your goddamn head right through this chalkboard.”
Tim sobbed, a bubble of snot expanding at one nostril.
The good doctor sighed. “You’re disgusting. You make me want to puke. You make all of us want to puke.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Santangelo.”
“Doesn’t he make us want to puke?” Santangelo looked at random people around the room—Cammy, Mindy, New Guy Pete—his eyes boring into them one by one until they blushed and nodded.
Tim absorbed each betrayal, caving into himself by degrees.
Santangelo turned back to him. “Stand up.”
The accused rose to his feet, shivering.
Santangelo smiled. “I think we all agree that you should fi re yourself, Tim.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to fi re myself.”
“I think we all agree that you’re lucky to have found a community that cares enough about you to let you keep your job after such an appalling lapse in judgment.”
5 7
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 57
28/5/08 2:44:15 PM
Tim looked up at him, broken.
Santangelo nodded to himself. “Any other school, doing the important work we do here . . . well, you’d be packing your bags, Tim. Out on the street.”
“Yes, sir, Dr. Santangelo.”
“You’re a lucky man, Tim.”
Tim nodded.
“You’re a lucky man because we believe in forgiveness here at the Santangelo Academy. We believe in love, and we love you, Tim. All of us in this room, unconditionally. No holds barred.”
The good doctor glanced around the room again, waiting for everyone to nod.
Tim pulled a cuff down over one hand, used it to wipe his eyes and nose. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.”
Santangelo spread his arms wide, palms toward the ceiling, then fl ickered his fi ngers at the crowd until someone started to clap. He stood there like some storefront preacher as the applause caught and spread around the room.
He brought his hands closer together, directed at Tim. “Come here, son. Something tells me you could use a hug.”
Under cover of the still-burgeoning ovation, Lulu leaned down until her chin grazed my shoulder, and whispered “Get me the fuck out of here before I really do puke.”
5 8
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 58
28/5/08 2:44:15 PM
“
9
“We’ve got half an hour before fi rst period,” said Lulu.
“Want some real coffee?”
“I would worship you forever,” I replied.
The two of us set off for her apartment at a caffeine-hungry trot.
Teachers lived across the road in a defunct motor court. Its Laundromat-Colonial façade sported tissue-thin brick face and a tilted horse ’n’ carriage weather vane.
Lulu scraped her front door inward across a mauled arc of shag carpet. Santangelo had bought the place complete with fi xtures and furniture: The toilet ran constantly, and you could still see where they’d unbolted the coin-op Magic Fingers unit from her Formica-swathed headboard.
“There’s hazelnut or vanilla-raspberry,” she said.
“The Harlequin Romance Line of caffeinated beverages,”
I said, collapsing into a splayfooted Jetson-esque armchair.
“Hazelnut, please.”
Lulu skipped around behind the kitchenette’s jutting counter to fi ll her Mr. Coffee carafe at the sink, then dumped three 5 9
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 59
28/5/08 2:44:16 PM
scoops of perfumed grounds into the fl uted sheaf of a paper fi lter.
“That Santangelo,” she said. “I just can’t stand it.”
I sighed agreement.
“I mean, really, Madeline. I just sat there watching that man, thinking I could be back at the front desk of the Econo Lodge, joking around with decent people.”
She reassembled Mr. Coffee and set him brewing. “Makes me miss the old commercials for these things,” she said.
She patted the top of the unit, then startled me by singing, “ ‘Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?’ ” in her clear, heartstring-plucking soprano. The notes lingered, sweetening the room.
“Don’t stop,” I said.
“ ‘Joltin’ Joe has left and gone away.’ ” Spoken, not sung.
“ Hey
Tim sobbed, a bubble of snot expanding at one nostril.
The good doctor sighed. “You’re disgusting. You make me want to puke. You make all of us want to puke.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Santangelo.”
“Doesn’t he make us want to puke?” Santangelo looked at random people around the room—Cammy, Mindy, New Guy Pete—his eyes boring into them one by one until they blushed and nodded.
Tim absorbed each betrayal, caving into himself by degrees.
Santangelo turned back to him. “Stand up.”
The accused rose to his feet, shivering.
Santangelo smiled. “I think we all agree that you should fi re yourself, Tim.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to fi re myself.”
“I think we all agree that you’re lucky to have found a community that cares enough about you to let you keep your job after such an appalling lapse in judgment.”
5 7
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 57
28/5/08 2:44:15 PM
Tim looked up at him, broken.
Santangelo nodded to himself. “Any other school, doing the important work we do here . . . well, you’d be packing your bags, Tim. Out on the street.”
“Yes, sir, Dr. Santangelo.”
“You’re a lucky man, Tim.”
Tim nodded.
“You’re a lucky man because we believe in forgiveness here at the Santangelo Academy. We believe in love, and we love you, Tim. All of us in this room, unconditionally. No holds barred.”
The good doctor glanced around the room again, waiting for everyone to nod.
Tim pulled a cuff down over one hand, used it to wipe his eyes and nose. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.”
Santangelo spread his arms wide, palms toward the ceiling, then fl ickered his fi ngers at the crowd until someone started to clap. He stood there like some storefront preacher as the applause caught and spread around the room.
He brought his hands closer together, directed at Tim. “Come here, son. Something tells me you could use a hug.”
Under cover of the still-burgeoning ovation, Lulu leaned down until her chin grazed my shoulder, and whispered “Get me the fuck out of here before I really do puke.”
5 8
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 58
28/5/08 2:44:15 PM
“
9
“We’ve got half an hour before fi rst period,” said Lulu.
“Want some real coffee?”
“I would worship you forever,” I replied.
The two of us set off for her apartment at a caffeine-hungry trot.
Teachers lived across the road in a defunct motor court. Its Laundromat-Colonial façade sported tissue-thin brick face and a tilted horse ’n’ carriage weather vane.
Lulu scraped her front door inward across a mauled arc of shag carpet. Santangelo had bought the place complete with fi xtures and furniture: The toilet ran constantly, and you could still see where they’d unbolted the coin-op Magic Fingers unit from her Formica-swathed headboard.
“There’s hazelnut or vanilla-raspberry,” she said.
“The Harlequin Romance Line of caffeinated beverages,”
I said, collapsing into a splayfooted Jetson-esque armchair.
“Hazelnut, please.”
Lulu skipped around behind the kitchenette’s jutting counter to fi ll her Mr. Coffee carafe at the sink, then dumped three 5 9
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 59
28/5/08 2:44:16 PM
scoops of perfumed grounds into the fl uted sheaf of a paper fi lter.
“That Santangelo,” she said. “I just can’t stand it.”
I sighed agreement.
“I mean, really, Madeline. I just sat there watching that man, thinking I could be back at the front desk of the Econo Lodge, joking around with decent people.”
She reassembled Mr. Coffee and set him brewing. “Makes me miss the old commercials for these things,” she said.
She patted the top of the unit, then startled me by singing, “ ‘Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?’ ” in her clear, heartstring-plucking soprano. The notes lingered, sweetening the room.
“Don’t stop,” I said.
“ ‘Joltin’ Joe has left and gone away.’ ” Spoken, not sung.
“ Hey
Similar Books
