a thirty-year-old Robert Redford walked into the lounge. He was wearing a gray sweatsuit, but it in no way diminished the effect. Longish blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, dimples, compact and well-shaped body. The whole thing, living and breathing. And smiling solely for Paula Hart, who radiated right back. They had no need for physical contact; the space between them shimmered with unspoken messages.

Young love was nice if one liked that sort of thing, but I was more concerned with my personal problems. Before I could suggest they unlock eyes and make constructive comments about my classes, the bell rang. The sound of tromping feet competed with screeches of glee. Locker doors banged open and slammed closed. The war was on, and I couldn’t do battle in the lounge.

“Bye,” I said as I headed into disaster. Neither of them seemed visibly distressed by my departure-if they noticed.

The journalism room was, as I had feared, filled with students. I went to the desk, dug through the mess until I found a black book, and then tossed it at a pudgy girl with waist-length black hair and a semblance of intelligence.

“Tell everyone to sit down and then take roll,” I commanded coolly. If I could only find the other book, I suspected I could discover who they were and why they were there.

The girl goggled briefly but began shouting names above the roar. Eventually the students sat down to eye me in a disconcertingly carnivorous way. I squared my shoulders and reminded myself that they were simply unpolished versions of the species.

We quickly established that they were Beginning Features, and I was a substitute with no interest in their future. They agreed to hold down the noise; I agreed to leave them alone until I found the daily unit delineation book. My pudgy aide at last produced it from a cardboard box beside the desk.

Since we were all content with the present arrangement, I left them to whisper while I scanned the book. Second period was to be Intro to Photo, and third was gloriously free, followed by a reasonable lunch break. Fourth period was Falcon Crier, which I presumed had something to do with the newspaper, fifth was Photo II, and sixth was something called “Falconnaire.” If I was alive at that point, I could go home.

The whispering grew a hit louder. I turned a motherly frown on them, and the noise obediently abated. Pleased with my success, I wandered around the room, discovering a coat closet filled with old newspapers, boxes of curled photographs, a quantity of dried rubber cement bottles, and a small, inky hole that proved to be a darkroom in all senses of the word. It also proved to be the source of the garbage can aroma. I now knew the confines of my domain, for better or worse.

I was sitting at the desk with an old newspaper when a box on the wall above my head began to crackle. After a moment of what sounded like cellophane being crumpled, a voice emerged.

“Mrs. Malloy, I have neither your attendance list for first period, nor your blue slips. I must have them at the beginning of each period.” Miss Don, or Frosty the Snowman.

I gazed at the box. “So?”

“So I must have them, Mrs. Malloy.”

Good heavens, the thing worked both ways. I wondered if she could see me from her mountaintop aerie as well. “I’ll send them to the office,” I called with a compliant expression, just in case. The box squawked in reply, then fell silent.

Pudge waved a paper at me and left the room. Hoping she knew what she was up to, I returned to an article on the chances of a district championship in football, complete with photographs of neckless boys squinting into the sun, but nevertheless optimistic.

On the last page, I found a photograph of Robed Redford himself. The caption below informed me that this was the new assistant coach, Jerry Finley. He thought the chances for a championship were good if the boys worked hard during practice, perfected their passing game, and gave the team their personal best. He was delighted to be at Farberville High and proud of the Falcons. His hobbies included water-skiing and Chinese cooking. When not on the gridiron, he would be found teaching general science and drivers’ ed, or supervising study hall in the cafeteria.

Or dimpling at Miss Hart, I amended to myself

The bell rang, and the class departed with the stealth of a buffalo herd. Their replacements looked remarkably similar. I tossed the attendance book to a weedy boy with glasses, made the same announcement about immediate goals, and even managed to send my attendance slip to the office before the box crackled at me.

I spent the period rummaging through Miss Parchester’s desk for anything that might contain accounts. I found a year’s supply of scented tissues, worn pencils, blue slips whose purpose escaped me, and other teaching paraphernalia. When the bell rang, I went down the hail to the teachers’ lounge to drown my sorrows in coffee.

As I opened the door, I heard a furious voice saying, “Mr. Pitts, you are a despicable example of humanity. I have told you repeatedly that you must not-must not-enter the lounge for any reason other than maintenance. I shall have to report you to Mr. Weiss!”

The speaker was a grim-faced woman with hair the color of concrete. On one side of her stood a diminutive sort with bluish hair, on the other a lanky woman whose shoulders barely supported her head. All three wore long dark dresses, cardigans, and stubby heels. They also wore disapproving frowns. Despite minor variations, they were remarkably similar, as if they were standard issue from some prehistoric teachers’ college; I had had them or remarkable facsimiles throughout my formative years. Many of said years had been spent cringing when confronted with steely stares and tight-lipped smiles.

The object of their scorn was a man with a broom. His thin black hair glittered in the light from years of accumulated lubrication. He wore dirty khaki pants, a gray undershirt that might have been white in decades past, and scuffed cowboy boots. His lower lip hung in moist and petulant resignation, but his eyes flittered to me as if to share some secret amusement. Having nothing in common with lizards, I eased behind the three women and slipped into the kitchenette.

“Well, Mr. Pitts,” the woman boomed on, “it is obvious that you have been rummaging in the refrigerator once again. Stealing food, contaminating the lunches of others, and generally behaving like a scavenger. I am disgusted by the idea of your filthy fingers in my food! Disgusted, Mr. Pitts! Have you nothing to say in your defense?”

“I didn’t even open the refrigerator,” he growled. “I ain’t been in here since yesterday evening when I cleaned. You don’t have no reason to report me, Mrs. P.”

“My coffee cup is missing, Mr. Pius. The evidence is clear.”

Oh, dear. I stuck my head out the door and pasted on an angelic smile. “I’m afraid I may be the cup culprit. I was in earlier and borrowed one of them.”

Three sets of eyes turned to stare at me. The middle woman said, “We do not borrow cups from each other. It is unhygienic.” On either side of her, heads nodded emphatically.

“I’m sorry, but there were no extra cups. I’ll wash it out immediately and return it to you,” I said, trying to sound composed in the face of such unanimous condemnation.

“There is no detergent,” the woman said. “I’ll have to take it to the chemistry room and rinse it out with alcohol.” She held out her hand.

I meekly gave her the cup and babbled further apology as the three marched out of the room. Once they were gone. I sank down on a sofa and lectured myself on the ephemerality of the situation.

“Who’re you supposed to be?” the lizard snickered.

“I’m the substitute for Miss Parchester in the journalism room.

“I’m Pius, the custodian. I used to be a janitor, but they changed my tide. Didn’t pay any more money, though. just changed the title to custodian ‘cause it sounds more professional. I had hopes of being a building maintenance engineer, but Weiss wouldn’t go for it.”

“How thrilling for you,” I said, closing my eyes to avoid looking at him. I immediately became aware of an odor that topped anything in the journalism room. Decidedly more organic, and wafting from the custodian’s person. I decided to risk everything and steal another cup; coffee held squarely under my nose might provide some degree of masking.

Pitts leered at me as I went into the kitchen and randomly grabbed a cup. “You stole Mrs. P’s cup awhile ago, didn’t you?” he called. “She was gonna have my hide, but she’s always trying to get something on me. I’m beginning to think she doesn’t like me-ha,”

I couldn’t bring myself to join in the merriment, so I settled for a vague smile. I returned to the sofa and tried to look pensive. Pitts watched me for a few minutes, then picked up a bucket and ambled into the ladies room, his motives unknown.

The lounge door opened once more. A man and woman came in, laughing uproariously at some private joke. The man was dressed in tweeds, complete with leather elbow patches. His light brown hair was stylishly trim and his goatee tidy. My late husband had been a college professor, and I was familiar with the pose. I wryly noted the stem of a pipe poking out of his coat pocket.

The woman had no aspirations to the academic role. Her black hair tumbled down to her shoulders, and her makeup was more than adequate for a theater stage or a dark alley. She wore a red dress and spike heels. She was dressed for a gala night on the town. At eleven-thirty in the morning, no less.

The two filled coffee cups (I hadn’t stolen theirs, apparently) and came in to study me.

“Cogito, ago sum Sherwood Timmons,” the man said with a deep bow. “Or I think that’s who I am. Who might you be?”

“Claire Malloy, for Miss Parchester.”

The woman’s smile vanished. “I’m Evelyn West, French. In case you missed it, Sherwood’s Latin-and other dead languages. We’re all so upset about Emily’s forced vacation. Weiss was rash to assume her errors were intentional.”

“Anything Weiss does must be taken cum grano sails,” Sherwood added as he sat down across from me. “So you’re our newest of our little gang, Claire. How are you doing with the profonum vulyus?”

Evelyn kicked him, albeit lightly. “Sherwood has a very bad habit of thinking himself amusing when he lapses into Latin. I’ve tried to convince him that he’s merely insufferable, but he continues to torment us.” She added something in French. Although I do not speak the language, the essential profanity of it was unmissable. He laughed, she laughed, we all laughed. Even Pitts, who had slithered out of the ladies room, made a croaking noise.

“Hiya, Mr. Timmons, Miz West,” he added in an obsequious voice. “Say, Mrs. P. is mad at me again, but I didn’t do nothing. Could you see if you could maybe stop her before she goes to Mr. Weiss?”

“Part of the reason she’s upset is that you did precisely nothing last night, including clean the classroom floors, empty the trashcans, or wipe down the chalkboards. It’s beginning to disturb even me, Pitts, and I vowed on my grandmother’s grave that I would be kind to children and dumb animals.”

“Quis custodlet lpsos custodes?” Sherwood murmured.

Pitts smirked. “I like that, Mr. Timmons. What does it mean?”

“Who will guard the guards themselves. In your case, Arm Pitts, it loosely refers to who might be induced to clean the unclean.”

Pitts snatched up his tools of the trade. “That ain’t funny, Mr. Timmons. It’s not easy to keep this place clean, you know. The students aren’t the only dirty people around here. Some of the teachers ain’t too sanitary-especially in their personal lives.” He stomped out of the lounge, muttering to himself

“Arm Pitts?” I inquired, wrinkling my nose.

Evelyn began to fan the air with a magazine. “Rather hard to miss the allusion, even in Latin. Pitts is a horrid, filthy man; no one can begin to fathom why Weiss allows him to keep the job. The supply room is around the corner from the lounge, and rumor has it that Pitts has enough hooch to open a retail liquor store. The cigarette smoke is thick enough to permeate the walls. Who knows what he peddles to some of our less innocent students while Weiss conveniently looks the other way.

“Tell me about Mr. Weiss,” I suggested. If for no other reason, I needed to know the enemy.”

“Herbert Weiss,” Sherwood said, “is a martinet of the worst ilk. The man has the charm of a veritable anguis in herba,”

“Sherwood,” Evelyn began ominously, “you-”

“A snake in the grass,” he translated, a pitying smile twitching the tip of his goatee. “In any case, Farberville High has survived more than ten years of his reign of terror, but this year he has become noticeably non compos mentis-to the maximus.”

“That’s true,” Evelyn added. “I’ve been here four years, and I have noticed a change for the worse this fall. In the past, Weiss has remained behind his office door, doing God knows what but at least avoiding the staff. Now he roams the hail like Hamlet’s daddy, peering into classrooms, interfering with established procedure, and generally paying attention to things he has never before bothered with.”

“Perhaps he’s up for a promotion,” I said. “Often that produces an attempt at efficiency.”

“We’ve toyed with that theory,” Sherwood said. “Of course that means we’d have Miss Dort as the captain of our ship. In any case, I shall escape through my muse.”

“Sherwood is writing the definitive work on parallels between the primitive forest deities and the Bible,” Evelyn said. “If he can get it published, he hopes to scurry into an ivy tower and teach those who strive for a modicum of academic pretentions.”

The author stiffened. “I’ve had some interest shown by several university presses. My manuscript is well over a thousand pages now, but I hope to complete it for formal submission before the end of this semester. It is, and I speak modestly, srsi generis. In a class by itself.”

When Sherwood the infant had lisped his first word, it hadn’t been modestly. However, I found the two amusing and civilized, especially in comparison to the others. I inquired about the woman whose coffee cup I had stolen.

“So you’ve met the Furies on your travels,” Sherwood said gleefully. “Alecto, Tisiphone and Megaera apply their stings to those who have escaped public retribution. Guardians of the FHS code of morality, our dear Eumenides.”

“They don’t like Sherwood,” Evelyn said with a shrug. “They suspect him of saying rude things, but none of them understands Latin. They’re right, of course.”

On that note, the Furies trooped into the lounge in a precise vee formation. The coffee cup was presumably sterile, its owner assured that my germs would not mingle with her own. But from their expressions (cold and leery), they were not sure that I wouldn’t pull another vile prank in the immediate future.

Evelyn said, “This is Claire Malloy, who is subbing for Emily. Claire, this is Mrs. Platchett, chairman of the business department. On her left, Miss Bagby, who teaches sophomore biology, and on her right, Miss Zuckerman, who teaches business.”

I stood up in an attempt to elicit forgiveness. “I’m pleased to meet you, and I’m truly sorry about using the coffee cup.”

Mrs. Platchett remained unmoved by my gesture. “As Mae can tell you, certain microbes can cause great distress for those of us with delicate constitutions, although the carrier can remain unaffected. Will you be able to bring a cup from home, or shall I use our little lounge fund to purchase one for you?”

“I’ll bring one tomorrow.” It seemed time for a new subject. “So you teach with Paula Hart? I met her here during the homeroom period.”

“Miss Hart’s class was unusually rowdy this morning,” Mrs. Platchett said in an icy voice. “I should have realized she was remiss in her homeroom obligations. It is hardly surprising to learn she was not even there.”

The thin woman flared her nostrils in sympathy. “I noticed the noise across the hall, Alexandria, but I assumed Miss Hart was doing her inept best to control the class. It is often impossible to teach over the uproarious laughter from her room.”

Typing wasn’t all that much fun, but I didn’t point that out. Nor did I mention the lovers’ tryst that was obviously scheduled in advance for optimum privacy.

Sherwood stood up and straightened his tie. “Pitts said you were on his case, Alexandria. Did you follow through or was it an idle threat?”

“I shall presume, Mr. Timmons, that you are asking if I spoke to Mr. Weiss about Pitts’s shameful neglect of the basement classrooms. I did, although Mr. Weiss seemed unimpressed. He did agree to have a word with the man, but I doubt we shall see a substantial improvement in the future.”

Evelyn joined Sherwood in the doorway. “The only word that might help would be ‘fired.’ In the meantime, I have a portable vacuum cleaner that I’ll gladly share.”

Sherwood bowed. “In any case, ladies, carpe diem. Or to translate loosely in accordance with the current debasement of the English language, have a nice day.” With a wink, he strolled out of the lounge.