navy collar. Not one wrinkle in her fabric. Anne Little told her, “This is Cealie Gunther. She’ll be taking Jack Burdell’s place today.”
Hannah Hendrick clasped my hands. “I love you,” she said.
“Thanks. And we just met.” Was it me making them so happy? Or did these women’s pleasure stem from having someone replace that teacher, Jack Burdell?
“You have no idea how hard it’s been lately to find enough subs,” Hannah said.
“Glad to help.” I almost meant it now with such warm greetings.
A teacher’s complaint called Hannah away, and Anne Little handed me keys. “I’m also keeper of the school keys. This one is for the classroom. Lock it whenever you leave the room. And this one’s for the desk. The biggest one is for the ladies’ restroom.”
“You have to lock classrooms and restrooms?” I asked, and she nodded and rushed off. Why lock those rooms? I wondered.
Cynthia Petre sat behind her monitor. Her mousy brown hair was clamped back, and she wore a purple blouse with an emerald green skirt. I told her hello. “Good morning,” she said without looking at me.
“But I didn’t do it, Coach!” A lanky boy stormed in from the hall behind the bulldog-faced man in coaching clothes. The tiny woman with big black hair who’d been with Coach yesterday came in too, looking like she could spit fire. Everyone in the area appeared angry now, as though ready to kill. With so many, how could police sort out just one who might actually do it? Were the police still here?
A hand tightened on my arm. “You might want to get to your room,” Anne Little said. “It’s almost time for the bell.”
“Ah, the bell.” Pleasant memories returned.
“You go down that hall,” Anne Little said, indicating the outer hallway, “then turn left, and when you get to a corridor, turn left again. Room 111. You can’t miss it.”
I opened my hand. Stared at the keys.
“That one.” She pointed. Her mouth did a little twitch, and her squinty-eyed gaze told me she wondered if I could handle subject matter if I couldn’t even remember what key to use. “A substitute folder should be on Jack’s desk. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Okay, I told myself, I could handle this. Someone died here this week, but being around this school wouldn’t pose a real problem. I just needed to go to a classroom, do whatever the absent teacher instructed in his folder, and after a few hours, I’d leave.
I headed out the office and passed a scrawny woman with skin so pale it appeared translucent. She hustled inside to Anne Little. “Did you hear about Jayne Ackers?”
“What about her?” Little said.
“Shot last night. She died.”
The entire staff stopped what they were doing. Faces whipped toward this woman as though a puppeteer had jerked a string joining them. Everyone uttered astonishment.
I turned to the pale person with news. “Who’s Jayne Ackers?”
She frowned as if I had no business asking. Still, human nature surely made her reply. “Jayne was one of our substitute teachers. Not too popular with the kids.”
My heart thudded. Wide-eyed, I walked through the doorway to become a sub myself, and glanced back at vice-principal Anne Little. “Miss Ackers only subbed for us a few times,” she said, as though that would give me some comfort.
Chapter 5
“Do the cops know who killed her?” someone asked, and the pale news-bearer shook her head.
“She was shot near her home,” she said.
I crept out the door, questions flooding my mind and breeding fear. Why had someone murdered Jayne Ackers? There was absolutely no connection between me and that substitute lady—was there? And was I supposed to be content because she hadn’t subbed here often? Certainly, I wouldn’t become popular with the kids in one day.
The hallway had come to life. Large kids shouted and shoved. But this time adult guards who must be teachers stood in their midst. They stood rigid, their gazes skimming
Hannah Hendrick clasped my hands. “I love you,” she said.
“Thanks. And we just met.” Was it me making them so happy? Or did these women’s pleasure stem from having someone replace that teacher, Jack Burdell?
“You have no idea how hard it’s been lately to find enough subs,” Hannah said.
“Glad to help.” I almost meant it now with such warm greetings.
A teacher’s complaint called Hannah away, and Anne Little handed me keys. “I’m also keeper of the school keys. This one is for the classroom. Lock it whenever you leave the room. And this one’s for the desk. The biggest one is for the ladies’ restroom.”
“You have to lock classrooms and restrooms?” I asked, and she nodded and rushed off. Why lock those rooms? I wondered.
Cynthia Petre sat behind her monitor. Her mousy brown hair was clamped back, and she wore a purple blouse with an emerald green skirt. I told her hello. “Good morning,” she said without looking at me.
“But I didn’t do it, Coach!” A lanky boy stormed in from the hall behind the bulldog-faced man in coaching clothes. The tiny woman with big black hair who’d been with Coach yesterday came in too, looking like she could spit fire. Everyone in the area appeared angry now, as though ready to kill. With so many, how could police sort out just one who might actually do it? Were the police still here?
A hand tightened on my arm. “You might want to get to your room,” Anne Little said. “It’s almost time for the bell.”
“Ah, the bell.” Pleasant memories returned.
“You go down that hall,” Anne Little said, indicating the outer hallway, “then turn left, and when you get to a corridor, turn left again. Room 111. You can’t miss it.”
I opened my hand. Stared at the keys.
“That one.” She pointed. Her mouth did a little twitch, and her squinty-eyed gaze told me she wondered if I could handle subject matter if I couldn’t even remember what key to use. “A substitute folder should be on Jack’s desk. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Okay, I told myself, I could handle this. Someone died here this week, but being around this school wouldn’t pose a real problem. I just needed to go to a classroom, do whatever the absent teacher instructed in his folder, and after a few hours, I’d leave.
I headed out the office and passed a scrawny woman with skin so pale it appeared translucent. She hustled inside to Anne Little. “Did you hear about Jayne Ackers?”
“What about her?” Little said.
“Shot last night. She died.”
The entire staff stopped what they were doing. Faces whipped toward this woman as though a puppeteer had jerked a string joining them. Everyone uttered astonishment.
I turned to the pale person with news. “Who’s Jayne Ackers?”
She frowned as if I had no business asking. Still, human nature surely made her reply. “Jayne was one of our substitute teachers. Not too popular with the kids.”
My heart thudded. Wide-eyed, I walked through the doorway to become a sub myself, and glanced back at vice-principal Anne Little. “Miss Ackers only subbed for us a few times,” she said, as though that would give me some comfort.
Chapter 5
“Do the cops know who killed her?” someone asked, and the pale news-bearer shook her head.
“She was shot near her home,” she said.
I crept out the door, questions flooding my mind and breeding fear. Why had someone murdered Jayne Ackers? There was absolutely no connection between me and that substitute lady—was there? And was I supposed to be content because she hadn’t subbed here often? Certainly, I wouldn’t become popular with the kids in one day.
The hallway had come to life. Large kids shouted and shoved. But this time adult guards who must be teachers stood in their midst. They stood rigid, their gazes skimming
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