Living Right on Wrong Street by Titus Pollard

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    It was a thirty minute drive down Bell Avenue to Scottsdale, where Job picked up a few items at a local drug store. For the most part, they window shopped.
    They doubled back a ways, heading south down Seventh Street to Bank One Ballpark, home of the Diamondbacks. They picked up a schedule of the remaining home games. They stopped in the Blues Light Jazz Grill on Fifty-first and Indian School for a late lunch, and then spent a short time at the flea market on the Arizona State Fairgrounds.
    Job glanced over at Monica, who had her feet propped up on the dash, flipping a city map from back to front. She eyed him without a blink, but she extended her hand. He touched her for a moment and then returned his attention to driving.
    Job dug his heels into the floorboard of the vehicle. “Hey baby?”
    â€œUm hm.” Her response sounded soothing, almost benevolent.
    â€œWe’re going to pass right by Coral Gables Boulevard. Mountain River High is on that street. Let’s drive by there on the way home. I’m trying to get used to going there from any direction.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Job considered Mountain River, in comparison to other public schools, as an ingenious piece of architecture. The exterior was made of material native to the Southwest—a mustard colored adobe hewn out of a set of hills. It faced away from the daytime heat and was covered by metal roofing.
    He thought it peculiar that the gate was open with a few cars in the parking lot. Curious to see why the school seemed accessible on the weekend, he pulled in.
    Monica frowned at him and popped her lips. “I thought we were only driving by. I should’ve known better.”
    â€œWe might get to see my classroom.”
    Job parked the car and asked if she was getting out.
    Monica adjusted her seat into a more relaxed position. “You’re on your own. Leave the car running.” She leaned back, unbuckled her seatbelt, and turned on the radio.
    Job went to the front entrance, knocked, and then realized the door was already unlocked. He heard a chirp as he started down the main hallway, guessing that it was an alert that someone had entered the building. He had passed a few classrooms that appeared to be used for science: Bunsen burners, rows of test tubes, the formaldehyde smell.
    He was met by a gentleman who was about five foot ten with sledge hammer hands, sunburned skin, satin black, shoulder length hair, and a thick Spanish accent. He had a tape measurer on his belt and a broom in his hand.
    Job’s Spanish skills, one thing he’d have to work on if he were to survive in Phoenix, were limited at best. Somehow he and the custodian were able to come to a verbal understanding. His name was Enrique. He was using the remaining Saturdays as extra time to make last minute preparations before school began in August.
    Enrique said, “Principal,” pointed down the hall and then said, “ Izquierda. ”
    Job wrenched his brain for a Spanish-to-English interpretation. He figured that the principal’s office was nearby and she must be in.
    Enrique gave him an, “Adios,” and went on his way.
    The administrative offices were in a remote corner at the end of the central hallway. Job entered through the door, which was accented with a frosted glass. Inside the offices was a massive counter that measured about four feet high. There was a partition for three large desks, columns of file cabinets, and a monstrous safe.
    Job smelled coffee. It must’ve been instant, with a hint of mint. There were faint sounds of someone on a phone. He followed his ears.
    He was led to a woman who was shuffling a set of multi-colored papers and talking on the phone.
    She halted her conversation when she noticed Job standing in the doorway, and hung up. “Mr. Wright,” she said.
    Job’s mouth hung open. How did this woman know his name? And who is she; a teacher?
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I don’t