4 Four Play by Cindy Blackburn Page B

out a slip of paper. “You took notes?” I was impressed, even before I saw the details—a list of twenty or thirty people, each with a G or B next to their names.
    “Good guys and bad guys?” I asked, and she nodded.
    “The faculty according to Jack MacAdoo,” she said. “He’s not judging their teaching. It’s more like how they treat people—the kids, the staff. Especially the custodial staff.”
    I scanned the list. “Wow. You went about this with far more precision than I did.”
    “You sleuth your way, I’ll sleuth mine.”
    I continued reading, but recognized very few names. Being not such a swift sleuth, I hadn’t bothered learning many names during my visit to the Command Center.
    But at least I recognized the principal. Dr. Dempsey had a B next to his name, and the note, “Retiring—the sooner the better.”
    Jason the gym teacher merited a solid G. And lo and behold, there was Doris Carver with a B next to her name and the note, “Mess this morning.”
    “Ms. Carver was Miriam’s department head,” I said. “And she has a big fat B next to her name. What’s the ‘mess this morning’ mean?”
    “Remember, it’s how she treats the janitors,” Karen said. “Some kid threw up in her classroom, and Ms. Carver didn’t even thank Jack for, you know, cleaning it up.”
    I wrinkled my nose. “Trevor Ploof must be quite a challenge.”
    “I don’t remember that name. What’s he teach?”
    ***
    But we never did get around to analyzing Trevor’s emotional or physical ailments. Because right then Karen turned onto Sullivan Street. Dare I say, the situation had heated up considerably while we were away?
    As usual, Alistair Pritt and his ilk occupied center stage. Around and around the intersection of Sullivan and Vine they marched, stomped, and shouted.
    Nothing new there, but Alistair’s poster certainly was new and different. He had abandoned his ‘Queen of Smut’ poster for a new ‘Cry for Rye’ poster.
    “The ‘Queen of Smut’ one was prettier,” Karen said as she inched the van a bit closer.
    Indeed, Alistair’s old poster had been a work of art, what with its bright red lettering and the gold glitter crown embellishment. In comparison, his new ‘Cry for Rye’ specimen looked downright sinister. It sported black lettering and a big black teardrop in the upper left corner.
    “He must be upset about Wilson staying with you last night,” Karen said.
    “Like it’s any of his business? Like destroying my career isn’t bad enough?” I waved an altogether indignant hand. “Now he’s out to ruin my private life?”
    I could have continued ranting about Alistair. But really, there were too many other things begging for my attention. For instance, Roslynn Mayweather.
    Yes, you read that right. Roslynn Mayweather, decked out in a pink business suit, was leading a small group of—
    “Is that a counter-demonstration?” Karen asked. She, too, had turned her attention to the Mayweather devotees, who rounded the street corner in the opposite direction from the Pritt crowd. Roslynn’s bunch carried posters bearing such sentiments as ‘Romance Rocks,’ ‘Romance Rules,’ and ‘Read Romance.’
    “Now those are some attractive posters!” Karen was downright enthusiastic. “And would you look at those outfits? The romance people have the book-banning people beaten by a mile.”
    One had to agree. Roslynn’s crew, all women, were a well-heeled bunch. Each wore a pastel-colored business suit, with matching pumps and matching corsage pinned to each earnest chest. The pastel theme even extended to their posters, an assortment of baby blue, mint green, sunny yellow, and pink placards.
    “Our agent must have put her up to this,” I said. “You’ve heard me mention Geez Louise?”
    “Oh boy,” was Karen’s response as we reached our parking lot.
    A shocking, but certainly a pleasant surprise, no one even noticed us. The two groups of opposing demonstrators were too busy