―Whatever you say, kiddo. Oh, and here.‖ He bent over his desk computer, typed in a few commands and then straightened. ―Okay, you can access anything through this computer that you can through the library. In case you ever want to, you know, hang here.‖
I did my best eye roll. ―Like I‘ll ever have any free time. The storeroom‘s a mess.‖
―Blame David. Listen, if you‘re ever on the computer and I‘m not here when you‘re done, just log out, make sure the lights are off, and close the office door, okay? I‘ll get a couple spare keys made so you can always get in if I‘m not around.‖
I spent the next forty-five minutes cataloging chemicals. The work was easy and kind of brainless. I could see why David kept putting it off and then I wondered what time he came in— if he still did. Had Mr. Anderson told him I‘d be picking up the slack and then taking over? I didn‘t see how; Mr. Anderson had made his command-decision only, what, eight hours ago? It felt like my whole life had suddenly changed.
The radio was playing, something classical. A window next to the computer overlooked the parking lot, and as I worked, I could see cars pulling up, teachers trickling into the building. Pillars of puffy clouds towered over the gray-blue smudge of Lake Michigan on my right. It was a very nice, very pleasant view.
Sometime during all that, I poured more coffee into my Starbucks cup. The pot squatted on a gray metal filing cabinet directly across from the cataloging computer and adjacent to Mr. Anderson‘s desk. As I sipped, I let my eyes run over a corkboard to which he‘d tacked schedules, a calendar, a couple Get Fuzzy comics. Then, after a second‘s hesitation, I slid into Mr. Anderson‘s black leather chair. He‘d sat in it so often, it was molded to his shape. I didn‘t fit quite right, but it was comfortable and I decided to relax a minute. The chemicals had waited this long, and I really was tired. The coffee was strong, but I‘d dumped in about a pound of sugar and creamer so my teeth wouldn‘t curl. My eyes drifted over Mr. Anderson‘s desk: the computer, a small desk lamp, his X-Files mug, an organizer, a stack of textbooks. A John Sandford novel: Winter Prey.
My fingers trailed over the desk‘s drawers. There were four: two stacked on the left, one in the middle, and one on the right. I inched open the lower left-hand drawer: lesson plans, lab sheets, articles, and other papers. Above that were supplies, a box each of pencils and pens, rubber bands, staples, paper clips. The right held four lab books, each labeled by section and level with various labs done in a walk-through in Mr. Anderson‘s neat, tight handwriting.
There was one more drawer: long, centered, equipped with a lock. When I put a finger underneath and tugged, it moved. So. Not locked.
People always had one drawer where they kept the really good stuff. Stuff that was personal.
I listened for a moment but heard nothing other than the tick of the clock and a glissando run of piano. I tiptoed to the office door, scanned the empty classroom. Tiptoed back.
Mr. Anderson had been gone for almost an hour. School would start in another forty minutes. The first buses would arrive in twenty.
Just a peek.
b
Loose pens and pencils.
A roll of Life Savers (cherry).
A double-handful of loose change in a small Pyrex dish.
A small digital camera.
A hand-bound leather journal with a tie strap wrapped around a brass button shaped like a flower.
And under the journall. . .
A knife.
Don’t do it! My brain really did scream that, but I was already reaching in that same, dreamy way that I‘d run my fingers over David‘s scar. Don’t touch it; don’t, don’t!
Yeah. Like I listen so well.
c
So, Bobby-o, you into knives? I‘ll bet some cops are. I know I am. Duh. Well, let me tell you about this one.
This knife was beautiful in the same way that Mr. Anderson was. That knife felt so good, so balanced. A perfect knife.
Inset in the staghorn handle was a tiny brass shield with two birds and the words, Kissing Crane. I slid my thumbnail into the nail nick and unfolded the blade, which locked into place with a tiny click. It wasn‘t your usual Swiss Army knife but more of a stiletto, a little like David‘s saber, only this was three bright inches of shining, very sharp carbon steel....
―Mr. Anderson?‖ A boy‘s voice, coming from the classroom.
My heart did a quick double-thump. Oh, shit, shit . . .
―Mr. Anderson?‖ The boy‘s voice came again, closer now because he was walking through the classroom for the back office. ―Mr.... Oh, hey, Jenna. Uh, what are you doing?‖
―Me?‖ I was back at the computer, industriously typing. ―Just, you know, TA stuff.‖
―Oh.‖ David looked surprised. His hair was rumpled, like he‘d just rolled out of bed and I thought I recognized the same shirt from the day before. ―Yeah, okay, that‘s cool. I figured Mr. Anderson would get someone else, but I thought he was going to ask—‖
―David?‖ Another voice that I recognized and I thought: oh, how perfect.
―David, is he . . .‖ One good look and Danielle‘s eyes first popped, then slitted like a cat‘s. Her lips peeled back from her teeth. ―What are you doing here?‖ she snarled.
―Uh,‖ I said. ―Mr. Anderson asked me to be his new TA and—‖
―What? No, you‘re not. I was supposed to be Mr. Anderson‘s assistant, not you.‖
―Hey, take it easy.‖ David put a hand on Danielle‘s arm, which she shrugged off.
―There‘s more than enough work for two people,‖ he said.
―Wanna bet? She gets here early and stays late and . . .‖
―And what, Danielle?‖ Mr. Anderson was suddenly there, with a napkin-covered cafeteria plate and a smell of fried potatoes.
―What‘s she doing here?‖ Danielle demanded. ― David’s your TA and I—‖
―Danielle, calm down.‖ Mr. Anderson set the plate on his desk. ―As I recall, this is my office. Don‘t you think you have enough going on?‖
―What‘s that got to do with—‖ Her lips trembled. She looked to David who avoided her eyes, and then back at Mr. Anderson. She screwed her fists onto her hips. ―I asked first.‖
―You really want to do this now, Danielle?‖ Mr. Anderson asked mildly. He crossed his arms over his chest. ―Jenna‘s here earlier and on a consistent basis and, as you pointed out, she stays later. You‘ve got cross-country, schoolwork, band and . . . other things.‖
Her face changed, and that‘s when I really noticed, for the first time, these deeply purple smudges under her eyes, like she wasn‘t getting much sleep. Come to think of it, she looked as rough as David—and weren‘t those yesterday‘s jeans? ―That‘s not fair. Don‘t I get a say?‖