Free Out of the Blue by Sally Mandel

bad days. I’ve even blocked out what she wrote on that sign—I think something about gifted teachers being an endangered species. The thing was, it was late November and freezing cold. Every day that she was out there, Duncan would hand Ma a hot chocolate on his way into the building.
    I’ve also noticed over the years that Duncan liked to promote rabble-rousers into the administration. In fact, he did it with Grant who was always running his mouth off about this or that and allying himself with the student body against the faculty. Duncan appointed him Assistant to the High School Dean. It’s tough to work up a head of steam against the power structure when you’re suddenly a part of it, and furthermore, Grant brought a lot of valuable new ideas and energy into the system.
    Then there was the issue of my own annoying career as a Cameron student. When I got elected president of the student government, I lobbied hard for the distribution of condoms in school. Duncan didn’t like it for a lot of reasons, particularly when I stole slides of venereal diseases from the Science department and exhibited them at the PTA meeting. Won over by visions of their children with green vaginas or wart-encrusted penises, not to mention languishing on their deathbeds from AIDS, the PTA proceeded to pressure the board and Duncan Reese until I got my condom machines in all the rest rooms.
    Despite all this, Duncan hired me straight out of a one-year master’s program with no teaching experience. Then when I got sick, he resisted considerable pressure to “retire” me. I was always wondering, though, if I was about to get the ax.
    I didn’t feel altogether steady on my feet, and stood in his doorway with one hand on the frame. “I’m sorry. I got involved in a crisis …” I never knew whether to call him Duncan or Dr. Reese. One was too familiar, the other too formal, so I just left it out. “Michelle Cross’s father … maybe you’re aware …”
    He gestured for me to sit. “The press is swarming already,” he said. “But since you’re late, we’re going to have to cut this short now. Anna, I’ve had some discussions with Jennifer Matthews’s parents.” He was one of those people who was always using your name when he talked to you. Another politician’s trick.
    “The architecture project,” I said. “But I did find it.”
    “I’m aware of that, but nonetheless they’re asking me to transfer Jennifer to another homeroom. She’s building her portfolio for her college applications, and they’re concerned about future problems.”
    “Oh,” I said. Not much of a response, but this was a cruel twist. I looked forward to Jennifer’s sparkly face every day. Literally sparkly—she wears a lot of glitter in her makeup.
    “Was this lapse a factor of your illness, Anna?”
    I had given the matter a fair amount of thought already. One does, with MS. You second-guess yourself whenever anything out of the ordinary happens, wondering if a slip of the tongue or a momentary memory loss signals a relapse with permanent and sinister consequences.
    “I’m thinking of it in context with the fact that you missed two faculty meetings,” Duncan went on.
    I was beginning to hear those drumbeats in my head, like the ones that rattle when you’re approaching the gallows.
    “Those are regular weekly meetings, Anna,” Duncan went on. “I know perfectly well how conscientious you are, but some people interpret these oversights as indifference or carelessness. Tell me, has the MS progressed?”
    What I wanted to know was how he’d become aware of my missing those meetings, although I could make a wild stab at it.
    “It’s not easy to measure,” I said, “but I can tell you that I’m feeling confident about my classwork and my relationship with my homeroom students. Will Jennifer really have to move out?”
    Duncan nodded. I knew there was more he wasn’t telling me.
    “Am I in danger of losing my job?”
    There was the