These days, by the time Friday afternoon rolled around, Marge Arnold wondered whether it was time to retire.
She walked the aisles of her empty classroom with a metal wastebasket in hand, clearing stray papers from desks and trash from the floor. Each time she stooped to pick up an item from the scuffed tiles, her lower back clenched with pain.
Marge carried on until the job was done; and dropping the basket by the desk, she lifted a nylon bag and draped the strap over her shoulder. Today, the bag was stuffed with assignment papers on Lord of the Flies. She would spend Sunday afternoon grading them.
Pulling her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, she spent a moment hunting for her phone, before she remembered that she had left it hooked up to the charger in the living room of her house that morning. It had been dead as a dog by the end of school on Thursday; and she hadn’t remembered to plug it into the charger until bedtime.
I’m getting more forgetful every blessed day, she thought, giving her head a rueful shake.
Before she left her classroom, Marge checked the doorknob to be sure she’d locked the door behind her, and then limped down the empty hallway. She had to maneuver a steep stairway to access the parking lot; and her hip joined the ache in her back as she carefully made her way step-by-step in her black Sketchers shoes.
She didn’t feel up to cooking dinner tonight, she decided. She’d send George out for carryout at Little Hong Kong. They could eat cashew chicken and egg rolls while they sat in their recliners and watched the evening news.
Marge had a hand on the crash bar of the back exit when she heard voices. Kids’ voices.
Her ears pricked up. The halls should be empty. The janitorial staff left early on Fridays. And no student activities were planned for the afternoon.
Forgetting the hitch in her hip, Marge turned from the doorway and retraced her steps. Her rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the poured concrete floor of the old school building.
The sound registered again: a girl’s voice, pleading, followed by boys’ laughter. It came from the direction of the locker room.
With a stern face, Marge marched toward the voices. Thirty-five years of middle school experience taught her the value of a surprise attack: she burst into the boys’ locker room, swinging the door wide with a bang.
“What’s going on in here?”
Four heads looked up, their faces regarding her with uniform expressions of horror. Marge advanced on them.
“What are you doing in here? School’s shut down for the weekend.”
She knew them, had all of them in class at one time or another. Burton Ashlock, Paul Wallace. A husky boy whose name she couldn’t quite place.
And Taylor Johnson. What on earth, she wondered, was Taylor Johnson doing in the boys’ locker room?
The husky boy held an iPad in his hand. It must be the source of the mischief, she surmised. There was no evidence of drugs or alcohol, not even a whiff of tobacco. And neither Taylor nor the Ashlock boy would be likely to be a party to that brand of shenanigans.
“‘Fess up. What’s all this about?”
While Marge frowned down at them, the boy holding the iPad dropped it onto the floor as if it had burned his fingers. The clatter of the iPad broke the spell. Paul Wallace snatched the device from the floor and tore through the door, with the husky kid at his heels. The big boy’s shoulder caught Marge in the chest and nearly knocked her down. Her collection of Lord of the Flies papers spilled onto the locker-room floor.
She turned on her heel, shouting at the departing figures.
“I’m going to report you to Mr. Samson.”
The threat had no effect. She heard a door slam. They were gone.
Marge swung around to face the remaining two teenagers. Taylor was shaking, her face tear-stained. Burton’s eyes were trained on the floor.
In a gentler tone, she said, “Two of our very best students, hiding out in here after hours, breaking school rules. I’m surprised at you. Both of you should know better.”
Taylor blinked rapidly, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from her face. “We weren’t doing anything.”
“Then why did those two take off running? Paul and—” Marge paused, trying to recall the other boy’s name. She couldn’t bring it to mind. More evidence that she was getting too old for this job.
In her younger days, no student would dare to storm away while she was talking to them. She rubbed the spot where the husky boy’s shoulder had struck her chest.
Burton bent down and commenced to pick up the papers that were scattered across the locker-room floor.
“I’ll get that,” Marge said. But he continued, stacking them together in a pile.
“We were talking,” Taylor said. “That’s all.”
Marge studied the girl. Taylor was a bad liar. And she was petrified.
“Did those boys tease you?” Marge cleared her throat, embarrassed to ask the follow-up question, but Missouri had a mandated reporter law, and the teachers were subject to it. “Did someone make an improper advance?”
Taylor shook her head, but Marge wasn’t convinced.
“What were they showing you on that iPad? Were they showing you a dirty picture?”
At that, Burton’s head jerked up, as if Marge had touched a nerve.
She said, “Burton, what were they up to? What was on that iPad?”
Burton looked up at Taylor, whose head was shaking with palsy.
“Nothing. No. Nothing,” the girl said.
Marge knelt down to meet Burton’s eyes as he squatted on the floor with her papers. Her lower back knifed with pain, but she ignored it.
“Were the boys showing images on the iPad that aren’t permitted in school?”
Burton nodded. Taylor said, “Don’t.”
Marge ignored her. “If they do that, it’s not just breaking a rule. It’s a harassment issue. Teachers have to know about that. To protect the students from it. It’s not right. You understand that, Burton. Don’t you?”
Taylor’s voice pleaded. “I have to go. My mom is expecting me. She’ll be worried.”
Marge held Burton’s gaze. “Burton, you know your daddy would want you to tell the truth.”
He nodded, his chin wobbling.
“Were there pictures on the iPad?”
“Yes,” he said in a whisper.
“Stop it,” Taylor said.
“Burton,” Marge said, her voice low, “what were those pictures?”
He was breathing fast, almost hyperventilating. “Taylor.”
Marge Arnold’s head cocked. “What?”
“They were pictures of Taylor. He saw them on his dad’s iPad.”
Taylor wailed like an infant who’d been stuck with a pin. Startled, Marge glanced over at her. The girl looked like she was about to faint.
“Why would he have pictures of Taylor?”
Taylor swayed on her feet, but she didn’t fall. She snatched up her backpack and ran through the door. Her footfalls echoed on the concrete floor of the hallway.
As the girl took flight, Marge rose from the floor, determined to follow; but her hip froze, and she rolled onto her side on the unforgiving surface of the locker-room floor.
“St. Mary’s,” she said though her teeth.
Marge had to report the situation. Struggling to sit upright, she grabbed her purse and dug inside, wasting precious minutes in a fruitless search for her phone.
She couldn’t find it. Because she’d left the damned thing at home.