True Talents(2)

I tuned him out. To my right, the bus rolled out through the gate and rumbled down the road, carrying the driver back to the free world. I followed Principal Davis inside the building. The entrance was dark, barely lit by two weak bulbs that hung from the ceiling on frayed cords. The air hung down over me, too. Warm and heavy air. I felt like I was breathing soup.

We climbed a steep flight of stairs to the left of the front door. The steps ended in the middle of a long hallway. Something that might have been a carpet a million footsteps ago clung to the floor. More dim bulbs made a halfhearted attempt at lighting the area, revealing walls covered with scrawled graffiti.

“I assume you understand why you are here,” Principal Davis said.

“I got on the wrong bus?” I figured a very stupid question deserved an extremely stupid answer.

He ignored my guess and kept walking, leading me up a second flight of steps. The wall felt rough, and the dull green paint had flaked away in a couple of spots. The odor of old varnish on the second floor gave way to the sharper stench of unwashed clothing as I climbed higher.

I tried again. “I won a contest? I wrote the winning essay? I’m the tenth caller? I got the highest score in Final Jeopardy?” This was fun. And as long as I kept talking, I wouldn’t have to think about where I was going.

“These are the living quarters,” he said, still ignoring my guesses. “After you’ve gotten settled, I’ll have someone give you a tour of the school.” He stopped where he was and I caught up to him. Actually, I almost ran into him. His suit smelled like dusty mothballs.

“I know,” I said as the perfect answer hit me. “I’m here because you need an assistant. The place is too much for you to handle by yourself. You just aren’t up to the job.”

Oops. That one got rid of his smile. His face turned mean and angry for an instant—the sort of meanness that needs to lash out and cause pain. I could almost hear his teeth grinding together. Unlike the smile, this was an honest expression. This was Principal Davis at his finest. If he’d been a cartoon character, steam would have shot from his nose and ears. But, like a true professional, he hid the anger quickly. “Well, now … no point standing here chattering. Let’s get you—”

He never finished that sentence. From down the hall, we were interrupted by a shout: “FIRE!”



TELEPHONE CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE PARENTS OF MARTIN ANDERSON

Richard Anderson: Hi. It’s me. I got the kid to the bus. I stopped at the office on the way home.





Dorothy Anderson: Do you think he’ll be okay?





Richard Anderson: Who knows? I hope this place does him some good. Heaven knows nothing else has worked. I’ll tell you, my old man wouldn’t have let me get away with anything. He’d have smacked me a couple of good ones with his belt. That always kept me in line. I don’t know where the kid gets that mouth of his.





Dorothy Anderson: Martin’s not that bad.





Richard Anderson: Tell that to the last three schools he’s been kicked out of. Tell that to the scout troop that threw him out. And while you’re at it, try telling it to his Little League coach. You know how bad that made me look when he mouthed off to the coach?





Dorothy Anderson: It’s my fault. I just know it. I saw this psychologist on a talk show, and he said—





Richard Anderson: Forget that nonsense. And don’t blame yourself. Or me. It’s not our fault. It’s his fault. We’re good parents. His sister is turning out fine. We did everything we could. Listen, want me to pick up a pizza on the way home?





Dorothy Anderson: I guess. Yeah, that would be nice.





FLAMING OUT

When I heard the kid shout, “FIRE!” my brain said, Get out of here, but my feet said, Freeze.

My feet won.

Suddenly, kids were running all over the place. Along both sides of the hall, doors flew open and kids popped out, almost like they were throwing a giant surprise party. Far down at the end of the hall, smoke drifted from a room. There wasn’t a lot of smoke—just a trickle—but any smoke is bad if it isn’t supposed to be there. At least the fire wasn’t between me and the stairs. I relaxed when I realized I wasn’t trapped.

“It’s Torchie’s room,” one kid said. “He did it again.”

Principal Davis sighed. “I told them to make sure he didn’t get any matches,” he said. “Can’t anyone around here carry out a simple order? Do I have to do everything myself?”

“Coming through,” someone shouted from behind us.

A guy raced up the stairs carrying a fire extinguisher. He sprinted past us and hurried toward the room. I followed, trying to slip my way through the crowd that had gathered at the edge of the smoke. I managed to squeeze next to the doorway and catch a glimpse inside the room. A small fire smoldered on a desk. It looked like a bunch of papers were burning. A kid stood pressed against the far wall, staring at the fire. I figured that must be Torchie.