As if I don’t have enough on my plate, someone’s gone and stolen my stapler. To get a new one, I head to the office. The teachers’ stationary supplies are housed in a big, locked cupboard. It’s more secure than Fort Knox. The mad cow-faced school secretary holds the key.
I’m filling in a form for a replacement stapler when I spy Owen McFarlane slouched in a chair in the narrow lobby separating the admin office and the principal’s office.
The sight of him looking utterly wretched triggers a memory: the similar holding cell outside my high school principal’s office. We referred to those chairs as Death Row.
Thanks to Dana, who always knew when to quit, I never landed there. But I came close that one time.
Some dumb jocks got caught smoking weed on the smelly high-jump mats stored behind the school’s stage. This triggered mass panic and a search of students’ belongings.
I’d asked to go to the toilet during History that day. The teacher, who looked exactly like the woman with the pitchfork in American Gothic, almost refused, but when I whispered the word period, old Mrs. Gosford relented.
“Be quick,” she hissed, prune-mouthed.
I nodded sweetly. “I’ll try, but I’m bleeding everywhere, and I’m out of quarters for the tampon machine. I’ll have to get change at the office!”
At the word tampon, Mrs. Gosford’s bloodless lips lost more color. Had I proceeded to whip mine out right then and there, she couldn’t have looked more horrified.
Stepping out of the room, I saw a zombie army of teachers and support staff marching down the hall. Those who weren’t moving were rifling through students’ lockers. Holy crap. There was a baggie of shrooms in my gym bag.
I zipped straight past the can and up the side stairs. Luck was with me: the searchers hadn’t reached my locker.
I found the magic mushrooms and stuffed them down the front of my jeans, then shuffled back toward the girls’ toilet.
I didn’t want to flush them. It was such a waste. Yet it was too risky to keep them on me. I’d seen the antidrug zeal in those teachers’ eyes: they wouldn’t stop with lockers and bags. The body searches could start any minute.
I continued down the hall, looking for somewhere to hide the baggie, somewhere it might be overlooked, somewhere I could return for it later. The school corridors were a wasteland. No potted plants. No ornaments. No handy nooks or crannies.
Up ahead, like an answer to an unspoken prayer, a vision appeared before me. At the base of her locker, neatly folded, lay Angie Zukovitch’s cheerleading jacket. She must have forgotten it somewhere, and someone had kindly returned it. It shone like a beacon: cobalt blue with her surname in silver letters. The school colors.
I bent down and slipped the shrooms into the inside chest pocket. I’d been looking forward to them, but the sacrifice seemed worthwhile.
There was a spring in my step as I reentered History. Even Mrs. Gosford couldn’t squash it.
Sure enough, later that day I saw Angie slumped on Death Row, pale beneath a layer of false bravado and pancake makeup. She never knew who did it or why: payback for her endless lame riffs on my surname, Dykstra, and for taking that nude Polaroid of me for Bryce and Kyle.
Plenty of people had reason to fuck with her back in high school. I didn’t tell Dana until years later. I wasn’t ashamed of setting Angie up, I just wasn’t proud of it either. I even felt a little bad for not feeling bad when she was marched out of school, tearfully protesting her innocence between her loud, grim-faced parents.
I don’t lack empathy. I just save it for those who deserve it, like Owen McFarlane. He looks pale and thin, a consumptive, tortured boy version of his mom.
Finally, the secretary hands me a new stapler. It’s a tinny piece of shit. I’d better just go buy one. Crap stapler in hand, I walk over to Owen. “Hey, Owen.”
He looks up. Beneath a mass of straggly curls, dark eyes take me in. Even in a school uniform of crisp white shirt and gray slacks, Owen manages to look goth. I like him. Someone in that family had to rebel. He shuffles his feet. “Hi, Ms. Jo.”
In school, my name is Miz Jo. Back when I was a kid, we still called teachers by their surnames: Mr. O’Connor, Mrs. Dawson. I’m not sure when that shifted.
Outside of school, to Owen I’m plain old Jo. I met the twins as newborns. At that point, childless myself, I found them sweet but mind-numbing. It wasn’t until I had Ruby that I understood Dana’s obsession.
“You okay?” I ask. There’s a geometric pattern drawn on the back of his hand in blue ink. It’s like a starburst or a mandala using only straight lines. I wonder what it means and why he’s here, looking like he’s waiting—no, hoping—for death outside the principal’s office.
Owen shrugs. He’s not much of a talker.
I should go but don’t. There are more questions I’d love to ask but don’t dare: Did you see or hear anything that night? Do you know your mom’s guilty as sin? Do you suspect I helped her?
Owen surprises me by saying: “The cops talked to me last night.”
“Oh,” I say. I thought Dana was against that. Was their lawyer with them? “Was it okay?”
Another shrug. “They asked a lot about you.”
“Me?” I blurt before I can stop myself, then, in a more normal voice, say, “Really? What did they want to know?”
Owen sighs. “Just stuff.”
I feel an urge to shake him.
I thought Owen was the honest twin, more straightforward and transparent than his high-gloss brother. But the way he hangs his head low and looks up seems covert. Is that mockery in his twisted lips or just his standard teenage-misfit expression?
I wrap my cardigan tighter. There’s a draft in this office.
“Owen,” I say, “why are you here?”
He blinks. His voice is soft. “I guess I’m in trouble.”
“Why?” It comes out as a bleat. I want to shake him again. What’s he done? His mom’s under enough pressure without him misbehaving.
Owen’s thin shoulders rise. His sandy curls obscure more of his face. “School searched our lockers this morning.”
“Oh shit,” I say. This word escapes through clenched teeth.
Again, I think back to my own narrow escape with the shrooms. How old was I? Sixteen. A year older than Owen. Evidently not old enough to know better. Who brings drugs to school? What was I thinking?
Owen swings his feet. When he glances up, he looks scared, arms clutching his belly like it hurts. His upper body is gently rocking.
The fear on his face fuels my own. I’m assuming it was drugs because of my own misspent youth. What if it’s something else? Something worse. Something related to Stan’s death.
“Owen?” I cross the gap between us and sidle into the chair beside his. “What did they find in your locker?”
He’s rocking harder. “Spice,” he mumbles.
Despite my relief, I’m outraged. “Spice!” I say. “Do you even know what that is?” I figured he might have tried pot, but this is worse. It’s synthetic marijuana sprayed with God knows what. The effects are much stronger. And at school! Owen ignores me. I take a deep breath. “Where did you get it?”
He shoots me a sideways sneer that says I’m a moron. “It’s everywhere.”
I study my sensible work shoes tapping on the tiles next to Owen’s scuffed loafers. Dana will lose it.
“Owen,” I whisper. “It’s illegal! The school might call the cops.”
That gets his attention.
All motion stops. “The cops? But they barely found anything! It’s not like I was selling it!”
“That’s good,” I say, somewhat relieved. At least he wasn’t found with bushels. “But you’re a minor. And it’s dangerous. They’ll want to know where it came from.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a narc.”
My eyes follow suit in a jerky eye roll. What is this, a bad TV cop drama? First his mom talking about sting ops, and now Owen’s contempt for narcs.
His gaze has reglued to the floor. He’s stopped rocking, but his hands knead his knees. He’s got big knuckles like his father’s.
“Did you buy it at school?” I ask.
His lips twitch briefly into what could be a smile. “As if. Nobody sells anything here except shit.”
“Such as?”
“Bobby Armstead’s dad has a massive wine cellar.”
I picture Bobby’s good-old-boy dad when he finds his prized bottles of 1990 Château Margaux have gone missing. “Nice,” I say. “Could you let me know next time Bobby’s peddling his dad’s premium hooch?”
If I was hoping for a smile, I don’t get it.
Gazing at Owen, the truth hits me. I recall what Angie said about her son Jordan’s tennis coach selling him marijuana. That coach lives next door to Owen. The smile dies on my lips. “It was your neighbor,” I whisper. Dana’s young lover.
Owen’s whole body goes rigid. If he’d screamed yes, the truth couldn’t be louder or clearer.
I shut my eyes. Jesus.
What a fucker, selling chemical-laced weed to his lover’s vulnerable teenage son. I’d like to kick Ryan Reeve in the balls. As will Dana.
At that moment, Principal Bill’s door opens. Seeing me seated beside Owen, his gray eyebrows rise, and the corners of his mouth shoot down. Principal Bill doesn’t like me. He had no choice but to approve my hiring, not after Stan and Dana endorsed me. Not after their generous donation to Stanton House. They built the new science lab. So yes, I owe Dana.
“Owen?” says Principal Bill. A tall, thin man, his voice is unusually low. He’s fond of western-style belt buckles and lariats. He moves and talks slowly. I suspect he does this to bore his opponents into submission. By the time he’s finished a sentence, the will to live, let alone argue, is . . . long . . . gone. Strangely, kids seem to like him. He has a grandfatherly vibe.
Owen stands up. I stay quiet and seated.
“Jo?” says my boss. “Did you need to see me?” These six words last an ice age.
I shake my head. “No.” There’s no reason to pretend to like him either.
I stand up. “I was just speaking with Owen. About how hard it is with his dad still unfound.” This is my reminder to go easy on him, to bear in mind what he’s facing, and whose son he is. I click my stapler. “Have you spoken with Owen’s mother?”
Principal Bill frowns. His head shake is stiff: “The secretary’s been unable to reach her.”
“She should be here,” I say. “I’ll try to call her.”
Under their shroud of curls, Owen’s eyes shift my way. “No!” he growls. “Mom makes everything worse! She’s crazy! She’s—” His voice breaks.
The panic in his eyes zaps me. Is Owen scared of—or for—Dana?
I quash this thought. That wasn’t fear, just resentment. All teenagers feel misunderstood. And Owen has good reason to feel that way. No one in that family ever got him, with his pebble-towers on the beach, tribal wood carvings, and elaborate mobiles of found objects. Dana dragged him to all those doctors, made the poor kid feel defective instead of creative. No wonder he mistrusts her.
Owen is smart. All those therapists taught him was to hide himself better. I can’t say those diagnoses were wrong, just that labels aren’t always helpful.
“Shall we?” says Principal Bill. He motions Owen into his office.
Owen only half shuts the door.
Trying to listen in, I recall him, maybe age four, face blotched with fury because Dana had thrown out a mobile he’d fashioned from wire and seagull feathers. She said it was filthy, which it was. She’d urged him to remake it using fluffy dyed feathers from the craft store. What Dana didn’t get was the purpose of that mobile. It wasn’t decoration but protection, an attempt to keep his world in balance.
My memory is interrupted by footsteps. Principal Bill peers out, frowning, and shuts his door.
Damn. Did he know I was trying to eavesdrop?
As I stalk out into the hallway, I recall Owen’s anger toward his mother. What if he knows the truth about his dad? The kid’s fragile, maybe drug addled. I’m scared of what he’ll let slip to that old windbag Bill.