blue skirt and her pretty eyes. Already she was in the process of telling her class that she could not believe, could not possibly understand how she had managed to get, yet again, a class of such brilliant boys. She was absolutely jumping with excitement over everything they would be doing that year together, she said.
The student with the too-short hair, whose name was Elias Worth, decided he had had enough. It had been a difficult first day back at school. Everyone had made fun of his hair, his shoes didn’t fit right, and he had tried to be funny during first period but no one had laughed. And now he had been tricked, faked out. He had been presented with the possibility of Ms. Beck, only to be given Mr. Clemson instead. It wasn’t fair, and it was too much for this particular 4th grader to handle. Too much for Elias Worth.
He would not take another step.
It was suicide, suicide in an all-boys school, but he couldn’t help himself: very quietly, Elias began to cry.
Kevin felt himself on the verge of taking drastic action. He had no experience with how to handle such a situation, but he knew that this boy needed support of some kind. And fast. A diversion, perhaps. He could pull the fire alarm. He could call in a bomb threat. He could –
But Emily was already there. She put herself quickly and gracefully in a position to create privacy; the others could not easily see Elias’s distress. Then she began speaking to him gently. Reassuringly. Whispering that she hoped Elias could work on homework with her later today. During study hall this afternoon. I run a study session with a group of students , she told him in a whisper. They’re mostly older, but you could come too today. If you want. We meet in the library. Sound good?
The effect was immediate. Elias Worth was comforted. Saved. He nodded gratefully.
“Okay,” Emily said, so that everyone could hear her now. “Off you go.”
Kevin watched this exchange without saying a word. In another moment Emily had returned to teaching her class, and Kevin slipped silently out of the room. He hurried back up the stairs, past the slowly moving line of Clemson Art scholars (and Ron Clemson himself, who was still muttering curses), back toward the lounge.
Emily Beck glanced once, furtively, over her shoulder after Kevin had left. She shook her head gently. An expression that might have been sadness passed briefly over her face.
Then it was gone.
A Rising Sense Of Dread
When the last student had left Kevin’s classroom for the day , he stood for a few seconds in silence, wondering if there was anything else he was supposed to do. He made a conscious effort to avoid looking at the clock.
He hoped it was still moving.
After another moment he left the room and made his way down to the teacher’s lounge one more time. It knew it was only 2:30, and he worried he might be expected to coach something. The lounge was empty when he arrived, so he sat down in one of the chairs and waited . He wonder ed if Ms. Stewart might be about to come striding through the door to ask him why he wasn’t already on his way to the football fields, the buses were waiting, and why wasn’t he in his coach’s uniform, and what was wrong with him anyway?
To which, again, he would have cheerfully replied that he had no idea.
But no one came. There were no knocks on the door, no sounds of running steps, no shouts from people searching for him.
The building suddenly seemed deserted.
Where do teachers go after their last class? Not the lounge? Are they all at a bar somewhere?
He sat there in silence, waiting. For what seemed like a very long time.
Please, not again .
With a rising sense of dread, he turned slowly to look at the clock.
Damn it.
Stuck again. The red hand wasn’t moving. And this would have been disturbing enough, except that Kevin could feel that other