For Your Own Good Page 9

  She knew that. Saw it in him, zeroed in on it, and made her move. Like a . . . one of those Greek things. He can’t think of the name—he’s a math teacher, not a mythology teacher—but eventually it comes to him.

  A Siren.

  Is that it? No, no. A succubus. Ingrid Ross was a succubus.

  Just thinking about her makes him furious again.

  He grabs his cross, outlining it with his finger through his shirt. Sometimes he thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust for the things that go through his mind. Actually, he should spontaneously combust for what he has done.

  For some reason, it doesn’t happen. Instead, he is left with the guilt. That might be worse.

  He walks away, not wanting to be caught staring at Ingrid’s picture. Down the hall, he takes a right, away from his classroom, and heads to the Porter Room. Over the weekend, the school sent out a notice about a faculty meeting before first period.

  The room is half-full when he arrives. Unlike the Stafford Room, this room isn’t open to students. It requires a key card, and it’s at the end of the south hall—too far away for any kids to hear what’s happening.

  Ms. Marsha stands at the front and starts the meeting precisely at 7:40. Her tweed suit is as crisp as her voice.

  “I’ll be brief, as I know you all need to get to your first class,” she says. She holds a clipboard in her hand, because, like many of the old guard, she eschews technology. Even things that would make her job easier. “You have all heard about the passing of Ingrid Ross. Rest assured, we are in constant contact with the police and the family about what happened to her. We are waiting for autopsy results to confirm the cause of death.”

  News of an autopsy doesn’t make Frank feel better. Not one bit.

  “The family, as you might imagine, is devastated,” Ms. Marsha says. “We’ve placed an area at the school’s entrance for anyone to express their condolences with flowers or notes. All of them will be passed to the family. In addition, we have extra counselors on staff today for the students and faculty. Please don’t hesitate to refer someone there if they need help. That’s what the counselors are for.” She stops and looks up from her clipboard. “Questions?”

  Someone else asks if attendance will be excused due to seeing a counselor. Another asks about Ingrid’s funeral.

  The funeral. Frank hadn’t even thought about that.

  God help him if it’s held in a church. No way could he sit through that.

  “We’ll give you more information as we receive it,” Ms. Marsha says. “That’s all for now.”

  Eight minutes. That’s how long the meeting took, and yet Frank’s blood pressure feels even higher. He is standing near Sonia when Ms. Marsha approaches her.

  “Teddy Crutcher is out sick today. We’re bringing in a substitute, but can you . . .”

  Sonia nods, and Frank walks away, missing the rest of the conversation. He’s too busy thinking about that autopsy.

  He should have stayed away from her bottle of green tea.

  That’s what he had been looking for in the Stafford Room. Not his pen.

  26

  FOR THE FIRST time in who knows how many years, Teddy stands on his back porch—still worn, still dilapidated—and looks out over his backyard. It’s been cleared of every single plant, bush, and shrub. The only thing left is the trees that were too large to cut down.

  It’s Tuesday evening, right around dusk, and Teddy hasn’t been to work since Friday. He isn’t sick and can’t remember the last time he was. He’s been too busy to go to work.

  But he wasn’t at first. Although he’d never admit it to anyone, he almost gave up. In fact, for a little while he did. Friday evening, after going through the school dumpster and coming up with nothing, he went home and got into bed. No food, nothing to drink. Certainly not milk—he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve anything. Not after what he had done.

  It was so horrible.

  An idea that started as something so innocent had spiraled so far out of control that someone had died.

  He was an awful man. Someone who focused on petty disagreements with his fellow educators. Someone who wanted to punish them for being so annoying. Someone who poisoned their coffee.

  Well, maybe not poisoned. Fiddled with. He fiddled with their coffee. Lightly fiddled.

  What he should’ve been doing was concentrating on his students. That was his job, his purpose, his mission.

  He had screwed it all up.

  The feeling inside him had started slowly. A tingle, like a mosquito was crawling around. No, a worm. Definitely a worm.

  One that replicated.

  The longer he stayed in bed, the more worms there were. It felt awful, as if his insides had been replaced with those slimy, slithering creatures. By Saturday evening, he was consumed with them.

  The feeling was not new.

  Teddy had felt it once before, after Allison left. When she’d left that bill on the table.

  The feeling was so much worse than regret, which was just a nagging thought in the brain. Remorse was having your insides replaced by worms.

  None of this would’ve happened if she were still here. She had a way of making everything better.

  Whenever he was in a particularly bad mood, they would watch a movie together. She always picked the stupidest comedies. Allison hated dramas, hated anything serious or depressing. At first, he thought her movies were silly and not worth his time.

  “It’s worth it if you laugh,” she said. “Even once.”

  She was right. Those stupid movies did make him laugh, sometimes more than once, because he was with her. Allison had the most infectious laugh—it was a beautiful sound. One time, he told her it was like listening to poetry. She laughed at that, too.

  Now he doesn’t watch those movies. Not without her.

  He barely laughs at all, and that’s what started all of this: when he stopped laughing and started noticing how irritating his coworkers really were. He started fiddling with their coffee because they annoyed him to no end.

  Thinking about that, and about Allison, made him feel even worse.

  * * *

  HE STAYED IN bed until the worms tired out, fell dormant. The pain began to subside as they wore themselves out. On Sunday morning, he finally crawled out of his hole, his sense of purpose renewed. He had to get back to his students, had to keep trying to teach them not to be selfish, entitled little bastards.

  First, though, he had to get rid of all his wrongdoing, starting with the basement. Teddy got rid of all the pods, the test tubes, all of his experiments. The pills, the research, everything. It was all just a terrible distraction from what was really important.

  Next, he had to tackle the garden, starting with the Actaea pachypoda.

  The plant had immediately caught his attention. It was impossible to miss those berries—white with a black dot. That’s why it was also called doll’s-eyes. Those little berries looked just like tiny eyeballs, and they were filled with toxins that lower blood pressure. Too much would cause a heart attack. Just a little could make someone lose consciousness.

  All he’d wanted to do was make Sonia pass out, preferably in the middle of her ceremony. He had been very careful not to extract too much juice from the berry when he injected it into the coffee pod. Death wasn’t the goal. Not for anyone.

  Wearing gloves, he pulled that plant first and wrapped it up tight. Then he moved on to all the others. It didn’t matter if they were poisonous or not—they all had to go. It took two days of atrocious, grueling work. Returning to school wasn’t an option, not until the yard had been cleared.

  Then he had to dispose of everything. That was the difficult part. As much as he wanted to pay someone to haul it away, he couldn’t let anyone know what he was doing. No choice but to bag it all up and drive it to a yard-waste disposal facility himself
. It took five trips, all to different facilities in different towns. He gave all of them a fake name.

  Now, standing on his porch on Tuesday night, his body is sore from all the manual labor. Yet inside, he feels great, like he’s been given a new start. No, he’s given himself a new start.

  A fresh glass of milk ends the day. It signals the end of penance.

  He has cleansed himself of all the bad things he did, all the ways he was distracted from his true mission: the students.

  He’s ready to start over. Again.

  27

  THE MORNING IS glorious. Sun shining, birds chirping, Teddy wouldn’t be surprised if a butterfly landed on his shoulder as he walks to his car. One doesn’t, of course. He checks.

  He pulls up to the school early, before most have arrived. The only car he recognizes is Frank’s. Not surprising. Frank always arrives early. Teddy passes by his classroom, tempted to stop and say hello, but instead he goes straight to the teachers’ lounge.

  Everything looks the same, even the coffee pods. He smiles as he makes himself a cup.

  Coffee pods. What a stupid idea that was.

  He never found the pods in the dumpster, either. Didn’t find anything of interest, but he did embarrass himself. Joe, the custodian, saw him climbing out of the dumpster. Neither of them said anything, which made it even worse. Joe’s not likely to forget it, either.

  Teddy goes down to his classroom, opens his laptop, and checks his email for the first time since Friday. He scans quickly, reading the flagged messages first. Ingrid is still dead and not yet buried. The word autopsy makes him freeze for a second, but he moves on. No time for the worms today.

  Fallon distracts him. His former student continues to tell him how angry she is.

  Hey, asshole, me again.

  Just so you know, you aren’t going to keep me from succeeding. I’m graduating early and have already been accepted into a master’s program. It won’t be long before I’m making more money than you.

  Later.

  Teddy smiles, as he always does when Fallon writes. She still doesn’t get it.

  He’s not the enemy. Never was. His goal for her, for all his students, is to transform them from selfish brats into something better.

  Fallon may not get it now, but he hasn’t lost hope. Not yet. Not for any of his students. He hasn’t given up on her just like he hasn’t given up on Zach. One day, they just might get it.

  And if they do, it will be because of him.

  * * *

  DEATH. BELMONT IS surrounded by death.

  Sonia walks through the hall thinking about death because it’s everywhere. Ingrid’s funeral will be on Friday and, not long after that, the annual memorial.

  “Good morning, good morning,” she says, nodding to the students, looking each one in the eye. Reassuring them that everything is A-OK, even though it’s not. Yesterday, just when everything had started to calm down a bit, an article appeared in the local paper.

  DEATH AT BELMONT ACADEMY?

  That was the headline, question mark and all. Yes, there was death at Belmont. So much death.

  However, since Sonia is still alive and still the faculty advisor to the Bugle, she needs to find a new editor. Courtney isn’t coming back to school anytime soon, if at all. Can’t blame her for that, given that her mother died here.

  There’s that death again. Always sneaks up when it’s least expected.

  Sonia shakes it off and searches the main hall until she finds whom she’s looking for.

  “Zach,” she says.

  He smiles at her, looking as normal as ever. “Hey, Mrs. B.”

  “Have you spoken to Courtney? How is she doing?”

  “I haven’t talked to her since . . . well, since Friday,” he says.

  “She’s grieving. Give her time.”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “She’ll call you when she’s ready.” Sonia pats him on the hand, offering her most reassuring look. “I wanted to ask you something else. About the Bugle.”

  “Another article? Already?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Zach stares at her, his face so open and trusting. “What’s up?”

  She motions for him to follow, leading him around the corner, where the hallway isn’t as busy. It’s morning break, which lasts exactly sixteen minutes.

  “It’s about the editor position.”

  “Oh,” he says. His eyes widen even further as he gets it. “Oh.”

  “Yes,” she says, with the appropriate amount of seriousness. “We don’t have an editor at the moment.”

  “But Courtney’s coming back,” Zach says.

  “Of course, of course. It’s just for right now, while she’s out. I’m sure she needs time with her family.”

  Zach nods and keeps nodding. Sonia can almost see him weighing his options.

  “Why don’t you think about it overnight?” she says. “Obviously, it’s a big decision.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll think about it.”

  “Whatever you decide is fine. Either way, your participation at the Bugle will look good on your college applications,” she says. “Even as just a reporter.”

  He continues nodding as she walks away, leaving him to think about that.

  * * *

  THE STUDENTS ARE looking at Frank, but he doesn’t really see them. They’re just a blur of sleepy eyes, chins propped up by hands, and lots of blank stares. For him, seeing them like that is unusual. Most of the time, he watches them with care, waiting for one of them to act up. To do something wrong.

  The devil and his minions can be anywhere anytime. Always trying to lure these kids to the dark side. Frank is usually on guard for that, trying to help them resist the urge.

  Today, not so much.

  It’s fourth-period calculus, and no one wants to be here. Not the students and not Frank. If he had his way, he’d be at the gym. Working out all his nervousness, which is a constant state at this point.

  Or at church, praying out all his guilt. He was there last night, and the night before, and it hasn’t worked yet. He hasn’t heard a peep from anyone—not the police, not Ingrid’s husband—and it’s driving him insane.

  A hand shoots up in the middle of the class.

  “Yes, Stella?”

  “If a plus b is the inverse function of f, then wouldn’t the intersection point be a equals 1 over a plus b minus 1?”

  Frank looks at the problem, working through what she’d said. It takes him longer than it should. “Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, you’re right.” He swipes the smartboard and makes the whole problem disappear. How easy math can be.

  Another problem appears on the board, and he asks the class to solve it. He uses the time to open his desk drawer and check his phone.

  One text from his wife, telling him to get the oil changed in his car.

  Relief, at first, but the angst comes back quickly. Two words express how he’s feeling: If only.

  If only he hadn’t met up with Ingrid at that fundraiser.

  If only Missy had come with him instead of staying at home with Frankie.

  If only he hadn’t had so much to drink. It always gets him in trouble.

  If only he hadn’t left with Ingrid instead of going home alone.

  28

  THE DAY HAS been splendid, just splendid. Teddy loves that word. It might even be in his top ten, although that changes. Sometimes, he comes across a word he hasn’t seen in a while, and then that word goes onto his mental list. But splendid is an all-time favorite.

  His second-period class is largely done reading The Outsiders, so now they have to write their papers. Fourth period is a bit slower, reading Moby Dick, but that’s to be expected.

  By the time school is over, Teddy thinks about having a big glass of milk, even though he had one last n
ight. Normally, he doesn’t drink milk two days in a row, but if he can’t celebrate the successes in life, then what’s the point?

  On the way home, he stops at the corner store. One of the many downsides of being a teacher is not being able to shop at the nice grocery stores. On this matter, Teddy made his peace long ago. He’s even become friends with Hector, the owner and full-time cashier of Fourth Avenue Liquors.

  They first met several years ago, when he discovered Hector’s store had cheaper prices for milk than the discount grocery stores. Hector was also amenable to special orders. That’s a good business owner, one who’s willing to cater to his customers. Teddy has been loyal to him ever since.

  “More milk today?” Hector says.

  Teddy smiles as he walks toward the back, nodding his head.

  “Have to keep an eye on you,” Hector says. “That much milk can’t be good for the body.” He laughs at his own joke, drowning out the TV stationed above the register.

  Teddy grabs his milk from the refrigerator. Hector carries the brand just for him. Teddy only drinks milk from a glass bottle. Not that plastic or carton nonsense.

  “Now tell me,” Hector says. “What the hell is going on at your school?”

  Teddy has to think for a minute. “Oh, yes. It’s just such a tragedy. That poor woman.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “No one really knows what happened. She just . . . collapsed.”

  “You haven’t heard?” Hector says.

  “Heard what?”

  “Wow, I thought you guys would’ve known first.” Hector picks up the remote and changes the channel on the TV. It flips from a soccer game to the local news. “I saw it a little while ago.” Using the remote as a pointer, he gestures to the screen. “What the hell are you teaching those kids?”

  The banner at the bottom of the screen doesn’t make sense. Teddy reads it over and over, trying to understand.