Lost in the System Page 11

  I don’t need to use the john. I need time to think. Once I have some privacy, I immediately calm down. What are the chances of that happening more than once? A bazillion to one? This is a freak coincidence, nothing more. If anything, I’ve learned to carefully research my marks once I am back on the take. That’s it. No life-altering revelations. I’ve shown him. It’ll take a lot more than that to bring down Smullian O’Toole. It bothers me, though. Why does the Interloper care if I feel bad about my crimes? I know why The Powers-that-Be at Life Mod care, but they aren’t currently driving this ship. The Interloper is setting my schedule and, as far as I know, he cares about David. What does it matter to him if I develop a conscience?

  I am amazed at my own paranoia. This is what the last three days have reduced me to—talking out loud to people who aren’t there and seeing conspiracy behind every coincidence. This whole situation amounts to one large coincidence like the Ferrari being stolen. The situation with Watson and King was already going on. I noticed it because I’m that good, not for any other reason. Get a grip, Smullian.

  When I leave the bathroom, I notice that Watson is gone. Maybe her finger fell off and she is reattaching it. More likely she needed privacy, as well. I dump my glop, make some comment about grading papers, and head back to class. When I pass Watson’s room, I hear her talking to someone that could only be Mr. King. It is obvious this isn’t the first time they’d had this discussion.

  “Is it wrong of me to want to share lunch with my girl?”

  “No, Ryan,” Watson says. “I just need a little more time.”

  “We’ve been together six months, Susan. How much more time do you want?”

  “I don’t, I don’t know,” she stammers. “Doris was talking about—”

  “I don’t give a rip what Doris or anyone else says. The last I checked, they weren’t part of this relationship. I know Warren was a saint, but he’s been gone two years. I’m starting to wonder if you’re ashamed of me.”

  “Ryan, it’s not like that. Of course, I’m not…Please, be patient.”

  “Yeah well, I don’t have that much patience left.” I sense the end of the conversation, and scoot to my room. Six months. Wow. He must be deeply into her. Poor Watson, not only was she battling her own guilt about moving on, but everyone else’s thoughts on the matter. I make it to my desk just as King storms past in a haze of manly fury. I don’t blame him—I’d be raging too. Yet another reason I choose to stay footloose and fancy free—no one has control over my emotions but me.

  The lunch bell chimes, and the inmates return. It takes forever to calm them down, and by then we only have a few more moments for discussion. I again curse the mouth-breather who scheduled lunch in the middle of class.

  “I feel sorry for Shylock,” says a girl wearing a peasant blouse. She has no makeup and sports long dangly earrings. I am willing to bet my life she is a vegetarian. No doubt she is one of those idealistic youths that spend all their time commenting on the world’s troubles, which is a luxury only afforded to people who’ve never experienced any real problems.

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “Well, people have been mean to him his whole life. They pick on him and treat him badly. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just trying to make it in a harsh world.”

  “Are you nuts?” barks a student from the back of the room. “If he gets that pound of flesh, Antonio will die. That’s murder.”

  “Let’s keep our discussion civil—no insults,” I say, pointing to the offender while inwardly agreeing with the assessment. “Let me ask it this way, do you feel that Shylock’s rough life justifies his being a criminal—that it makes all of his crimes okay?”

  At that moment, the bell rings, silencing all further discussion. The question hangs heavy in the room. I try to avoid it by busying myself at Burnsey’s desk. It doesn’t work. The question is there, and it needs an answer. In the context of the class discussion, the answer is, “Of course not. Having a rough life doesn’t justify criminal behavior.” But in the context of my life, it is my reigning philosophy.

  For the second time in less than an hour, I am confronted with the notion that I may not be perfect. The barricade holding back my anger threatens to tumble. I want to repeat this morning’s temper tantrum, but poor Burnsey’s hands can only take so much. What right does this Interloper have coming in and messing with my life? I was quite happy before he came along. What is he trying to accomplish? Well, I’d made a deal to help with David; I didn’t make one to grow a conscience. No one is in the room, so I steal a quick glance upward and say, “I help with David. That’s the deal.” There isn’t a response.

  The events of the last hour have put me in a dark mood. I stare at my desk and tap a pen with the ferocity of a nerpes perforating a rock. I take a deep breath, hold it, and expel it with force. This day sucks. This whole week sucks. I doubt I have the energy to put on the show for yet another set of delinquents.

  IV

  I hear them coming in, but don’t bother to look up. I am so not in the mood. I ignore the heathens and keep banging away with my pen. The unmistakable screech of a metal chair being dragged across the floor grabs my attention. I glance up. I’m going to have to acknowledge the little punks soon anyway.

  The room has been transformed. One student has repositioned two desks, so that he can sit at one while propping his feet on the other. A group of girls have arranged their desks in a circle. One kid is sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall. The odd seating configuration isn’t the only break with normal class protocol. Several students are slurping sodas or crunching chips.

  Since all the students are involved, not just one rebellious kid, I have to assume that Keith’s usual rules don’t apply. I decide on a quick test.

  “What is the rule about food in my class?” I bark at a nearby girl.

  She pauses mid-munch and says, “Only if we give you some.”

  “That’s right,” I answer with a chuckle.

  She hops up and shakes a few nacho chips free from her bag onto the desk. To my surprise, several other students follow her lead. Soon I have a smorgasbord of junk food—three kinds of chips, some popcorn, and a cookie. This is an excellent hustle. I’m kind of proud of Burnsey.

  Obviously, this class is different. Why? I look at the schedule. Last period is listed as Creative Writing. The words cause a slight panic. I had only checked out the one lesson plan. It didn’t occur to me that Keith would teach more than one subject. Between the Exhaustive Lexicon and my own experiences spinning yarns, I know quite a bit about fiction. But I don’t know what aspect they’re covering in class.

  “What happened to your hand?” asks a perky girl in the aforementioned circular gaggle of females. Whew. I’m saved by a well-timed question.

  “That’s today’s assignment.” I smile. “I’m going to write several explanations for this injury on the board. Choose the scenario that most inspires you and write that story.”

  I write out all the excuses I’ve been using all day, from home repair accident to Reaver attack. Surprisingly, no one asks what a Reaver is. Either they already know, or being creative, they’ve painted a description from their own imaginations. I think I might actually like these kids. I hear gasps and grunts, the auditory expressions of their storytelling gears grinding to life. Even without looking, I know they are excited about the assignment.

  When I finish writing out the story prompts, I turn to find several already hunched over their notebooks, some paper and some digital, writing. Others are gazing off into space as they mentally work out the story. One boy tilts his head from side to side, lost in his own internal conversation.

  Seeing their little minds whirring as they eagerly approach an assignment I gave them is a rush. This must be why Burnsey does it. A person could put up with a lot of flarp, if there were moments when he knew he was making an impact. Last week, I wouldn’t have felt this way. I’d have mocked Keith for needing this kind of affirmation. A m
an should be footloose, fancy free, and definitely not need the validation of a bunch of mindless, adolescent zombies. That’s what I would have thought. Now I’m sitting here all jazzed ’cause some twerps are engaged by something I did. What’s next? Crying at chick flicks? I blame David for the mess I’m in. Little twerp.

  This thought reminds me that I’m supposed to ask each class about David. I could let it go. It’s not like the questions has yielded any useful information today. Besides, I hate to interrupt the creative flow these kids are in. However, I made a deal, and I don’t welch. I have rules.

  “Before you get too far into your stories, I need to ask you about David Hawthorne.” I wait for the ridiculous half-truths and rumors.

  “What happened to him?” a girl asks. “Madison is really upset.”

  “People are saying the stupidest things,” another chimes in.

  I am surprised, but I shouldn’t be. Of course, these artists, these teens that don’t fit the mold, would know David.

  “We’re not entirely sure,” I answer. “The police are looking for information. Did any of you see or talk to him on Sunday or Monday?”

  “I saw him on Monday,” says the boy sitting on the floor. He’s dressed in head to toe black like he’d hit a fire sale at “Goths R Us.”

  “Where?”

  “At the gas station. Mom was making me pump. He walked into the store. I thought he was ditching class.”

  “What time was that?”

  He fiddled with the stud in his lip. “It was after my doctor appointment. Maybe 10 or 10:30.”

  Finally, some helpful information. I’d pat myself on the back if that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. I did it. I played ball. The Father will have no choice but to honor our deal now. Pool boy, here I come. I beckon to Goth Guy.

  “Why don’t the rest of you get back to your stories while we go call the detective handling the case?”

  I’d be worried about leaving another class unattended, but these guys actually want to work. Hopefully, this information will be enough to break the case open. I don’t want my tour in the Caribbean serving scantily clad women who have been drinking too many cocktails in the hot sun to be tainted by worry over Lydia. I guess I’m worried about the twerp, too. I know first-hand how mean the streets are and, while I managed to survive, I wouldn’t want to wish that experience on anyone, especially not a sweet kid like David.

  I usher Goth Guy down to the teacher’s lounge. I bet Burnsey still has Benigno’s card in his wallet. Keith’s optimistic enough to believe he might have an opportunity to use it. I flip open the wallet and dig through. Sure enough, the card is tucked under the credit cards.

  I dial the number and wait. I’m a little nervous. I’ve never communicated with someone I’ve brain-hitched before. It’s the ultimate test. His partner and his wife bought my act, but now I’ll be able to compare myself with the original.

  “Missing Persons. Detective Diaz.”

  “This is Keith Burns. David Hawthorne’s English teacher. I have a student who saw David on Monday morning.”

  “Good. Can I interview him?” Perfunctory and professional—just like I played him. You are the best, Smullian O’Toole.

  “I have him here now, if a phone interview is okay.”

  “Yes. Put him on the line.”

  I hand the phone over, giving the boy a reassuring smile. “Just tell the detective what you told me.”

  From listening to the kid’s side of the conversation, I figure Benny Boy went over the story with him three times. Each time, Diaz skillfully coaxed out additional details. David had his backpack. David waved. David was smiling. David walked in the direction of a nearby bus stop.

  It’s strange that David waved. When you are running away, you don’t want to attract unwanted attention. If you can’t back away or change direction when you see someone you know, you keep your head down and mosey on like you didn’t see him. You don’t slap on a grin and wave. This information, combined with the fact that he didn’t leave Lydia a note, makes me uneasy. If he hadn’t stolen the Rock the Universe money, I’d say something bad had happened. All I can be sure of now is that things aren’t as cut and dried as I originally thought.

  After Goth Guy is finished, I get back on the line. “I hope this helps.”

  “It shores up the timeline,” Benny answers.

  “Lydia, Madison, and I are going to hang flyers this afternoon.”

  “Good. Every little bit helps.”

  I’m not sure if he means it. The chip in my brain tells me that tip lines and public appeals lead to a plethora of crackpots blaming aliens and Jimmy Hoffa. Police work is doubled or tripled running down specious information. I feel bad for the increased workload, but I told the girls I’d help. Besides, I understand that for them, hanging flyers gives a sense of control in an otherwise maddening situation. I’d give anything for Lydia to feel better, even for a few minutes.

  Yep. Bring on the chick flicks. I’ve reached full-on sap level.

  The call ends, and I escort Goth Guy back to class. As I predicted, the little urchins are jotting away so lost in their imagined worlds that they don’t even look up when I reenter the room. Too soon, the bell rings. Some scoot out, but a few linger on eking out the last few precious sentences before they have to catch the bus.

  I give ’em five and clear my throat. I admit that I’m enjoying their eagerness to work, but Lydia is waiting. I’m nervous and excited like I’m sixteen or something waiting for a first date. Or what I imagine it would be like. There wasn’t so much dating for me as there were random, heated, desperate hook ups in dark, seedy places. When you’re constantly on the move and everyone is about what they can get from you, there really isn’t room for true connections. Anyway, these kiddos need to move on. I have somewhere to be.

  V

  Just to be clear, everything still sucks. But the last class did pull me out of the muck for fifty minutes, and, for that, I am slightly less irritated by how things have been going. I may have to spend the next few hours assuaging the fears of two emotional females, but I also get to appreciate how nicely Lydia fills out her jeans. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the scenery, as Chuckles says. I’ve been good. I’ve played ball. The Father better honor our bargain. Tomorrow I will be in the Caribbean, and all this mess will be far behind me.

  You can’t keep me down for long. I’m a survivor. Mood elevated, I pack up and saunter down the hall. That’s when I see Mrs. Watson. She’s sitting at her desk, staring out into the aether, and twisting the neth out of that ring. I was joking about her severing her finger earlier, but now I have some genuine concern about the fate of that digit. Her uptight, perfect posture bows under the eighteen tons of guilt she has placed upon herself.

  Walk on by, Smullian my boy. This is not your job. Your job is that little twerp. No one else expects any more of you than that, and you don’t owe anyone more than that. This is not your problem.

  I stop anyway. It’s not my problem, but at the same time I want to help. I want to help. I’m wavering here in Watson’s doorway not because it’s something I think Keith would do, which he would—annoying good guy. But because I am compelled to do something to ease her pain. Drak.

  I awkwardly clear my throat. Watson adjusts her posture and plants a well-rehearsed smile on her face. “What do you need, Keith?”

  I do the patented Burnsey cheek blow out and stammer, “I, uh, heard, uh, you and Ryan earlier.”

  Equal parts terror and sorrow cover her face. “You did?”

  “Yeah and I, uh, wanted to tell you that, uh, I think Warren would want you to be happy. If I were him, that’s what I’d want. People aren’t supposed to mourn forever. Those of us still around owe it to those that, uh, aren’t…to enjoy our lives. And I, uh, think those people who, uh, care about you want the same thing. Those that don’t should stick it.”

  She chuckles. Well, that’s being generous. It isn’t more than a quiet expulsion of air, but it’s a step
in the right direction. “That’s what you think?”

  “Yeah. You and Ryan make a good couple.”

  “Thank you.”

  Raw, unfettered gratitude emanates from her face. It terrifies me. I want to run. I want to restore the wall I’ve built around myself brick by brick. The last thing I desire is to be caught in this vulnerable moment with her. But I can’t run. I have to stand here and take it. Her eyes radiate warmth, joy, and a bittersweet sadness. The utter humanness of this connection is overwhelming, and I think I may drown in it.

  “You’re a good man, Keith.”

  Keith, yes, but not me. Her statement burns like an accusation. I clear my throat and make ready to escape.

  Before I can go, she adds one last dagger. “And a good friend.”

  I cut a fast clip down the hall, around the corner, and into the stairwell. I lean against the wall, attempting to gather myself before I face the girls. A good friend. What a joke. Smullian O’Toole does not have friends. For me, people fall into one of two categories: those I can rip off, and those I can use. I guess that sounds cynical, but no one has ever done me any favors. Why should I do any for them? Life is a series of contracts. You do this for me; I do this for you. It’s all about barter of goods, exchange of services. Food, shelter, transportation, sex. These things are inherent needs with inherent values attached to them. I provide something of equal worth, and I get my needs met.

  The concept that someone out there will feed you because they “like” you is irrational. You can’t quantify a feeling. Emotions are as changeable as the wind, and so are the people that have them. What happens when they don’t like you anymore? When they’re angry? When they die? I’ll tell you what happens. You’re left cold, hungry, and alone.

  Friendship is a myth that fades under the harsh light of reality. But…yesterday, I saw an example that didn’t fade when real life reared its head. Chuckles got mad at Benny, er, me, but instead of bailing, he forgave. By the time we reached the car, all was well. But I digress.