The Crazy School Page 7

“Six of one . . .”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Who’ve you got for therapy?” asked Sitzman.

  “Sookie,” I said. “And I just made her cry.”

  “Big deal.” Wiesner snorted. “Bitch is a total lightweight.”

  “She’s your first shrink?” asked Sitzman.

  “Fourth or something,” I said, “since high school. Never had one burst into tears on me before.”

  “Progress,” said Wiesner. “I made this chick at Lake Haven slap me once.”

  “He grabbed the poor woman’s ass,” Sitzman explained.

  “Out of pity,” said Wiesner.

  “Pity?” said Sitzman. “She was a grad student. With an ear-piercing shriek, I might add.”

  “But so damn ugly,” said Wiesner. “I figured it would cheer her up, you know?”

  Sitzman looked skeptical. “And what about that guy last year?”

  I wondered if he meant Gerald.

  “Which guy?” asked Wiesner.

  “What’s-his-face from Ireland,” said Sitzman. “The one who quit halfway through his first session with you.”

  “Declan,” said Wiesner. “The guy had serious issues.”

  “Dude, you lit him on fire.”

  “Wiesner,” I said, “you torched a shrink?”

  “Accidentally,” he said.

  “Um, yeah,” said Sitzman, “except for the part where you chased him down the hall, flicking that lighter and yelling, ‘Freebird.’”

  “At which time I seem to remember you standing in a doorway behind us,” Wiesner shot back, “laughing your ass off.”

  Sitzman raised both hands in concession. “Still,” he said, “poor Declan just kept going, straight to the parking lot. We never saw him again.”

  “You guys didn’t even try to put out the fire?”

  “It’s not like he was consumed in flames or anything,” said Wiesner. “I, like, barely singed his sleeve.”

  “Accidentally,” I said.

  He dropped his head to beam me a picture-of-innocence look through those thick lashes, guilty grin making his dimples crease.

  I was unmoved. “You’re a piece of work, Wiesner.”

  “And you made Sookie cry,” he said. “How’d you manage that?”

  “Nothing to do with lighters,” I said. “The rest of it stays between me and her. I’m not entirely boundary-free.”

  “No fair,” he said. “I told you.”

  “Not everything, though, right?”

  Sitzman laughed, and Wiesner gave him a little punch to the shoulder. With affection, but still.

  I was about to say they should cut the shit when they went quiet, heads swiveling toward the doorway.

  Wiesner said, “Hi, Dr. Santangelo,” just as I turned to see who it was.

  The man was in his cape and a fresh Jefferson shirt, having added a beret to the ensemble. “Nice to see the two of you spending time with a teacher after class.”

  “Madeline’s cool,” said Wiesner. “She’s even making me kind of enjoy history.”

  “We all appreciate the fine work she’s doing,” said Santangelo, giving me a nod. “You boys mind letting us have a moment alone?”

  Wiesner and Sitzman booked out of the room so fast I could practically hear the whistle of backdraft.

  Santangelo smiled and swung the door half-shut behind them.

  Crappe diem.

  11

  Santangelo took off his beret and sat down on the corner of my desk.

  “We haven’t had any one-on-one conversations, Madeline,” he said, “for which I apologize. I thought it was high time I checked in to see how everything’s going.”

  “It’s, uh . . .” I suddenly felt like there was a chunk of dust on my uvula.

  I coughed, then sputtered, “Fine. Things are fine.”

  “I’m making you nervous,” he said. “That’s the trouble with running a school. I can’t spend as much time with everyone as I’d like, so when I do show up—well, I can’t blame you for being a little tense.”

  “So you’re not here to discuss my lack of appreciation for the salad bar?”

  He let out a bark of laughter and slapped the desk. “What a crock of shit, eh?”

  “Sir?”

  “Not a trick question,” he said. “My performance was intended as farce. Making a complete ass of myself seemed to be the order of the day.”

  “In that case, Dr. Santangelo, congratulations on a job well done.”

  “It served a purpose,” he said. “You’re familiar with the broken windows theory?”

  “Fixing the small things,” I said. “Attention to detail as a way to prevent larger-scale anarchy.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “In this case, substitute the salad bar for windows. I launch into a goofy rant, and the kids know we’re paying attention. They feel cared for. I’m willing to look like a buffoon for that.”

  Wiesner’s pen lay next to my hand. I started rolling it back and forth across the desk.

  “What about screaming at Tim this morning?” I asked. “Was that intended as farce?”

  “You were shocked.”

  “I was. Yes.”

  “In fact, you thought I was a raging asshole.”

  I gave the pen another roll.

  He laughed again. “That’s the appropriate response.”

  I looked up at him.

  “I was hoping to hell it was the one I’d get out of Tim,” he said. “You honestly believe I’d condone what happened in that dorm last night?”

  “You seemed to,” I said. “I mean, threatening to shove his head through the blackboard, all that.”

  “Tim should’ve challenged the other dorm parents. He should’ve challenged me. Instead, he caved. That’s goddamn dangerous.”

  “I admit to some remaining skepticism,” I said, “as to your methodology.”

  “Tim is terrified of his own passion,” said Santangelo. “I wanted to push him until he pushed back.”

  “Does he know that? Poor guy’s probably in the dining hall right now, waving incense over the damn chickpeas.”

  Santangelo winked at me. “Might be the best use for him.”

  He crossed his chubby forearms and leaned forward. “Let me tell you something. When I looked around that meeting this morning, I was appalled. There were only two people in the room who didn’t suck down my line of shit and applaud it.”

  “And I was one of them.”

  “Yes, you were one of them,” he said. “Your friend Lulu was the other.”

  “Did that come as a surprise?”

  “No,” he said. “Especially considering how the two of you responded to the situation with Mooney and Fay. You think Tim would’ve handled that as well as you two did?”

  I didn’t say anything, but my answer had to be pretty obvious. Tim would’ve puked and fainted. Not necessarily in that order.

  “I’m not after setting up a cult of personality,” said Santangelo. “This school can’t succeed if it’s staffed with Tims.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “If we’re going to make a difference for these kids, we’ve got to have people here with personality of their own. Not to mention courage.”

  He made a fist and tapped the table with it.

  Once. Twice.

  “Madeline,” he said, “do you have any idea how rare those people are?”

  “In my experience? Right up there with hen’s teeth.”

  “I’m here in this room because we need all the hen’s teeth we can get.”

  “I . . . um . . .”

  “That’s a compliment, Madeline.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Dhumavati and I talked about you earlier today, and I felt it was important to let you know how much we appreciate everything you’re doing here.”

  That sure didn’t sound like Sookie’s take on their opinion of me. I wondered who was lying.

  Santangelo gave me a smile. “Obviously,
the kids see the same qualities in you that we do. Your students this afternoon . . . Fay and Mooney yesterday . . .” He picked up his beret. “We’ll be giving you a raise, and we may have some changes in staffing soon. I’d like you to consider taking on a little more responsibility. On a trial basis at first, but we could make your new position permanent.”

  “What kind of position did you have in mind?” I asked.

  There was a tap at the door, and Dhumavati poked her head inside.

  “Great timing,” said Santangelo. “I was just telling Madeline what you and I discussed this morning.”

  “I’m not interrupting?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Come on in.”

  Dhumavati walked to the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “You did a wonderful job yesterday. We’re very grateful.”

  Santangelo stood up. “I’ve explained that we’re going to bump up her pay. Can you fill her in on the rest? I’ve got a dozen calls to make.”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  Santangelo settled the beret on his head and left us to it.

  “I have to run Mooney’s homework down to the Farm,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “Why don’t I walk you there? We can talk on the way.”

  I opened a desk drawer and took out two assignment sheets. “What’s the date today?”

  “November seventeenth,” she said.

  I jotted that down on each page—one for history, one for English—then didn’t know what else to write.

  “Is this the first time one of your kids has been sent to the Farm?” asked Dhumavati.

  “Yeah,” I said. I wrote: “Finish reading I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” on the top sheet, then looked up page numbers for the next three history book chapters.

  Whatever.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m all set here, unless he needs textbooks.”

  “His dorm parents took care of that.”

  We started for the door.

  “Usually, the kids pack up what they need by themselves,” she said, “but we didn’t want him to have to carry anything. They gave him fifteen stitches yesterday.”

  She held the door for me, and we walked across the lobby.

  “Poor guy,” I said. “Can someone help him with his notes and stuff?”

  “I’m sure Fay will want to pitch in.”

  I shouldered my way through the outer door. “She’s allowed to go down there?”

  “You haven’t heard?” she asked, following me outside.

  “Heard what?”

  “Fay got sent to the Farm this morning.”

  “For what happened last night?”

  “No, not for that.”

  I felt my stomach clench, and worried that Fay had done a turn-in about her pregnancy, given Mooney’s predicted outcome of any such confession.

  Dhumavati sighed. “One of the kids found her in the dorm bathroom this morning, cutting herself.”

  I stopped walking and looked at her. “Is she all right?”

  “It wasn’t severe. Just ritualistic. Some of the girls do it. It’s rarer with boys.”

  “Ritualistic?”

  “It’s considered an effort to communicate distress that they’re unable to voice,” she said. “I’ve been told it’s soothing when the girl is overwhelmed by a mood state she can’t cope with. Pain lowers the level of arousal almost immediately—makes it tolerable. It can become addictive.”

  “She’s done it before?”

  “For a long time.” Dhumavati touched my back and got us walking again. “Not within the last year, however. She’s made remarkable progress here. I’m deeply concerned that it’s started up again.”

  “Understandably,” I said.

  “Did she say anything to you last night that might indicate what’s behind it?”

  I struggled with how to answer that. I wanted to believe that these people actually had the kids’ best interests at heart, but Santangelo’s freak-outs du jour still didn’t sit right with me, despite his effort at schmoozing. The idea of a raise made me even more uptight about it.

  “She was . . . upset,” I said. “I don’t know the specifics beyond that.”

  “She seems to feel comfortable with you,” said Dhumavati. “I’d like you to talk with her, if you’re willing.”

  “Of course.”

  “And if anything were to come up?”

  “You’d be the first to know,” I said.

  The rain clouds were scudding away. In the stronger light, Dhumavati looked pale and tired, ten years older than she had the previous day.

  She misjudged the height of a curb, catching her toe. She stumbled slightly and grabbed my arm to steady herself.

  I braced her for a second until she got her balance back. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I had trouble sleeping last night. I’m concerned about Mooney and Fay. Fay especially.”

  “She seems so fragile,” I said.

  We were walking on grass now, a shortcut to the path that would take us into the woods and down toward the Farm.

  “She’s survived a great deal,” said Dhumavati. “Horrible family life.”

  “Mooney hinted at that,” I said. “He’s very protective of her.”

  “Fay brings that out in people, I’ve found.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I found her very compelling from the moment she came to us. She has great depths of compassion, especially for a child who’s been through such trauma. I think she’s tremendously brave.”

  We reached the trees and soon hit a rough patch of trail.

  “You’re limping,” I said. “Lean on me, if you’d like.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really, it’s no trouble.”

  Dhumavati smiled at me and put her arm across my shoulders. “Fay reminds me of my daughter. Similar-looking, but really, it’s that sweetness.”

  We walked on in silence, her weight shifting onto me slightly whenever she took a step on the tender ankle. We came to a break in the trees, the Farm below us, alongside the large vegetable garden the kids were put to work in while they were doing time in the low-slung building.

  “Where is she now, your daughter?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you have a kid in college. I can’t believe you’re old enough.” That was a lie—she looked ancient in the slant of light filtering through the surrounding trees. I just wanted to cheer her up.

  A brief grimace of pain crossed her face. “I’m sure she would have been. Allegra died when she was eight years old.”

  “Oh, Dhumavati,” I said.

  “That was the hard time I told you about when we first met.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She slowed as we approached the garden’s white fence—nothing much inside this time of year. Pumpkins. Spent stalks of corn that had faded from green to gold with the season.

  “Allegra loved to be around growing things,” said Dhumavati. “Gardens. This one was my idea. In her memory.”

  The hand-painted rectangle nailed to the gate read: GREETINGS. EVERYTHING GROWS WELL IN THIS PLACE, ESPECIALLY THE CHILDREN.

  “Did you make that sign?” I asked.

  Dhumavati nodded. She’d painted a colorful border of flowers and butterflies around the words.

  “Lovely,” I said. “And that saying seems so familiar.”

  “Not original to me,” she said, “by any means. But I was always fond of the sentiment.”

  “You do a lot to make it true around here.”

  We’d drawn abreast of an old wooden bench set in a ring of white stones just off the path.

  Dhumavati eased herself down on it. “Would you mind if we rested up for a bit here? I’d like to catch my breath before we head in.” I sat next to her. “You look tired yourself, Madeline,” she said.

  “Not a lot of sleep lately. And today was a little intense.”

  “David
’s thing this morning?”

  David. Dr. Santangelo.

  “Partly that,” I said. “Partly some stuff I brought up with Sookie after lunch.”

  “And last night’s drama with Mooney and Fay.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That too.”

  “This is a very hard place to be. Especially for people like the two of us, who care so very much about the kids.”

  The two of us but not Santangelo?

  She sighed. “I knew it wouldn’t be any easier for you than it is for me. I recognized that about you when we did your interview for this job.”

  “I think I’m flailing most of the time.”

  “You’re there for these kids in a way few people have the courage to be.”

  I crossed my arms. “They matter to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not always sure how it all—”

  “You mean David?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “He and I don’t always walk in lockstep,” she said. “But I’ve found over the years that I can trust him. He’s tremendously committed, and he’s got an astonishing depth of insight even when his methods seem counterproductive. I hope you’ll be with us long enough to know the truth of that for yourself.”

  “You’re worried I’m going to leave?”

  “I’ve seen dozens of teachers come and go. I know the signs. This is grueling work, in every sense of the word. And I’ll tell you, in confidence, that many of the people who stay here the longest are the ones least suited to the job.”

  I snapped my head toward her.

  She laughed. “We aren’t stupid.”

  “ You’re not,” I said.

  “I have seen miracles happen here,” she said. “And I want you to know that I believe you can be part of that, even become one yourself.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “I know you’d probably like nothing better than to go home tonight and never see this place again.”

  True enough.

  “I want you to try toughing it out,” she said. “We need you. And I think you need us.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  Kind of.

  She looked away from me, out toward the garden. “David told you we’re considering changes around staffing?”

  “Nothing specific.”

  “I may be taking time off after the winter break.” She turned back to me. “David thinks you’re the best candidate to fill in while I’m gone. We both do.”