Drenched in Light by Lisa Wingate Read Free Book Online Page A

tsk-tsk sound, frowning in a way that said, Great. Just great. Another hopeless idealist who’s never held down a real job and doesn’t have a clue how the world works. When will she learn?
    “Just . . . watch out.” Opening the administration door, he stepped partway in, then added, “She wants something to come of this.”
    “I didn’t do anything wrong.” At the end of the hall, Mrs. Morris was busy forcing a half dozen kids to about-face at the side door, so that they could walk around the building and come in the front as the rules prescribed. She looked disturbingly pleased about sending them out in the cold. “It was a judgment call, that’s all. In my opinion, returning the paper was in the best interest of the student involved. Morris’ll just have to tear the wings off some ladybugs for fun.” The school was notorious for its prespring hatching of ladybugs, for which there seemed to be no cure. The bugs gathered in corners, marched in lines up and down the walls, and sailed down the corridors, landing like ornaments in students’ hair. They were probably smart enough to stay away from Mrs. Morris.
    Rubbing the side of his face, Stafford stretched his sagging cheek skin, his tired sigh saying, I don’t need this. What have I done to deserve this? “It’s Say No to Drugs Day.” He shrugged over his shoulder toward the huge banner that announced a special Kansas City Drug Task Force assembly after roll call. “You’re supposed to be wearing red.” Without another word, he disappeared into his office, and I stood reading the banner—FRIDAY: WEAR RED INSTEAD.
    Crossing my arms over my pastel flowered dress and peach blazer, I stepped back against the wall, watching as the hall became a shifting sea of color coordination. Mrs. Morris, of course, had on red. Later, maybe she’d pop out her devil’s horns and complete the outfit.
    “Hey, Ms. Costell,” one of the kids—an eighth grader I’d helped with a summer music scholarship application—called, “it’s Red Day.”
    Groaning in my throat, I chirped out, “It’s OK, Colton. I like to be different.” What else was there to say?
    Twenty minutes later, when we filed into assembly, I ended up on the front row, looking like a party pooper at the antidrug extravaganza. Even the police officers seemed to notice, or maybe that was my own paranoia. Across the aisle, Mrs. Morris was whispering to another teacher and glaring at me. It looked like she was pantomiming yesterday’s disagreement over Dell Jordan.
    I searched for Dell in the crowd of students and teachers, but couldn’t find her. Maybe she’s absent. The thought brought a pang of disappointment as I settled back into my seat, listening with one ear to the drug task force’s spiel about teenage substance abuse: the effects on the body; tragic stories of kids who’d died or screwed up their lives by smoking, snorting, huffing, graphic tales of drug arrests and junkies; and neighborhoods where dealers had taken over the streets. It was too much information for middle schoolers, and I fidgeted uncomfortably in my chair, anxious for the assembly to be over. When it finally was, I slipped to the exit, watching for Dell as the students filed out, jostling among themselves and making jokes about the assembly with immature bravado, while teachers ordered them to stop visiting and proceed to class. Dell wasn’t in the crowd, and I walked back to my office feeling that I’d missed the mark the day before. She was probably ducking me and avoiding my suggestion that she write down more of her story so we could talk about it. My first real counseling opportunity, and I had no idea what I should have done.
    The corridor cleared as students filed into their classrooms, and teachers stood in the doorways, urging kids on and breaking up lingering conversations. Outside the seventh-grade science room, the science teacher was holding a test tube with something smoking inside it, and the literature