“It’ll grow back,” I whispered, in case his apprehension was really a reluctance to go bald. His hair was already so short that shaving it took only a few minutes. “Now, you can skip the haircut when you report to the Naval Academy,” I said to him, smiling when I finished.
“Something else to look forward to,” he muttered, his tone an odd mix of anger and resignation. “Rules about hair, rules about uniforms, rules about walking and talking and eating and crapping. Frickin’ rules.”
I flicked a glance at Merle to see if he’d heard, but apparently not. I didn’t know how to respond and merely whisked the towel off Mark’s shoulders as the crowd hooted. The Sabertooth mascot, a student in a moth-eaten costume with one fang hanging crooked, gamboled around the stage and escorted Mark off.
The pep band played something brassy and the cheerleaders bounced forward for a quick routine as Merle folded down his collar and took his place on the stool, making a show of dusting it off before he sat. The high schoolers went wild, launching into their “Take it all off” chant when I picked up my scissors. I felt him wince as the blades bit into a section of hair I held taught between my fingers.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Just my image. There it goes,” he said, watching the long, gingery strands flutter to the stage.
“I think the kids know there’s more to you than just hair,” I said.
He gave me a grateful smile. “Take it all off.”
MERLE’s KNOBBY, BALD HEAD WAS A HUGE HIT WITH the crowd. He dismissed the pep rally and school with admonitions to be safe during the hurricane and with a couple of words about keeping Braden’s family in their thoughts. The fund established with the money they had raised would be called the Braden McCullers Memorial Fund, he announced to a now sober audience. Before I could escape, hoping to catch Rachel and take her for an ice cream and a chat, he touched my shoulder and asked if I’d stay for a yearbook photograph. I agreed, catching sight of Rachel’s back as she exited the auditorium with the stream of students. A serious-looking young woman with trendy blue glasses and braces took several photos of me with Merle, Mark, and Josh. A disembodied voice paged Merle over the PA system and he left with a warm handshake and a “Thank you.”
Left alone, I descended the stairs to the right of the stage and headed up the aisle toward the hall. Pushing through the swinging doors, I caught a faint whiff of bubble gum before it was overpowered by the scent of pine cleaner coming from the mop a janitor wielded energetically outside the restrooms. A hand clamped around my upper arm and startled me.
“I’ve got something to say to you,” Glen Spaatz said, his voice hard.
“What is your problem?” I asked, twisting my arm free. “I don’t know what—”
Shooting a glance at the janitor, now propping himself up with the mop and watching us avidly, he said, “In my classroom.” He started down the hall.
After a moment’s hesitation, I followed. I didn’t like his attitude, but I was curious. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to piss him off, so I was at a loss to explain his current mood. He turned down a side hall and then into a classroom. Entering it, I was swept back to my science classes, to the stink of chemicals and burned stuff and the “ew” factor of dissecting rubbery fetal pigs and frogs. I’d tried to get Mom to write a note excusing me from amphibian mutilation, but she’d refused. Two sinks with high arched faucets gleamed at the back of the room, and stacks of glassware occupied a long table. Largely forgotten chemical symbols decorated the blackboard. From the rotten-egg odor in the room, I’d guess today’s lesson had had something to do with sulfur.
Glen ignored his surroundings and turned to face me as I hovered near the closed door. “I think it’s pretty low of you to get your ex-husband to check me out,” he said.
My lower jaw literally dropped and I stared at him, open-mouthed. Before I could respond, he added, “The Gestapo tactics didn’t work in California and they’re not going to work here.” Thinning his mouth until his lips disappeared, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“You are out of your frickin’ mind,” I said, taking a step forward in my anger. My fists clenched at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. “I didn’t put Hank up to anything. If you must know, you pissed him off so badly with that kissing stunt that he took it upon himself to look into your background. I had nothing to do with it. But from your reaction, I’d say his instincts were dead-on.”
“You didn’t—” The merest hint of uncertainty sounded in his voice, but his whole body stayed rigid.