What a Fool Believes by Carmen Green Page B

threat of impending doom seemed to have come to rest on his shoulders.
    The john had gotten away. But, Byron reasoned, hopefully, this bust would help get him off the night shift and get his career back on track. Byron wasn’t normally morbid, but somehow he didn’t think so.

Chapter Ten
    Old memories resurfaced as Byron walked through the white-walled halls of Reynolds High School, his alma mater. Although the school had been remodeled and upgraded to accommodate twenty-three hundred students, the unpleasant years he’d spent here couldn’t be glossed over with new paint.
    He’d been a boy of small stature; “underdeveloped,” his mother liked to say apologetically to her church lady friends.
    His father promised he’d grow up thick and tall one day. For Byron, someday had been too far away. The daily torture of being knocked around Reynold’s waxed floors had been frustrating.
    He was grown now, yet here he still felt unsettled.
    At the end of the hallway, he consulted the paper in his hand.
    Anger Management: Room 100.9. He looked up again. 100.7. 100.17. 100.27. Across the hall were 101.7 and 101.17.
    He’d just come from 102.7.
    What kind of numbering system was this? He tried applying an equation but grew more frustrated. In five minutes, he’d be late for his first anger management class.
    Good. He was mad, anyway.
    Two girls dressed in cheerleader uniforms approached.
    â€œLadies, can you direct me to 100.9?”
    The tallest girl slid the paper from his hand. “Don’t you get the sequence? This hallway is all sevens.”
    Oh.
    â€œGo down two corridors. Take the steps down. Through the double doors, fifty paces. Turn left, and you’ll be on the nines corridor. Ninth door on your left.”
    He must have looked confused, because the shorter girl yanked a pen from behind her ear and took the paper. “Here, let me show you.”
    When Byron looked down, he swallowed. She’d drawn a “you are here” map on the back, and an illustrated guide.
    â€œThanks,” he mumbled. To his dismay, they followed him, to make sure he’d made the correct turn, before going on their way.
    Two minutes later, he was outside the room. A steady hum of pleasant voices filtered into the hallway, and Byron felt a smidgen of relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
    He stepped into the room, and every mouth shut.
    No, this would be worse.
    Ten angry women glared at him as if he alone were responsible for labor pains, PMS , and the disproportionate number of men’s and women’s restrooms at the football stadium.
    â€œIs this anger management?” he asked, hoping against hope it wasn’t.
    â€œYes.” The instructor, a short man with even shorter sleeves, stood behind the desk, his credibility decimated by the length of his comb-over. The look of fear in his eyes didn’t help, either.
    â€œI thought this class was for men only.”
    Angry murmurs resounded from the natives. “No,” the man responded, letting Byron hang in idiotic limbo alone.
    â€œGreat,” Byron said.
    Byron heard his response in his head and ventured to see the reaction. They were pissed. He hadn’t meant to offend them. Nevertheless, he wished he had his Kevlar vest, gun, pepper spray, cuffs, and billy club.
    These women didn’t appear to need provocation to devour him and then pick their teeth with his bones.
    Maybe if he sat down, they’d forget he was there.
    Byron headed up the aisle and was confronted by their size 4X leader. Frustration prickled that he wasn’t in his uniform. Had he been, he’d have ordered her back. However, his student status didn’t allow for a coup de grace. So he retreated and twisted his ankle on a well-placed booby trap—a purse.
    Evil snickers filled the room.
    Because the air was charged with X chromosome energy, he feared if he didn’t diffuse the women, he’d