The Hiding Place(11)

Although it was officially called the English block, to all the kids it was simply “the Block.” Four stories of concrete ugliness prone to swaying in strong winds.

No one liked having classes in the Block, even before what happened. It was always cold, the windows leaked, and one particularly vicious winter I remember a class where we all wore hats and scarves, ice flakes frosted on the inside of the panes.

After Chris Manning plummeted from the top it was closed and then reopened with “new safety precautions,” which basically meant making sure that the door to the roof was kept padlocked.

At some point in the last two decades it has been demolished. Where the Block once stood there is now a small, paved square with three benches arranged around a meager circle of half-dead plants. One bench bears a small plaque: “In Memory of Christopher Manning.”

I sit down on one of the other ones and sneak a cigarette out of my pack. I twist it between my fingers and stare at the paving slabs, wondering which ones hide the spot where he landed.

He didn’t make a sound. Not as he fell. Even when he hit the ground. It was soft, a dull thud. It didn’t seem hard enough. I could almost have believed he was still alive, just lying there, taking in the fading autumn sunshine, if it hadn’t been for the fact that his body looked oddly deflated, like someone had let all the air out. And of course, there was the blood, spreading out slowly from beneath him, a ruby-red shadow lengthened by the dying sun.

“Bloody shame, isn’t it?”

I start. A short girl with dark hair in a messy ponytail and an abundance of silver in her ears stands in front of me. I didn’t hear her approach, but then she’s so thin she could have blown in on the wind.

For a moment I think she’s an especially forward student, then I notice the lack of uniform (unless a Killers T-shirt, skinny jeans and Doc Martens is the new uniform) and the lines around her eyes that belie the initially youthful impression.

“Sorry?”

She gestures at the cigarette I have been fingering restlessly. “Bloody shame they create the perfect smoking area and then ban you from lighting up on school premises.”

“Ah.” I look at the cigarette and slip it back into the pack. “Truly a tragedy.”

She grins and sits down beside me without asking. Normally, that type of unasked-for intimacy would annoy the fuck out of me. For some reason, with Miss Multiple Piercings, it only irritates the hell out of me.

“Sad about the kid who jumped too.” She shakes her head. “You ever lost one?”

“A student?”

“Well, I don’t mean a sock.”

“No, I don’t think I have.”

“Well, you’d remember. I hope.” She pulls out a box of mints, unwraps one and pops it in her mouth. She offers me the box. I want to refuse but find myself taking one.

“A student of mine died. Overdose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. She was a really nice kid. Hard worker. Popular. Seemed to have everything going for her and then…two packets of acetaminophen and a bottle of vodka. Put herself in a coma. A week later they had to turn off her life support.”

I frown. “I don’t remember hearing about that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. Kind of got overshadowed by Julia and Ben Morton.” She gives a shrug. “Always a bigger tragedy, right?”

“I suppose.”

A pause.

“So, aren’t you going to ask?”

“What?”

“The usual? ‘Did you know them? Did you suspect anything was wrong? Did you see any signs?’ ”

“Well, did you?”

“Not well. No, and yes. Did I not mention? Julia came into school wearing a great big placard around her neck: ‘I intend to kill my son and myself. Have a nice day.’ ”

“Well, politeness costs nothing.”

She chuckles and sticks out a hand. “Beth Scattergood. Art.”

I shake it. “Scattergood? Really?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Bet the kids have fun with that one?”

“Miss Shag Her Good is the current odds-on favorite, just ahead of Miss Fatter Guts.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Kids, eh? Gotta love ’em, or you’d get a real job.”

“I’m Joe—”

“I know. Joe Thorne. The replacement.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“So, which are you?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Only two types of teachers end up at Arnhill Academy. Those who want to make a difference and those who can’t get a job anywhere else. So, which are you?”

I hesitate. “I like to think I make a difference.”

“Right.” Her voice is heavy with sarcasm. “Well, nice knowing you, Mr. Thorne.”

“Thanks. Encouraging on my first day.”

She grins. “We aim to please.”

I like her, I realize. The emotion surprises me more than it should.

“So, which are you?” I ask.

She stands. “The hungry sort. I was on my way to the cafeteria. You coming? I can introduce you to some of the other misfits who teach here.”


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