‘Hey, it’s not fair. You heard ours.’
It was 1:48. Fifth period ended in three minutes. Mrs. Grannis felt terrible. Weed was impossible, sitting rigidly in his chair, head bent, as if he were about to be beaten.
His classmates shifted uncomfortably, waiting for the bell.
‘Well,’ Mrs. Grannis broke the silence. ‘Tomorrow we start watercolors, and don’t forget, we have a special program next period.’
Henry Hamilton was the star pitcher of the baseball team, and he hated any activity that kept him sitting past two in the afternoon. He made a face, slumped in his seat and sighed loudly. Eva Grecci did the same because she had an aching crush on Hamilton. Randy Weispfenning wasn’t happy, either.
‘We have two very important police officers who have been sent to Richmond by the National Institute of Justice,’ Mrs. Grannis said. ‘They have generously agreed to come today and talk with us.’
‘About what?’
‘Crime, I suppose,’ Mrs. Grannis said.
‘I’m sick of hearing about it.’
‘Me, too. My mom won’t even read the paper anymore.’
‘My dad thinks I should start wearing a bulletproof vest to class.’ Hamilton laughed, ducking when Weispfenning tried to cuff him.
That’s not funny,’ Mrs. Grannis said.
The bell rang. Everyone jumped up as if there was a fire.
‘Off to see the wizzz-aarrrddd…” Hamilton sang and started skipping down an imagined Yellow Brick Road.
Eva Grecci laughed too hard.
‘Weed,’ Mrs. Grannis said. ‘I need to see you for a minute.’
He sullenly shuffled up to her desk. The room emptied, leaving the two of them alone.
This is the first time you’ve not turned in an assignment,’ she said softly.
He shrugged.
‘Do you want to tell me why?’
‘Because.’ He shrugged again as tears smarted.
‘That’s not an answer, Weed.’
He blinked, looking away from her. Feelings boiled up in him. In an hour he was supposed to meet Smoke in the parking lot.
‘I just didn’t get around to it,’ he said as he thought of the five-page story hiding inside his knapsack.
‘I’m very surprised you didn’t get around to it,’ she measured her words.
Weed said nothing. He had spent half of Saturday writing four drafts of it before painstakingly making the final copy in black felt-tip ink, letters perfectly formed in the calligraphy that he had learned from a kit and then modified to his bold, funky, completely unique style. The second bell rang.
‘We need to go on to the auditorium,’ Mrs. Grannis said.
He felt her searching his face, looking for a clue. Weed knew she was hoping the faculty had not made a mistake advancing him to the outer limits of Godwin’s art instruction.
‘I don’t want to listen to no cops,’ Weed told her.
‘Weed?’ It wasn’t negotiable. ‘You’re going to sit with me.’
Brazil parked his marked patrol car on the circle outside the high school’s front entrance, and despite his constant complaining during the drive, felt happy to be here as he climbed out of the car and students milling about stared. It did not occur to Brazil that his tall, chiseled, uniformed presence was striking, that this might have something to do with the attention he so often got.
He had never really accepted his physical self. In part this was because he was an only child left to the mercy of a mother who had always been too miserable and eventually too drunk to see him as someone separate from herself. When she looked at him, she saw a bleary projection of her husband, who had been killed when Brazil was ten. In her rages, it was Brazil’s dead father she ranted to and struck and begged not to leave her.
‘You got any idea where the hell we’re going?’ West asked as she pushed shut the car door.
Brazil scanned the notes Fling had given him.
‘”Go in, take a left,'” he read.
‘Go in where?’
‘Uh,’ Brazil scanned some more. ‘Doesn’t say. We “go through doors ahead to green hallway through more doors to a blue one until see a bulletin board with photographs.'”
Tuck,’ West said as they walked.
‘After that,’ Brazil said, ‘we “can’t miss it.'”