Relative Danger by June Shaw Page A

the loudest teens. None of the sentries appeared worried that an emergency situation might be occurring. Hope filled me. Maybe they were plainclothes detectives. Maybe today they’d discover what really happened to the custodian, while also keeping me safe.
    I nudged through throngs, searching for Kat, and noting how the students dressed. Lots of the skirts barely skimmed girls’ underpants, making me recall Legs from Gil’s restaurant. I frowned, pushing that image aside. Twisted green spikes of hair stood on a boy’s head. Other males I elbowed past wore bicycle chains around their necks, while still others wore thick gold necklaces that revealed their names.
    The eyes of many young adults shifted down toward me. I wondered how they had all grown so tall. A glimpse at the shoes most girls wore revealed platforms of three inches or more. Some of the teens stopped in mid-sentence, their chins jutting toward me. Their peers turned to stare.
    “Excuse me,” I said, nudging through thick groups and locating a corridor to the left. Good job, Cealie , I thought, mentally patting my shoulder. I had a positive beginning to this day. I’d located the first hall.
    The next passage was easier, sprinkled with fewer students. They seemed polite. “Good morning,” some responded to my greeting. A tiny girl smiled at me. She wore an ironed blouse and nice slacks, conservative, like my Katherine.
    To this one I said, “Sweetie, could you tell me where to find room 111?”
    A horn blasted, and I jumped, squeezing my eyes shut. The girl giggled. “That’s the bell. One-eleven’s right down there.”
    The teens began moving. My students were coming! And I hadn’t even gotten in the room yet, much less learned what I would be teaching.
    I saw 111 above a door and drew out my keys. Tried one, failed. I tried another, while shoes clomped nearer. The key fit.
    I entered the classroom, ready to become a public high school teacher.
    The odor of stale chips mingled with perspiration and created a gagging instinct in my throat. I bit back the urge to vomit and scanned the room. Dust particles drifted through the sun-lit air. Grime coated the windows. Mismatched desks coated with graffiti needed straightening. Scribbled across pale gold walls were kids’ names, people they loved, and who was a bitch. Posters hung askew, displaying large drills. Others showed the cutaway view of walls with wires and plumbing. Chalk smeared a faded green board. Big people began to plod in.
    I scurried to the long main desk and searched through scattered papers for what I’d be teaching. Behind me, shoes shuffled and clacked. “Aw damn, who’s that?” a boy said. “Where’s Mr. Burdell?” Desks squeaked while teens splayed themselves into them. Desk legs scraped the floor while I flipped through desktop papers, trying to discern my subject matter. Beneath sheaves of test papers, the corner of a manila folder stuck out. I grabbed the folder, satisfied to see that a red marker had printed on it Substitute Teacher .
    “Would everyone please stand for the Pledge?” a woman’s familiar voice called through a wall speaker.
    I straightened, ready to look over my students. I knew things. I was intelligent enough. I could teach.
    The teenagers rose. Kat wasn’t among them. Three males and two females still sat with smug expressions, leaning back in their seats. I was anguished to find any youths so unpatriotic and signaled for them to stand. They peered at each other. Glanced at me. Took their time and finally stood, slouching.
    I pledged allegiance and then put on my bifocals. My heart fluttered while I yanked open the manila folder that would give instructions for whatever I would momentarily teach.
    The folder held nothing.
    I flipped the Substitute Teacher folder around but found no hidden slits in the rear. No hint to suggest what I’d be doing. My right hand was still pressed against my chest, feeling my heart’s rapid thump-thumps, when a guttural