Deadly Lessons. David Russell W.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Bremner said, “Mr. Patrick wants to see you for a few minutes.”

      Trish looked up at me and smiled. “Hi, Mr. Patrick?” If the thought of some strange teacher coming to see her gave her any reason to be worried, Trish didn’t show it.

      “Hi. Yes. I’m Mr. Patrick. I teach in the Social Studies department.”

      “Oh, yeah,” she replied. “My best friend Jessica McWilliams is in your Law class.”

      “Sure, yeah, I know Jessica. Do you mind if we talk for a couple of minutes?”

      A brief flash of genuine concern passed across her face. “Is everything okay? Is something wrong with Jessica?”

      “No, no. She’s fine,” I told her. “I just need to ask you about something school-related. Why don’t we go inside? I may be dressed warmer than you are, but you’ve had the benefit of cardio exercise.”

      She relaxed again and smiled. “Sure,” she said, following me into the gym. We walked across the gym to the door exiting into the hallway on the far side, small talking about the run the class had just endured. Trish seemed to think it wasn’t so bad and had actually enjoyed blowing off steam after her French class the period before.

      “You don’t have sore pieds?” I asked.

      “Non, monsieur,” she responded with what was becoming a regular smile. I was not looking forward to this conversation. In the just over two months of my teaching career—longer if you count my student teaching practicum the year before—I had by no means become an expert on adolescent behaviour. It was nearly impossible for me to conceptualize this sweet-looking, pleasant student concocting a story of sexual misconduct against a well respected teacher. Still, I’ve been duped before, and I didn’t think it was a good idea for Carl’s legal counsel to find himself in a precarious situation with a student. I made sure we stayed out of earshot of the rest of the returning gym class, but within clear view of Ralph Bremner and the rest of Tricia’s classmates.

      “So,” I began badly, “how’re you doing?” Did I mention I was never good at talking to the opposite sex?

      “Pretty good, I guess. How are you?” She had been raised polite, if nothing else.

      “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” I stopped for a minute and wondered how to begin. If Carl was telling the truth—as I believed he was—this was a troubled girl. I had no way of predicting what her reaction might be to my questioning her about her relationship with her biology teacher. Would she freak out? Cause a scene? Spit at me? You never know with teenagers these days. Man, I’m starting to sound like my dad.

      “Mr. Patrick, did you want something? Why are you pulling me away from class?” Smart, too.

      I sighed. “Okay,” I began. “I need to talk to you about one of your teachers. Mr. Turbot.”

      Any pretense Trish had been displaying had been false. My bringing up Carl’s name had the effect of sucker punching her. Her eyes grew to twice the size they had been just seconds before, and it took nearly a minute before she was able to respond.

      “What about him?” she finally managed.

      “Well, I...he’s your biology teacher, correct?”

      “That’s right.”

      “And, Tricia, would you say you and Mr. Turbot get along all right?”

      “Holy shit!” she blurted. “He told you.”

      “He told me what?”

      “Cut the bullshit, Mr. Patrick. It’s obvious why you’re talking to me about Carl.” She used his first name like it was something she did everyday.

      “Carl? You refer to Mr. Turbot as Carl?”

      “He told you about us.”

      “What is it you think he told me, Trish? Why don’t you tell me about you and...‘Carl’?”

      She suddenly took me by the arm and led me through the gym’s exit doors into the hallway beyond. Given the circumstances, I was leery about being alone with Tricia without any witnesses, but if I wanted her to continue our conversation, I might have to work on her terms.

      “You know about our relationship, Mr. Patrick?” she asked when we were out of sight of the rest of the class.

      “I know what Mr. Turbot has told me. I’d like to hear your perspective.”

      “Why? What’s it to you?” Her soft demeanour had begun to crack around the edges.

      Sometimes honesty is the best policy, and from a legal standpoint, I knew I would eventually have to disclose the nature of my relationship with Carl. “Mr. Turbot has retained me, Tricia.”

      “Retained you?”

      “Yes. I’m still a member of the bar. I’m still a lawyer. Mr. Turbot has hired me to represent him should issues arise out of your allegations of unprofessional conduct.”

      “Why would he hire a lawyer? I don’t understand this. What’s the matter with him?” Trish’s voice was beginning to rise.

      “Tricia,” I said as soothingly as possible, “according to Mr. Turbot, you have threatened to report a sexual relationship to the principal. He’s having a difficult time trying to figure out why you’re trying to destroy his career and his professional reputation.”

      “After what he’s done to me, he can’t figure out why I’m angry? What a prick. I can’t believe I’ve loved him as long as I have.”

      I tried to let that pass for the moment. “What do you mean ‘after all he’s done to you,’ What exactly did Mr. Turbot do? I need to know if I’m going to be able to help either one of you.”

      Tricia looked at me with anger flaring in her eyes. “He broke up with me.”

      Five

      Thank God it was Tuesday. With a day like the one I had just had, it wasn’t that I was looking forward to three more, only that there were just three days before the weekend. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get a whole lot of relaxation time.

      I couldn’t bring myself to face Carl again that afternoon. As soon as the bell rang at the end of the day, I made my best effort to get out of the school fast. That itself is no small feat. When I was young and in school, when the bell rang at the end of the day, those of us cool enough to have jobs at gas stations or Beaver Lumber could afford our own cars to take us home or to the homes of the many friends that could be acquired through the joy of car ownership. It didn’t matter if the car was a beat up, 1966 Ford Fairlane; wheels were wheels. Those without cars started walking, at least as far as the nearest bus stop.

      Not so today. Not even a Chrysler dealership can produce the volume of mini-vans that appear in front of a school in the immediate aftermath of last period dismissal. Oh, sure, there are a few station wagons, SUVs and sedans, and even the occasional compact, but hell hath no highway like the mini-van strewn driveway of the public school at eight thirty a.m. and three p.m., Monday to Friday.

СКАЧАТЬ