Dear Miss Demeanor

Farberville High School is, no doubt, a perfectly lovely place. Caron and approximately five hundred other students attended daily without much uproar. All sorts of dedicated teachers appeared to do their best to instill knowledge in adolescent heads. As far as I knew, no serious crime riddled the campus or precipitated armed guards in the hallways to protect teachers. I had gone to such an institution myself, although it had been a few years. It hadn’t been all that had. The Book Depot was closed until the street was repaired; I really had nothing of any great importance to do in the interim. The money would hardly be a shopping spree in Paris, but it would very definitely come in handy should Caron and I decide to indulge in madcap, extravagant activities such as eating.

“It’s only for a few days,” I reminded the ceiling. Why, then, did it have the same ring as life without parole?

A knock at the door saved me from further schizophrenic conversation with the, architecture. I found a smiling Peter Rosen on the landing, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He put the wine down and spent a few minutes greeting me with great charm.

“What’s only for a few days?” he asked, turning on his i

“You wouldn’t believe it,” I said. While I took the wine to the kitchen, I told him the identity of the newest substitute teacher at the high school, although I omitted any references to the absurd investigation. Peter does not approve of amateur involvement in piddly little puzzles-on principle. This I knew from experience.

“I was going to suggest we have di

When he wished, the man could be as fu

TWO

The high school resembled a collection of yellow blocks abandoned on a moth-eaten shag carpet. No ivy or any such traditional nonsense; just jean-clad students exchanging insults and displaying anatomy as they streamed into one of the four double doors. I felt like a first-grader on the first day of school. I did not hold Caron’s hand, however; she could not have survived the humiliation.

I was escorted to the central office, introduced to a pimply boy behind the counter, and warned to wait until Miss Don appeared. Caron then squealed a greeting to Inez and disappeared into the human tidal wave. My pimply baby-sitter eyed me incuriously, picked up a stack of manila envelopes and left. People of all sizes wandered in and out, ignoring me.

I read a poster that warned against smoking on campus, drinking alcoholic beverages on campus, ru

A rabbity little man with oversized glasses scurried into the office. “Are you the new juvenile parole officer?” he gasped, looking thoroughly dismayed. “I haven’t done the seven-one-four forms yet, but I do have the nine-thirties from the spring semester.”

“I am not the new parole officer,” I said gravely.

“Oh, my goodness not” He disappeared through a door behind the counter. I heard a series of breathless disclaimers drifting out, as though he needed further reassurance of my identity-or lack thereof.

I was edging toward the nearest exit when a tall, unsmiling woman swept into the office. A gray bun was pi

“Mrs. Malloy I’m Bernice Dort. Sorry to be late, but Mr. Eugenia has made a muddle of his first quarter grades and someone had to explain it again. And again, It’s merely a matter of recording grades, according to the code in the manual, on both the computer card and the reporting form, but Mr. Eugenia seems unable to follow the simplest instructions.”

“I’m begi

“Humph!” A large, red-faced man pushed past me to confront Miss Don. His silver hair had been clipped with military precision, and nary a hair dared to take a tangential angle. His face was florid, and his bulk encased in a severe blue suit and dark tie. “I want Immerman in my office, Bernice-and I want him now. That boy has gone too far! Perkins called this morning to tell me that Immerman had demanded reinstatement of his eligibility!”

“Oh, how dreadful, Mr. Weiss. Immerman has indeed gone too far. I shall have Mr. Finley send him to the office immediately,” Miss Dort agreed in a frigid voice. “Mr. Weiss, this is Mrs. Malloy. She’s subbing for Miss Parchester until central admin can locate a certified teacher for the journalism department.”

Mr. Weiss stopped in midstep, as if an invisible choke collar had been tightened around his neck. Two small, hard eyes bored into me. His mouth curled slightly in what I presumed was meant to be a smile of welcome, but the message was lost.

I fluttered a hand. “Hello.”

“Malloy. Aren’t you the woman who runs the Book Depot?” he barked in accusation. “Weren’t you involved in some sort of police investigation?”

Caron and Inez had every right to be awed. Although I was near forty, I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks and had to pinch myself to hold back a whimper. “That’s correct,” I said. “I assisted the police with a problem involving the Farber College faculty.”

“And now you’ve decided to be a substitute teacher?” he continued, still staring at me as if I tripped into his office under a beanie with a propeller on the top.

Miss Don cleared her throat. “Mrs. Malloy has offered to help out, Mr. Weiss. You know how difficult it can be to find a substitute six weeks into the semester, so we’ll simply have to make do with what we can get. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll take Mrs. Malloy down to the journalism room and get her settled. Her paperwork is on your desk, although I’ve already sent the triplicates to central admin.”

Mr. Weiss gave her a tight nod. “Then get Immerman in here. Tell his first period teacher that he’ll be in my office during class.”

Miss Don seemed on the verge of a heel-clicking salute, but she instead bobbed her head curtly and picked up her clipboard. Thus armed, she led me out of the office and into the battle arena. We marched down several miles of hallway as she rattled off names, departments, and other bits of meaningless information. Students leaped out of our path, and conversations were revived only in our wake.

We then descended into the bowels of the building. A bell jangled shrilly as we reached the bottom step; seconds later students scuttled through doorways like cockroaches caught in the light.

Miss Don pointed at a scarred door. “That is the old teachers’ lounge, Mrs. Malloy. The new one is on the second floor in the west wing; you may find the distance inconvenient. Most of the teachers in the basement still congregate in the old room, but you may use whichever you prefer.”

I suspected I would prefer the one with a well-stocked bar. Nineteen minutes had passed since Caron dragged me through the door. Nineteen incredibly long minutes. Seven hours remained in the school day. This scheme was insane. I would personally buy Miss Parchester a pad of watercolor paper and a bus ticket to wherever she desired to go. Caron could accompany her as a porter.