Greg stepped smartly up the broad steps to the main entrance, waving to the security camera as he did so. He was rewarded with a buzz and a click. The glass doors barring his way unlocked themselves.
‘Good morning, Mr Abimbola. Warm enough for ya? Even colder than England, I bet.’
‘Yes, but it’s a dry cold.’
Stacey, the security lady, chuckled. Although she was her usual, cheerful self, she was standing behind the front desk instead of sitting. And she was still wearing her outdoor gear, right down to the fleece-lined galoshes she’d used to stomp her way in from the bus stop. The faint reflection from a bank of TV monitors glimmered on the shiny quilting of her coat.
‘What’s up with the heating?’
‘Furnace is out. Custodian’s had an earful from the principal and is swearing fit to burst.’ Stacey’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’d steer clear of both of ’em if I was you.’
Greg shot her a quick smile.
‘Will do.’
Keeping his coat buttoned, Greg headed past the front desk, crossed the opulent lobby, and skipped up a wide marble staircase, passing beneath Calderhill Academy’s ornate coat of arms as he did so.
Calderhill Academy, pre-eminent among the private schools clustered in the city’s Shadyside and Squirrel Hill neighborhoods, would not take well to the indignity of being without a furnace. As a child, Greg Abimbola had spent more than his fair share of winters in unheated classrooms – and on days far colder than this one. But then again, his mother had not been a member of Pittsburgh’s one percent. He was not the son of some financial guru, or tech whiz kid, or prominent doctor. Calderhill’s parents, who paid their five-figure school fees with little outward complaint, expected an Ivy League placement, excellent alumni connections, and something approximating an outstanding education. A properly heated building was so far beneath their expectations it wouldn’t even register.
Until tonight, anyway. It was all too easy to imagine the fuming regiment of emails that would be lining up in the principal’s inbox. He didn’t envy her in the slightest. But that, of course, was why they paid her the big bucks.
‘Greg?’
Emily Pasquarelli, the registrar’s assistant, was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She looked anxious. Leather-gloved hands meshed together like ill-fitting gears.
‘Good morning, Emily. Elegant as always, I see, even when bundled up for the cold.’
He meant it, too. At Calderhill Academy, the faculty’s fashion vernacular was best described as ‘rumpled’. Lots of natural fibers and not quite matching outfits. Emily bucked the trend, though. Bobbed, strawberry blonde hair topped a petite, boyish frame, which she had wrapped in a red cashmere coat, brightly colored complementary scarf, and luxurious looking brown gloves. Brown calf-length boots completed the ensemble, their tops hiding coyly beneath the hem of her coat.
Emily smiled at the compliment, touched a brief hand against his wrist.
‘The principal would like to see you. Soon as you get in, she said.’
Greg pulled a face.
‘What have I done now?’
‘No idea. But Lindsay Delcade is with her.’
Greg tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.
‘I’d best be getting along, then. Oh – before I forget – how’s your mother? Better, I hope?’
The shoulders beneath the red coat shrugged stoically.
‘Physically, much better. And thanks for asking. Doctor said it was just a mild sprain and she’s recovered fine.’ Emily tapped a gloved hand to her temple. ‘But she’s starting to lose it up top, you know? I swear, she gets more absent-minded by the day.’
Greg nodded sympathetically.
‘Watching your parents get old is no fun. It was good of you to take her in.’
‘The dutiful daughter, that’s me.’ The words were said lightly, though, with no trace of bitterness. Emily glanced at her watch and looked pointedly down the corridor. ‘Your nemesis awaits.’
‘So she does. See you later – assuming I get out of there alive.’
Emily’s tinkling laugh rang in his ears as he turned left instead of right and headed to the principal’s office. Or, more accurately, the principal’s outer office. The door to Elizabeth Ellis’s inner sanctum was closed, though the amount of privacy this afforded was minimal. The office was glass-walled. On the far side of the partition the willowy figure of Lindsay Delcade, mother to Vicki and Chandler, and royal pain-in-the-ass, was leaning over Ellis’s desk. Her porcelain-pale skin and mane of bright red hair were in sharp contrast to the principal’s ruddy cheeks and gray-flecked auburn bun. It was easy to hear her, too. Greg sank into a brand-new leather sofa and listened.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Lindsay was saying, voice raised. ‘Absolutely, goddamned ridiculous! We need a few more days, that’s all. I don’t see why my daughter has to suffer because of your stupid, arbitrary rules, and I won’t stand for it. I won’t!’
‘They’re not my rules, Ms Delcade. It’s how this admission process works. The deadline’s passed, I’m afraid. But next year is still a real possibility. It will give you time to—’
‘I’m not waiting another goddamned minute for this, never mind a year! You fix this, Elizabeth. Fix it right now!’
Ellis’s hands spread themselves placatingly on top of her desk.
‘It’s simply not fixable, Lindsay. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Sorry? You will be if you don’t get this sorted. I’m not kidding. I’ll bring the whole school down on top of your goddamned head if I have to!’
Delcade turned on her heel, ready to storm out. Seeing Greg through the glass, her expression darkened even further.
‘You!’ she screamed, opening the door. ‘How do they even let people like you work here? Go teach in the ghetto. It’s all you’re fit for!’
‘Ms Delcade! That’s enough!’ Ellis’s words bounced pointlessly off Lindsay Delcade’s back. The doors to the outer office were already closing behind her. She stomped off down the hallway, high-heeled boots click-clacking on the gleaming hardwood floor.
Ellis, with a resigned wave of the hand, signaled for Greg to come in.
The principal’s office, even when he wasn’t in trouble for something, invariably made Greg feel uncomfortable. It was riotously untidy in a way that only an academic could manage. Stuffed bookcases, too full to cope, spilled their contents onto the floor; photographs and mementoes from a dozen different conferences clung crookedly to the walls and littered the windowsills; unsteady piles of paper, held down by a motley collection of objects, encroached upon every available surface.
It offended his sense of order.
At Ellis’s invitation, he sat down on an incongruously sleek office chair. It tipped slightly under his weight.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Lindsay is … excitable.’
‘Not a problem,’ Greg said, equably. The lie was second nature by now. Besides, his curiosity had been piqued. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Oh, you know. College stuff. You know how parents get at this time of year. Lindsay is absolutely fixated on getting her daughter into Stayard.’
Greg couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling.
‘Stayard? I know I’m not completely up to speed on American colleges, but that’s a bit out of Vicki’s reach, don’t you think? That’s Ivy League territory.’
Ellis sighed. There was a cup of coffee hiding on her desk. She took a sip and grimaced. Cold, presumably.
‘It is, and you’re right. Stayard would be a dream school for Vicki. But we have a great record of placing students there. Outstanding, actually. So some of our parents have, ah, expectations.’
Greg grinned at her.
‘I don’t envy you your job.’
‘Really?’ Ellis didn’t smile back. ‘Then I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make it harder.’
The sinking feeling returned to his stomach.
‘Problem?’
‘Lindsay Delcade is complaining to me that you’ve got it in for Vicki. That you’ve got something against her because of so-called white privilege.’
Greg’s eyebrows almost hit his scalp.
‘Her words, not mine.’
‘If I had an issue with white privilege, I’d have it in for every kid in this school.’
A small hiss of exasperation escaped Ellis’s lips.
‘That’s not fair, Greg. We’re pretty diverse these days.’
Greg let it slide, the decision reached so quickly he was barely conscious of making it.
‘I like Vicki,’ he said. ‘Good kid. Works hard. Not the brightest, academically speaking.’
‘And that’s the problem right there,’ Ellis replied. ‘You can’t tell parents that their kids are dumb.’
‘I never said she was dumb. I just said she wasn’t the brightest. There are cleverer children in my class, that’s all.’
‘You gave her a B in Russian Language III.’
‘I can’t give Bs, now?’
‘No. You can’t give Bs and then tell a complaining parent that their child is “not the brightest”. You need to say something like, “Vicki works really hard, and I love having her in my class. She shows a great deal of promise. If she could just work on a couple of small things, I’m sure her grades will improve.”’
Greg found himself snorting with exasperation.
‘So you want me to mollycoddle some preening, entitled parent? Because their perfectly OK child got a perfectly respectable B? Give me a break.’
‘No,’ Ellis snapped. ‘Give me a break. Is this an English thing? Do teachers routinely denigrate students over there? I know you haven’t been here long, but you’ve got to get with the program. Grade the kids firmly but fairly – and be gentle about it. These people pay your salary, you know.’
Greg’s eyes narrowed.
‘They don’t, actually.’
Ellis had the good grace to look abashed.
‘Look, Greg. I know we have you pursuant to a … er … special arrangement. And we’re glad to have you. Really. We are. But you’ve got to help us out here, OK? Ease off with the parents. I know Lindsay Delcade is difficult, but there are plenty of good moms and dads whose noses are going to be put out of joint if you keep going on like this. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Greg nodded.
Different country. Different rules.
‘I’ll do better,’ he promised. His face, he knew, was a study in contrition.
Ellis, apparently satisfied, broke into a smile.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘English schools are harsher. You need time to adjust. I get it. But look on the bright side. You don’t have to be half as diplomatic as the rest of us. With that accent of yours, you can say almost anything you like and get away with it. Just don’t abuse the privilege, that’s all I’m saying.’
Ellis’s backhanded compliment ringing in his ears, Greg took his leave, glanced at his watch, and hurried back down the stairs to the main lobby. Emily Pasquarelli was standing by the front desk, still in her red coat. She was delivering the bad news about the heating to incoming staff and students.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
Greg grimaced.
‘Well, I still have a job, so best to look on the bright side, eh?’
‘It’ll pass,’ Emily assured him.
‘Until my next screw up, anyway.’ Greg grinned at her to assure her he was joking and headed down another flight of steps to the basement.
It was noticeably chillier down here. He half expected to see his breath misting up in front of him. The corridor he was walking along, being in the bowels of the school and not much used, was significantly less grand and a lot less well-lit than the floors above. Perhaps if the lighting had been better, or if he’d had two working eyes, he wouldn’t have stepped on it.
Reeeeeeeoooowwrrrr!!!!
Greg stepped back, startled. A blur of black hurtled off along the passageway.
‘Really, Mr Bimbo, why would you do such a thing? What has Señor Sanchez ever done to you?’
‘He exists,’ Greg growled. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
Andrea Velasquez, the school’s assistant custodian, was at the far end of the corridor, her head poking out of the door to the custodian’s room. Sanchez, the semi-feral cat whose tail Greg had stepped on, slipped past her and into the workspace beyond. But not before spearing him with a reproachful, green-eyed glare.
Greg sneezed.
‘Aw, c’mon! You didn’t even touch him!’
‘My shoe touched him. It’s enough.’
‘It’s all in your head, you know that, right?’
Greg grinned. ‘Probably, Maybelline. But that doesn’t make it any less real.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Andrea pouted. ‘You know I hate it. It makes me sound like a make-up commercial.’ She stepped fully into the corridor, her mountain of black hair hidden beneath a woolen Steelers hat, the rest of her bundled up to the nines, like everyone else today. Sanchez reappeared, rubbing himself against Andrea’s patent leather Doc Martens.
‘“Maybelline” is the name your parents gave you. You should show them more respect, young lady.’
‘Uh-huh. And you, Normal Name Guy, should think carefully about insulting someone you want a favor from.’
Greg’s grin grew wider.
‘Whatever makes you think I want a favor?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re a teacher. And you’re down here.’
‘Fair enough … Andrea. I was wondering if you had a space heater or something in your cave of wonders. Something to stop my class from turning into an icebox.’
‘Like the rest of the school, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
Andrea leaned against the battered entrance to the custodian’s room and gave him a long, considered once over. The sort of stare that made it clear she liked what she was looking at, even though, God help him, he was close to twice her age.
‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’
The custodian’s room, like janitors’ rooms everywhere, Greg figured, was a confusing mélange of scavenged domesticity and architectural engineering. A grimy, glass-brick window allowed in a faint approximation of daylight which, in turn, fell upon a threadbare sofa and two mismatched armchairs. The three pieces of furniture lounged comfortably around an oak coffee table that had seen better days. There was a small kitchenette with a couple of mugs upended on the draining board, and an old-style TV on the top shelf of a rickety bookcase. The bookcase did, in fact, have actual books in it. In addition to a handful of worn paperbacks, there were some IT textbooks and a ring binder to go with them, the latter emblazoned with the insignia of Pittsburgh Community College.
Greg, looking at the textbooks, found himself gripped by a strange churning of emotions. Nostalgia, sympathy, pity, anger. Andrea Velasquez might only be an assistant custodian, but the textbooks confirmed what he’d long suspected: that she was determined to make something of herself. Greg knew what that felt like. To be young. To have potential. And then to fight every fucker from Archangel to Vladivostok for the chance to use it.
In contrast to the room’s domestic elements, the metal hulk of the school’s furnace rose like a surfacing sea monster from the scarred concrete floor. It was cold and dead now, the warm roar of burning fuel completely absent. Metal shelving and half-open cupboards, full to bursting with vacuums, mops, spare parts, and cleaning fluids, ran around the whitewashed brick walls. The walls themselves were decorated with fading pictures of scantily clad women. Greg, not for the first time, raised an eyebrow.
‘Where’s Mr Szymanski?’ he asked.
‘Vern?’ Andrea shrugged. ‘Checking out the classrooms, I guess. Figuring out how cold it is.’
‘And when he does, can he do anything about it?’
‘Nah,’ Andrea giggled. ‘But it makes it look like he’s doing something. Keeps Principal Ellis off his back.’ She patted the furnace’s broad metal shoulder with something like affection. ‘Choked up with dust and crap is all it is. Open it up, clean it out, good as new. But we have to wait for the contractor to get here. Until then, welcome to Alaska.’ She fished about in one of the shelving units. Tugged. Tugged harder. There was a small clatter of displaced objects. A dusty portable radiator was wheeled into the middle of the room.
‘How’s this?’
‘Looks great,’ Greg said. ‘Thanks. But …’
‘But what? I just got you a freakin’ heater out of the goodness of my heart, man.’
‘Yes, I know. And I’m truly, genuinely grateful. But what about you? It’s freezing down here. Do you two have another one? Something to warm this place up?’
Andrea looked at him thoughtfully, as if surprised by the question.
‘Nah, take it. We’re not here much during the day, and it wouldn’t do us much good even if we were. It’s not big enough, and all the heat would go straight out that door.’
She was pointing, not at the door Greg had come through, but a different one. Battleship gray and metal, with a hint of rust on the hinges and a giant lock that looked like it belonged in a medieval dungeon. There was a key for it, too, also enormous, hanging from a nail banged into the nearest bit of wall. Hints of daylight peeped through the small gap between the door’s chipped bottom and the concrete floor. Andrea was right. He could almost feel the cold seeping through it. Just looking at it was making him shiver.
‘Why don’t you just board that thing up?’ he found himself asking.
‘Because we need it to get to the loading bay. We bring the smaller stuff in through here sometimes. Saves the hassle of having to open up the big roller door. The drive chain on that sucker keeps coming off the cogs. It’s a total bitch to get it back on again. And guess who gets to do that?’
‘Not Mr Szymanski?’
‘Right in one. No wonder you’re a teacher.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Greg grinned. ‘And thank you for this.’ He tested the heater’s weight. It was heavy, filled with oil or something probably, but not so heavy that lifting it wasn’t easier than wheeling it along bent double. Using both arms he heaved it up against his chest, letting the power cord trail behind him on the floor. The dustiness of it tickled his nose, but it was nowhere near as bad as a cat.
As he headed out, he took one more look at the walls.
‘You know, Andrea, I’m pretty sure you don’t have to work surrounded by naked women these days. Last time I looked, the year began with a two.’
Andrea’s response was a derisive snort.
‘Some of these thots been up there longer than I’ve been alive, man. No point moving ’em now. It’d just make Vern more of a pain in the ass than he already is.’