noticing me, so I came in fast.” She looked down at her feet. “I have a key,” she whispered.
I let that pass. “You know who the students you saw were?”
She shook her head.
“Did you wait a long time?”
She shrugged. “Not that long.” She tilted her head and reconsidered. “Maybe a little long.”
85
A HOLE IN JUAN
“And he had no way of knowing you were here, am I correct?”
“Well . . . I left the door unlocked, kind of as a warning. But otherwise, right. I was in back and I swear I didn’t touch any chemicals. I never, ever do. I’m scared to death of them!”
“How long do you think you waited for Mr. Reyes?” It felt ludicrous using his surname with his lover, but the man had such a wall of propriety around him that it felt overly intimate on my part to call him Juan.
“Don’t know.” She was probably a visual whiz, but she left a lot to be desired verbally. “A while. Just . . . a while. Is this going to . . . am I going to flunk now? Not get my degree?” Her nose reddened dangerously again.
“I doubt it. Nobody’s going to know, anyway. Let’s get you out of here, all right?”
She looked at me appraisingly before she whispered, “I need my clothes.”
I looked down at her buttoned-up raincoat.
She swallowed hard. I nodded, and she stood up and tiptoed carefully. The telltale red marks on her socks meant she’d already had enough contact with the broken glass.
While she put her jeans and sweater back on, I crunched around. The room was dim. The police or paramedics must have turned the switch back off. I wondered if turning the switch had set off the explosion. I tried to remember Reyes as he staggered out of the room. He’d still been in his raincoat.
I couldn’t have said what I was looking for, but I found only glass and stains. Blood, I thought, and something else. On the floor, on the counter, in the sink where the skeletal remains of Reyes’s umbrella also rested.
Tisha re-entered the lab as Havermeyer poked his head in.
“What is going on here?”
“Ms. Banks and I realized that Mr. Reyes’s briefcase was still in the room.” I raised my arm, showing it to him. “She’s taking it to him. We’re sure it will be a comfort to him to know it’s safe.”
GILLIAN ROBERTS
86
Tisha timidly nodded at the headmaster.
He peered at the lab, his bottom lip jutting out in perturba-tion. “What are we going to do about the classes scheduled—”
“Ms. Moffat and her crew can have it back to normal in a jiffy,” I said. “It’s only glass and . . . whatever. Then we need a substitute teacher.”
“I’m aware of that. I meant . . .” I don’t know what he meant.
He inhaled, seemed about to present an oration, but instead looked at the pocket watch he wore on a fob right next to his faux Phi Beta Kappa key. “I believe your homeroom is already in session, Miss Pepper,” he said sternly, and then he turned and lumbered off toward the staircase.
Tisha watched his retreat, then looked at me. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think he knew who I was.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“But I’ve met him three times and—”
“Trust me. It’s nothing personal.”
“I don’t think he realized I was in there and—”
“He didn’t. You’re safe. And I’m sure Miss Jouilliat—” I rushed through the art teacher’s name because nobody I knew of was sure of its pronunciation. I, for one, was willing to swear that she herself pronounced it differently each time, as a sort of performance art of her own. “Want me to go upstairs with you to talk with her?” I was hoping she’d say yes. Getting to the light and air of the third floor art room—which was half glass and always reminded me of a Parisian studio, or Hollywood’s version of the same—would be a relief.
She considered, then shook her head. “Thanks, but she’ll know what happened. Do you really want me to take his briefcase to the hospital?”
“If you change your clothing first. I
I let that pass. “You know who the students you saw were?”
She shook her head.
“Did you wait a long time?”
She shrugged. “Not that long.” She tilted her head and reconsidered. “Maybe a little long.”
85
A HOLE IN JUAN
“And he had no way of knowing you were here, am I correct?”
“Well . . . I left the door unlocked, kind of as a warning. But otherwise, right. I was in back and I swear I didn’t touch any chemicals. I never, ever do. I’m scared to death of them!”
“How long do you think you waited for Mr. Reyes?” It felt ludicrous using his surname with his lover, but the man had such a wall of propriety around him that it felt overly intimate on my part to call him Juan.
“Don’t know.” She was probably a visual whiz, but she left a lot to be desired verbally. “A while. Just . . . a while. Is this going to . . . am I going to flunk now? Not get my degree?” Her nose reddened dangerously again.
“I doubt it. Nobody’s going to know, anyway. Let’s get you out of here, all right?”
She looked at me appraisingly before she whispered, “I need my clothes.”
I looked down at her buttoned-up raincoat.
She swallowed hard. I nodded, and she stood up and tiptoed carefully. The telltale red marks on her socks meant she’d already had enough contact with the broken glass.
While she put her jeans and sweater back on, I crunched around. The room was dim. The police or paramedics must have turned the switch back off. I wondered if turning the switch had set off the explosion. I tried to remember Reyes as he staggered out of the room. He’d still been in his raincoat.
I couldn’t have said what I was looking for, but I found only glass and stains. Blood, I thought, and something else. On the floor, on the counter, in the sink where the skeletal remains of Reyes’s umbrella also rested.
Tisha re-entered the lab as Havermeyer poked his head in.
“What is going on here?”
“Ms. Banks and I realized that Mr. Reyes’s briefcase was still in the room.” I raised my arm, showing it to him. “She’s taking it to him. We’re sure it will be a comfort to him to know it’s safe.”
GILLIAN ROBERTS
86
Tisha timidly nodded at the headmaster.
He peered at the lab, his bottom lip jutting out in perturba-tion. “What are we going to do about the classes scheduled—”
“Ms. Moffat and her crew can have it back to normal in a jiffy,” I said. “It’s only glass and . . . whatever. Then we need a substitute teacher.”
“I’m aware of that. I meant . . .” I don’t know what he meant.
He inhaled, seemed about to present an oration, but instead looked at the pocket watch he wore on a fob right next to his faux Phi Beta Kappa key. “I believe your homeroom is already in session, Miss Pepper,” he said sternly, and then he turned and lumbered off toward the staircase.
Tisha watched his retreat, then looked at me. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think he knew who I was.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“But I’ve met him three times and—”
“Trust me. It’s nothing personal.”
“I don’t think he realized I was in there and—”
“He didn’t. You’re safe. And I’m sure Miss Jouilliat—” I rushed through the art teacher’s name because nobody I knew of was sure of its pronunciation. I, for one, was willing to swear that she herself pronounced it differently each time, as a sort of performance art of her own. “Want me to go upstairs with you to talk with her?” I was hoping she’d say yes. Getting to the light and air of the third floor art room—which was half glass and always reminded me of a Parisian studio, or Hollywood’s version of the same—would be a relief.
She considered, then shook her head. “Thanks, but she’ll know what happened. Do you really want me to take his briefcase to the hospital?”
“If you change your clothing first. I
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