For Your Own Good Read online

  “We were just messing around,” he told Courtney.

  “Go do it somewhere else,” she said.

  They did. Bennett and his friends got up and left without another word.

  When they were gone, Courtney sat down next to Zach and introduced herself. “Those guys think hazing is cool.” She made a face. “And they’re jerks.”

  He had never been saved before—never had to be—and he had never met a girl as bold as Courtney.

  “My dad’s just a finance guy,” he said.

  “They don’t know that.”

  She smiled. He smiled back.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was starting to think I was a loser.”

  “That’s okay. I’m a nerd.”

  And she was. Courtney was one of the most popular “nerds” in school.

  The nicknames stuck, even to this day. So did their friendship.

  * * *

  ZACH PULLS INTO the driveway at home and stops. The car idles. All he can think about is going back up to that grey room to read Bleak House. Sounds like a recipe for a suicide attempt and a bad TV movie.

  Nope. Not today. The local library would be better than sitting in his room.

  He drives off, imagining the scene in his mind. The library has big, comfortable chairs, the perfect place to relax and get some serious reading done. Uninterrupted reading. The only downside is he’s not allowed to bring in food or drinks. A snack would make it perfect, but then when is anything ever perfect?

  His mind is rambling now, like he’s trying to sell himself on spending the afternoon on the extra assignment from Crutcher. It works until it doesn’t.

  When he stops at a red light, he texts Lucas.

  Where are you?

  Home, Lucas says. Why?

  Got any weed?

  Is that a real question?

  On my way, Zach says.

  Plenty of time to read later tonight. It’s not like his parents allow him to have a social life, at least not during the week. Nine o’clock curfew, Sunday through Thursday, no exceptions unless it’s a school function. No amount of arguing will change his father’s mind. Or his mother’s, for that matter. She can be even worse.

  Not as bad as Courtney’s mother, though. At least there’s that.

  10

  MONDAY EVENING, WHEN Teddy is home alone, he spends hours on social media. His user name is Natasha, she is seventeen years old, and her picture was swiped from a girl in Sweden. Natasha is an online friend of Zach’s, as well as many others at Belmont, because who doesn’t want to be friends with a pretty young girl?

  Everybody does, boys and girls alike. And old perverted men.

  Teddy has blocked dozens of them over the years. He’s also gone through several profiles, including Larissa, Molly, Yasmine, and Kellie. One of the problems with pretending to be a teenager is that eventually they have to grow up. As they do, he reinvents himself.

  When he first got the idea of creating a fake profile, he didn’t know if he should. An older man pretending to be a high school student? If he got caught, the headline alone would destroy him.

  For a long time, he resisted, telling himself how stupid it would be. Borderline self-destructive, and Teddy is anything but that.

  One day, he did it anyway. The curiosity had become stronger than the fear.

  Admittedly, his first attempt was horrible. He didn’t know anything about creating a profile or what to say in it, nor did he know what music, movies, or bands a seventeen-year-old girl would like.

  The second profile was a little better, but the third was when he really hit his stride.

  Teddy scrolls through the day’s messages—many of which are posted during school hours—and he tries to keep up with the conversations.

  Not that he enjoys them. He couldn’t care less about video games, sports, weekend plans, marijuana, alcohol, and the opposite sex. But social media is the only way to keep track of what his students are doing.

  Yes, he knows who has hooked up with whom, which guy likes which girl, and who hates whom. It’s not very interesting, though occasionally it’s helpful.

  But he isn’t reading for gossip. Not really. He’s looking for news about his assignment. It might be too soon, since they have several weeks to read Moby Dick, but eventually it’ll show up online. Teddy knows his students so well, he’d bet on it.

  While he continues to scroll, an email pops up on his screen.

  Dear Mr. Crutcher,

  I want to thank you for giving Zach an extra assignment to try and improve his grade. I appreciate your time and thoughtfulness on this matter, and I know Zach does as well.

  Best regards,

  Pamela Ward

  The words are nice enough. Kind, even. But considering the source, they somehow sound like a threat.

  * * *

  SONIA STANDS IN front of the memorial committee, trying to smile in an upbeat yet compassionate way.

  The official committee is made up of parents, faculty, and students. They’ve met at least once a month for the past six. Now that it’s getting closer, they meet once a week.

  “As you all know,” Sonia says, “the memorial is a balance between acknowledging what happened and trying to be upbeat about our future.”

  “Unlike last year,” someone says.

  The room goes silent. Everyone remembers what happened last year, when all the white butterflies were supposed to be released into the air. They were kept in the box for too long. The ones that managed to stay alive sputtered out, one by one, while the rest landed on the stage in a dead heap.

  Sonia hadn’t chaired that event.

  “No butterflies this year,” Sonia says. “And no doves, either. Nothing live of any kind. Well, except for the people.”

  “Most of them.”

  The comment comes from one of the most outspoken members of the committee. Ingrid Ross is president of the Collaborative, Belmont’s version of the PTA. She is also Courtney’s mother.

  “Yes, thank you.” Sonia turns to the admin of the group. “Now, where are we with the food?”

  “Lunch is at noon. Sharp. The buffet will be set up in the quad, weather permitting. Otherwise we’ll have to be in the dining hall. Coffee, tea, and water will be available throughout the day.”

  “No breakfast?” Sonia says.

  Ingrid answers for the group. “No breakfast.”

  “All right. Where are we with the speakers?”

  “I have them.” Ingrid clears her throat and stands up. She is tall and thin, and always looks like she just came from a Pilates class. Her straight blond hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. “First, the headmaster will open the ceremony, followed by a nondenominational pastor, a rabbi, and an Eastern philosopher, who will join together in a spiritual silent moment.”

  “I thought we were having a Buddhist monk,” someone says.

  Ingrid purses her lips. “We voted against that on the speaker subcommittee.”

  “Oh.”

  “Moving on. After the moment of silence, we will have several parents speak. Including me.”

  Sonia is quite proud of herself for not rolling her eyes.

  “In the afternoon,” Ingrid says, “we’ll split up into smaller groups, with counselors and therapists, then come back together for the candle-lighting ceremony. A few teachers will speak, and the headmaster will close the day with some uplifting words about the future.”

  “Teachers?” Sonia says. “Which teachers are speaking?”

  “The exact lineup hasn’t been determined yet.”

  “Then who’s on the list?”

  Ingrid sighs and scrolls through her tablet. “Daniels, Jawicki, Parker, Jackson, and Timberg are being considered. And, of course, Crutcher will speak. He’s Teacher of the Year.”

  Yes, he is. One of the great hono
rs of the position is speaking at every school event and fundraiser, which means Sonia will have to listen to him ad nauseum.

  Perfect.

  “Decorations,” she says.

  This one is always a little touchy, given that it’s a memorial. No one wants to feel like they’re at a funeral. However, it also can’t look like a party.

  The head of the decorations subcommittee lists everything they’re considering, from a scroll-like guest book for everyone to sign to table decorations in the shape of the school’s mascot, the bobcat. For the centerpieces, they want to use cartoonish-looking bobcats dressed up in tuxedos.

  “I vote no on that,” Ingrid says. “If we must have bobcats, they should be wearing the school jersey or something of the like.”

  For once, Sonia agrees with her. “This isn’t a formal event. I don’t think tuxedos are necessary.”

  “No tuxedos,” says the subcommittee chair. She makes a big deal of scratching that off her list. “Anything else we want?”

  “Just keep it subtle,” Ingrid says. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves.”

  “Or the school,” Sonia says.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  The meeting ends without much fanfare, as all their meetings do. Sonia goes straight to her classroom and uses her stress ball. She knew chairing the event would be difficult. Over the past few years, the annual memorial has become a huge event at the school—and, as a result, a huge fundraiser.

  No one had expected that. The first memorial was held because the last headmaster had killed himself.

  He was found by the custodian in the middle of the night. Sonia shudders every time she thinks of poor old Joe, who was just doing his job when he’d found the headmaster hanging from the ceiling fan in his office.

  11

  TEDDY’S MEMORIAL SPEECH has been written for months. He wrote it in the summer, right after learning he was named Teacher of the Year. Every morning since, he has reviewed it, tweaked it. So far he has completely rewritten it three times.

  Last year, Gabriel Stein was Teacher of the Year, and he gave a horrible speech. Too long, too sad, too much of everything. He even cried, for God’s sake.

  Teddy isn’t about to repeat the same mistake.

  This morning, he thinks the speech is coming along well. Eloquent without being too wordy. Compassionate without being depressing. Most of all, it sounds important. As it should, because he has a responsibility to the students and to the school. His words carry weight. They mean something. And that isn’t something he takes lightly.

  He walks outside, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air. The weather is perfect for fall—sunny with a light breeze. When he starts his car, the voice of his favorite talk show host fills the air.

  It’s a good day.

  It gets even better during second period. It’s his favorite class.

  “All right,” he says, settling everyone down. “It’s time for our next book.”

  “Do we get to vote?” someone says.

  “Hand,” Teddy says.

  The student raises his hand. Teddy nods at him.

  “Do we get to vote?”

  “No.”

  “But fourth period got to vote.”

  “This is second period.”

  There’s no requirement to do exactly the same thing in every class, as long as everything evens out by the end of the year. None of Teddy’s classes read the same book at the same time. In part, it’s so they can’t cheat.

  It’s also because he hates for his students to know what’s coming next.

  “However,” Teddy says, “I am willing to ask your opinion. What would you like to read next?”

  Five hands go up. Two are expected. He ignores them and points to a girl in the second row. “Amber?”

  “Lord of the Flies,” she says.

  Teddy nods and points to another hand. “Noah.”

  “Slaughterhouse-Five.”

  “Madeline?”

  “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”

  More hands go up as they get the hang of it. Funny what happens when you give them a choice.

  He calls on each and every student, even the two overeager ones.

  “The Catcher in the Rye.”

  “The Diary of Anne Frank.”

  “The Jungle.”

  All the short, easy-to-read classic books. Nothing with heavy, difficult language, and certainly no Russian translations. Books they’ve probably read before.

  Teddy glances at Courtney Ross, trying to gauge her reaction. He still feels a little bad about screwing up the deadline for the paper. She shouldn’t have to suffer for what Zach Ward did. Unlike him, she’s not arrogant or difficult. She’s never asked for an extension—never needed one—and she’s always been an A student. Even by Teddy’s standards.

  Maybe she needs a break on this next book. Maybe something that’s a little bit fun. Courtney could probably use some fun.

  “What about,” Teddy says, “The Outsiders?”

  Silence. The kids look skeptical, like they think it’s a trick.

  “Seriously?” someone says.

  Teddy smiles. The Outsiders is the holy grail of books for a high school class. Easy to read, fun, interesting. Yet it also has important messages about socioeconomics and the consequences of judging anyone who is different. Plus, there’s a movie with all kinds of celebrities in it.

  “I’m serious,” Teddy says.

  The students applaud. It’s a break in decorum, but Teddy lets it go. His class knows it’s a gift to be assigned that book.

  They just don’t know it’s a gift to Courtney.

  For her, he would do that. And he doesn’t give out gifts very often.

  If he had to be 100 percent truthful, it’s not just because of Zach’s article. It’s because of Courtney’s mother, Ingrid. As president of the Collaborative, she also has a seat on Belmont Academy’s board of directors.

  The same board that selects the Teacher of the Year.

  * * *

  ZACH FEELS SOMETHING on his arm. No. Poking his arm.

  Then, a whisper in his ear.

  “Wake up, Loser.”

  His eyes fly open. Courtney is standing over him, smiling.

  He’s in the library, after school, and he’d fallen asleep on top of Bleak House. He was up almost all night reading and still isn’t done.

  “Hey, Nerd,” he says, lifting his head. “I nodded off.”

  “I see that.” She sits down, her backpack hitting the floor with a thump. The tables around them are all empty. Zach checks his phone. It’s almost five o’clock.

  “What are you doing here?” he says.

  “Avoiding home.”

  He nods. Gets it. “Your mom?”

  “Always.”

  “What now?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

  “She’s all bent about early admission. I swear, every day she finds a new way to torture me.” Courtney shakes her head as she checks her phone. “She’s sent seven texts since school got out. Three include the word ‘Yale.’ ”

  Again, he nods. Courtney’s mom has been talking about Yale for years. As if her whole life is built around her daughter going to that school.

  “You two look like you’re up to something.”

  Mr. Maxwell, their math teacher, walks up to their table and smiles down at them. He looks more like a personal trainer than a teacher, the way he’s always flexing his muscles. Like now.

  Zach points to his book. “Just studying.”

  “Totally,” Courtney says.

  Mr. Maxwell nods, and he keeps smiling. When no one else says anything, he finally walks away.

  “That was weird,” Zach whispers.

  “He can be creepy,” Courtney says. “I mean, not creepy like a pervert, but like he just as
sumes you’re doing something wrong.”

  “So judgy.”

  “Yeah. I bet he was a bad kid and thinks we’re the same.”

  Zach sighs and stretches his arms. “So much baggage. Teachers have no idea how hard they are to deal with.”

  “Right?”

  12

  ZACH IS LATE. He was supposed to be at the memorial subcommittee meeting at 7 p.m., but he got stuck in an argument with his dad about where he was going.

  Yes, it’s school-related.

  Yes, he swears it’s school-related. He’s one of the student representatives on the memorial committee, remember?

  No, he won’t be late for curfew. Probably. Unless maybe if the meeting runs late or he decides to escape this life and drive up to Canada or something.

  Finally, Dad let him go. By the time Zach arrives at the meeting, everyone else is there.

  “Sorry,” he says, rushing to sit down. A few people glance up, but at least no one gives him a dirty look. Some of the parents get pretty upset about tardiness.

  The meeting is in one of the classrooms at Belmont. Ingrid Ross stands at the front, right next to the smartboard. Mrs. Ross, as Zach calls her. He’s known her as long as he’s known Courtney.

  “As I was saying, you all know how long this process has taken. The memorial statue is something that has been talked and debated about for years, but I think we’ve finally accomplished our goal.” She stops to smile at everyone. “After so many attempts, so many versions we’ve considered and eliminated, I present to you the final statue. Or at least a picture of it.”

  Mrs. Ross taps the board.

  A bronze rock appears.

  That’s all it is: a big rock. This is the end result. Most ideas were rejected because they were considered offensive or inappropriate. Angels were not inclusive. A bust of the headmaster could be misconstrued as glorifying suicide. Anything resembling a wall was too derivative. The list went on and on until someone said it should be a big bronze (plated) rock.