Snake Skin by CJ Lyons Page A

looking black man with wire-rim
glasses emerged from one of the offices. "I'm sorry, we're in the
middle of a crisis here—" He stopped when he saw Guardino's
credentials. "Oh. Well. Now. I've just got off the phone with our
attorney and he said to let you see Ashley's locker and belongings.
Right this way."
    Burroughs trailed after Guardino. The view
from the rear was a nice distraction, made him forget where he was
for a moment. He hated schools—the budding sociopaths, the cliques,
the hierarchy that forced a kid to accept whichever hole his peers
pigeoned him into.
    The vice-principal was prattling on about
the disruption the police had made in the school's routine,
removing his glasses to wipe them three times during the
twenty-foot march down the hall to Ashley's locker.
    "Well, now here you are." He fumbled with
the master key. Guardino didn't rush him, didn't get in his space
or take the key away like Burroughs itched to. Instead, she used
the opportunity to pump the guy for info.
    Not that the guy had anything helpful to
offer, but it was pretty slick to see her milk him dry in seconds
flat. She seemed to have a gift of finding her subject's weak spot
and using it to get them to spill everything. Handy talent for a
cop, especially one with her job.
    Finally, the door sprang open. The
vice-principal jumped back as if he were about to bolt, but
Guardino restrained him with a gracious hand on his arm as
Burroughs plunged into the teenager's treasure trove.
    No help here—just textbooks and a binder.
Other than her gym clothes, Ashley had left nothing personal
behind. Still, Guardino acted like it was the motherlode, flipping
through every page in the looseleaf binder, examining the bored
doodling of a seventh grader.
    "Think we could see any of her artwork?" she
asked the vice-principal who hovered as if uncertain that they
weren't there to arrest him.
    "According to her schedule, she's in Mrs.
Dunkin's art class. She's also Ashley's faculty advisor. I saw her
here a while ago—something about firing some pots the students
made."
    Guardino smiled at the man and gestured.
"Let's go meet Mrs. Dunkin."
    Burroughs felt exceedingly small walking the
tile-walled corridors. Trapped. Back to being thirteen again. The
rows upon rows of steel lockers, the shiny linoleum, the noise
bouncing from one wall to the next, the teachers making you feel
stupid just 'cause you didn't talk so hot. Not to mention the
humiliation of leaving class for speech therapy, constantly being
labeled a dummy or retard.
    A sheen of sweat broke out over him as their
footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. He caught Guardino looking
at him and shoved his hands into his pockets before she could see
his clenched fists. As long as he didn't open his mouth, make a
fool of himself, it would be all right.
    They turned the corner and entered a
brightly lit room festooned with colorful paintings, textiles and
paper maiche sculptures. A petite woman knelt before a kiln,
adjusting something.
    "Mrs. Dunkin? These are the police. They're
trying to find Ashley Yeager and have some questions for you." With
that the assistant principal left them.
    "I was so sorry to hear about Ashley," Mrs.
Dunkin said, turning to face them. She wore frayed jeans and a Pitt
T-shirt smeared with paint. If more of his teachers looked like her
when he was a kid, school might not have been so bad. "She's a
promising artist. Transferred here from Plum to take advantage of
our art program."
    "We'd love to see her work," Guardino said
when Burroughs didn't respond. She gave him a look like he was
acting like a fool, tongue-tied and gawking. He balanced Ashley's
binder under his arm, took out his notebook and pretended to be
busy taking notes.
    Dunkin brushed clay dust from her hands on
the back of her jeans. She laid out several cardboard canvasses of
Ashley's work. Seeing it, Burroughs had the feeling he wasn't the
only one with bad feelings when it came to school.
    "Her work is quite