Aftermath(9)

I cringe. I understand what Mr. Vaughn’s saying, but the way he says it…

I back up quickly, close the door and sit down to wait my turn.

Skye

Five minutes later, Mr. Vaughn comes in.

“As you overheard, Miss Gilchrist, I have no choice but to discipline you for leaving class. I am not unsympathetic to your situation, but if I exempt you from the usual punishment, students will complain that you have received special treatment. You will remain in here, on detention, until I return. You may contact your aunt to tell her you’ll be delayed by approximately thirty minutes.”

There’s no need for that. Mae won’t be home until five. So I pull out my homework, finish physics and move to English. When I’m done, I realize it’s gone silent outside. I check my watch. Nearly an hour has passed, and Mr. Vaughn hasn’t returned.

I push open the door to ask the secretary if I can leave. Her desk is deserted. The whole office is deserted.

I slip out carefully. If I’m in trouble for fleeing class, then fleeing detention sure isn’t going to help, but there’s no one here.

I walk to the main office door and turn the knob and… it doesn’t open. I keep twisting as panic sets in. Heart-pounding, can’t-catch-my-breath panic. That pisses me off. I used to be the girl who’d find herself locked in the main office and think, Cool. Never had this happen before, and then snoop around before looking for a solution. Afterward, I’d go home and write it as an even more interesting scene for a story. Not just locked in the office, but locked in on a Friday… right before the school is due to be demolished!

I’d started working my way back to being that girl. And now, one accidentally locked door reignites all my anxieties, and I’m hyperventilating as if I am indeed locked in a building about to be demolished. As if I don’t have a cell phone with a full battery and full service.

I will not be that girl. I won’t even be the girl who telephones for help. That’s just embarrassing.

I examine the knob. It’s a double-sided keyed lock. After a few minutes of searching, I find a key in the secretary’s desk.

I congratulate myself on my keen detective work as I put the key in and…

Nothing. The key turns, but the door won’t open.

I bend and look through as I turn the knob. The plunger withdraws, and I see nothing else to stop the door from opening. But it won’t.

When I push, the door gives a little. Okay, it’s not locked – just sticking. By pressing various parts of the doorframe, I determine that the bottom is jammed somehow. The door opens outward, meaning something external must be blocking it. A prank, then, kids figuring they were locking in the VPs.

I push and pull and jiggle until the door’s open an inch. Then two. Crouching, I squeeze my hand through and find a doorstop, one of those brown rubber ones. I wiggle it out, and the door swings open.

The hall is empty. Silent, too, except for the distant clomp of footsteps. Was someone trying to prevent me from leaving? That seems like paranoia, and it’s too easy to fall down that hole. For the sake of my mental health, I’m going to presume that whoever put the doorstop in was just playing a prank on whoever happened to be in the office.

As I walk, I hear the swish of a broom. I turn the corner to see the custodian. It’s a young guy, college age, tall and muscular. He looks familiar. When I walk over, he stops and watches me, his face expressionless.

“Hi, I’m —”

“Skye,” he says. “I know.”

“Right. Um, so —”

“I helped coached your Little League team about five years ago.”

It clicks then. “Owen,” I say with a smile. “I remember.”

He doesn’t smile in return, and as I process his name, I remember we have another connection. His cousin Vicki was injured in the shooting. No, not “injured.” That sounds like she tripped and twisted her ankle. Vicki is in a wheelchair now. Will be in a wheelchair for life.

“So, I, uh…” I resist the urge to take a slow step back. “I… was in detention and Mr. Vaughn seemed to forget me so I’m… I’m just going to leave now.”

I start to go, and Owen says, “He does that.”

I glance over my shoulder, and Owen is leaning on his broom.

He says, “I swear you’re the third kid Vaughn has forgotten this term already. He just split with his wife. He has a lot on his mind.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks. And, um, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but when I tried to leave the office, someone had stuck in a doorstop. I’m sure it was just a prank. But if Mr. Vaughn is known for forgetting kids on detention, it might be something to watch.”

Owen’s brows knit. “A doorstop?”

“One of those brown rubber ones. I can show you.”

He follows me. We round the corner to the office, and I say, “It’s right there on the…”

It’s not there. I pick up my pace, until I’m at the office, looking around.

“It was right here,” I say. “Brown rubber. Like they use in classrooms.”

“We don’t use doorstops.”

“Then someone brought it in.”

His frown deepens. “Brought a doorstop from home?”

I’m breathing harder now, anxiety rising. I want to say I know what I saw, but I hear myself saying, “M-maybe I made a mistake.”