didn’t I have the balls to stand up and say that I drove fast because I damn well felt like it, and so fucking what ?
5 4
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28/5/08 2:44:14 PM
Because part of me still wanted to believe there was some point to this therapy crap.
Wiesner was right, after all. I was here for more than the paycheck. I wanted absolution.
Could be worse.
Could be Syracuse.
I cranked the Porsche’s wheel toward the dining hall and parked in the second-to-last spot.
Opening the faculty-lounge door precipitated an extended hush of annoyance from the forty people already ensconced therein.
I dropped my gaze to the ratty carpet, slinking crouched toward a spot at Lulu’s feet then drew my knees to my chest, penitent and hot-faced under the room’s weight of disapproval.
Someone coughed, and chairs creaked under their occupants’
shifting weight.
There were a dozen kids on the fl oor around me, most of them holding hands with the teachers seated behind them.
These were the responsible students. At another school, they might have been proctors or prefects. Here they were more like prison “trusties.” Future Mindys. Future Geralds.
I didn’t look up until I’d sensed that all eyes had shifted back to the blackboard, just left of the doorway.
Dr. Santangelo glared at me from the center of the board’s dusty expanse, his arms crossed.
His attendance at these meetings was exceedingly rare.
Bad bad day to be the last vulnerable arrival.
At least he’d left the cape at home.
“Nice of you to drop by,” he said, staring me down as he stroked the beard that didn’t quite hide his double chin.
I mumbled an apology.
5 5
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He turned a half-step and pointed a chubby fi nger at Tim. “I believe you had a question?”
Tim nodded, a faint tinge of red rising to his cheeks. “I just . . . last night in the dorm . . . ?”
Santangelo smiled encouragement.
“I was on duty with Simon and Cammy?” Tim continued. “So during bed check, we found graffi ti in the upstairs hallway, and we felt pretty sure we knew who’d done it, but I’m not real comfortable with how that was handled, you know?” He coughed and put his hand on his chest. Sookie’s remedy gesture.
“What made you uncomfortable?” asked Santangelo.
“Well, even though it seemed pretty clear-cut that it was Forchetti, he didn’t do a turn-in right when we fi rst asked him about it, so we got him back out of bed and brought him down-stairs to the living room.”
Santangelo tilted his head to the side, listening, nodding.
“It was already pretty late,” said Tim. “And he wouldn’t own up to . . . wouldn’t own doing it at all, so after about an hour, Cammy told him to kneel on the fl oor with his hands behind his back. This is in North, you know? It’s a stone fl oor? Like slate or something . . . so then it was after midnight, but we made him stay like that. On and on.”
“How long?” asked Santangelo.
“Three hours.” Tim’s eyes brimmed. “He was, you know, crying. Shaking. Legs all cramped. I should have said something, but Cammy and Simon have been here so much longer.”
Santangelo shot his chubby fi nger straight at Tim. “How dare you!”
Everyone fl inched at the bellowed words, and I don’t think I was alone in expecting him to jump down Tim’s throat for having allowed Forchetti to suffer.
5 6
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“You little piece of shit !” Santangelo stomped around in a small circle, screaming. “How dare you question what we do here?”
Tim bowed his head.
Santangelo slammed a fi st against the chalkboard, his legs apart. “ Look at me.”
Tim peeked up, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
“What’s your name?”
Tim mumbled.
Santangelo cupped a hand to his ear. “Louder.”
“Tim?”
Santangelo swept an arm around the room, his sleeve fl apping. “If I was one of these kids, Tim, I’d shove
5 4
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 54
28/5/08 2:44:14 PM
Because part of me still wanted to believe there was some point to this therapy crap.
Wiesner was right, after all. I was here for more than the paycheck. I wanted absolution.
Could be worse.
Could be Syracuse.
I cranked the Porsche’s wheel toward the dining hall and parked in the second-to-last spot.
Opening the faculty-lounge door precipitated an extended hush of annoyance from the forty people already ensconced therein.
I dropped my gaze to the ratty carpet, slinking crouched toward a spot at Lulu’s feet then drew my knees to my chest, penitent and hot-faced under the room’s weight of disapproval.
Someone coughed, and chairs creaked under their occupants’
shifting weight.
There were a dozen kids on the fl oor around me, most of them holding hands with the teachers seated behind them.
These were the responsible students. At another school, they might have been proctors or prefects. Here they were more like prison “trusties.” Future Mindys. Future Geralds.
I didn’t look up until I’d sensed that all eyes had shifted back to the blackboard, just left of the doorway.
Dr. Santangelo glared at me from the center of the board’s dusty expanse, his arms crossed.
His attendance at these meetings was exceedingly rare.
Bad bad day to be the last vulnerable arrival.
At least he’d left the cape at home.
“Nice of you to drop by,” he said, staring me down as he stroked the beard that didn’t quite hide his double chin.
I mumbled an apology.
5 5
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 55
28/5/08 2:44:15 PM
He turned a half-step and pointed a chubby fi nger at Tim. “I believe you had a question?”
Tim nodded, a faint tinge of red rising to his cheeks. “I just . . . last night in the dorm . . . ?”
Santangelo smiled encouragement.
“I was on duty with Simon and Cammy?” Tim continued. “So during bed check, we found graffi ti in the upstairs hallway, and we felt pretty sure we knew who’d done it, but I’m not real comfortable with how that was handled, you know?” He coughed and put his hand on his chest. Sookie’s remedy gesture.
“What made you uncomfortable?” asked Santangelo.
“Well, even though it seemed pretty clear-cut that it was Forchetti, he didn’t do a turn-in right when we fi rst asked him about it, so we got him back out of bed and brought him down-stairs to the living room.”
Santangelo tilted his head to the side, listening, nodding.
“It was already pretty late,” said Tim. “And he wouldn’t own up to . . . wouldn’t own doing it at all, so after about an hour, Cammy told him to kneel on the fl oor with his hands behind his back. This is in North, you know? It’s a stone fl oor? Like slate or something . . . so then it was after midnight, but we made him stay like that. On and on.”
“How long?” asked Santangelo.
“Three hours.” Tim’s eyes brimmed. “He was, you know, crying. Shaking. Legs all cramped. I should have said something, but Cammy and Simon have been here so much longer.”
Santangelo shot his chubby fi nger straight at Tim. “How dare you!”
Everyone fl inched at the bellowed words, and I don’t think I was alone in expecting him to jump down Tim’s throat for having allowed Forchetti to suffer.
5 6
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 56
28/5/08 2:44:15 PM
“You little piece of shit !” Santangelo stomped around in a small circle, screaming. “How dare you question what we do here?”
Tim bowed his head.
Santangelo slammed a fi st against the chalkboard, his legs apart. “ Look at me.”
Tim peeked up, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
“What’s your name?”
Tim mumbled.
Santangelo cupped a hand to his ear. “Louder.”
“Tim?”
Santangelo swept an arm around the room, his sleeve fl apping. “If I was one of these kids, Tim, I’d shove
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