Free Drenched in Light by Lisa Wingate Page B

sound, then regarding me solemnly. “Don’t get too involved with the Jordan girl.” He crossed his arms above the bubble of his stomach, drummed the pen on his chest. I had the sense that he hadn’t stopped by to ask me about the grant application, but to talk to me about Dell. Or more specifically, to warn me off.
    “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” But I was afraid I did. He was telling me to let Mrs. Morris have her way—that he agreed with her point of view. “It is my job to help these kids.” My reply came out sounding surprisingly territorial.
    Mr. Stafford drew back, eyeing me down his bulbous nose. Clearly, the burst of attitude surprised him, too. “Play the crusader here, and you’ll end up getting your head cut off, Julia.” His use of my first name told me that we were down to bare knuckles now. “Some admissions committee members stuck their feet in it, getting that kid in here, and when it doesn’t work out, they’re going to be looking for a scapegoat. You don’t want to be the one they blame.”
    I gaped at him in complete mortification and disbelief. “So, it’s better if I don’t get involved. Is that what you’re saying? I should look the other way and let a kid fail?”
    If the question bothered him, he didn’t show it. “I’m saying it’s a high-profile issue, especially now that Morris has her nose in it. And if it comes down to her or you . . .” He looked me over in a way that made me feel two inches tall and hopelessly blond. “They aren’t going to side with you.”
    Blood rushed to my face, and I felt my back stiffen. His expression, his tone of voice, and the way he continued calmly tapping the pen against his fleshy chest told me much more than I wanted to know. Suddenly, I understood why a failed dancer with lackluster grad school grades could get a counselor’s job, even one that had come up unexpectedly during semester break, at a school like Harrington. I was supposed to be the cute, blond patsy who would complacently fill out forms and write grant applications month after month, while happily accepting the status quo.
    “Well, it won’t be an issue if Dell’s grades come up to a passing level,” I said, turning my attention to my papers to hide the fact that I was fuming.
    “She can’t make the grades,” he replied flatly. “She’s got an unusual talent in music. That’s it. Other than that, she doesn’t have the stuff.”
    “I guess time will tell.” I pretended not to catch his meaning. Stabbing my pen into the grant application, I started writing, determined not to look up as he shuffled away, his shadow receding slowly from my desk until finally it disappeared.

Chapter 5

    D uring lunch break I went to the teacher’s lounge, where, as usual, I picked at a cafeteria salad while listening to teachers talk about their trials and triumphs of the day. Halfway through the period, Mrs. Morris walked past the door, headed for the cafeteria line with her cronies. Tossing my salad in the trash, I went back to my office and started surfing the Web sites Sergeant Reuper had recommended.
    After lunch, one of the math teachers went home sick, and I taught algebra for two periods, which was largely a joke, and the kids knew it. When they asked questions, all I could say was, “Well, let’s look in the book,” which, as far as I could tell, was written in Greek. Whatever math I’d taken in college had long since left me.
    I noticed some things while I was in the classroom—small details I’d never picked up on before. Even though it was unusually warm in the classroom, kids in the back had sweatshirt hoods pulled over their heads—a sign to watch for, the drug prevention Web sites said. Kids could lay their heads on the desks and use the hood as a tent to trap the vapors of Magic Marker ink, glue, an open bottle of correction fluid, a rag or cotton ball soaked in dry-cleaning solution or electronic-contact cleaner. They carried the rags hidden in