Little Wolves - By Thomas Maltman Page 0,65

William, his father’s name.

Clara patted his shoulder. “That’s a good name,” she said.

He nodded again. His clothing, she noticed as she continued down the rows, smelled faintly of mildew and smoke.

Though the bags made a mess, a faint white powder coating the floor from the careless boys, the ones who tossed their flour-sack babies back and forth in a juggling game—daring Clara to report them to Miss Drimble—by the time the first two classes left she was glad of the distraction. The smell made her hungry. On her aching feet, with a baby adrift in her stomach, sloshing around as she moved to put up the daily vocab words on the chalkboard, she smelled the fine, invisible powder and daydreamed of sugar cookies and buttermilk rolls hot from the oven, of sweet houses made from gingerbread set deep in the woods to snare the unwary.

The students seemed happy to have her back. Some complained about the strictness of the substitute, Miss Hartle, but they bent to their work after making a few lame jokes. Clara had entered the fray of their lives once more, just another odd addition like the sacks of flour they were forced to lug around. They were happy to see her again, but it seemed clear that, for the first two periods at least, they would have been fine without her.

AFTER SCHOOL SHE WAS erasing the board following seventh period when Leah came in. She hadn’t even heard her enter the room, just the squeak of the desk as she sat. Clara clapped her hands to remove the chalk dust. She smiled, but Leah’s smile in return was faint. They had already hugged earlier, during fifth-period English lit. “What is it?” Clara asked.

Leah nodded at the door, and Clara reluctantly shut it. She knew she was not supposed to be in an enclosed room with a student. Leah’s hair was unwashed and stringy, and she wore a boy’s baggy sweatshirt with an Iron Maiden print on the front. “I’m so glad you’re back, Mrs. Warren. I wish you could stay.”

Clara smiled. In truth it had felt good to be up on her feet in front of the room, leading discussions, telling stories, parsing words. She still carried a small, energized glow from the day. She had realized how wrapped inside herself she had been these last few weeks, tangled up in her own problems. She belonged here in the classroom. Perhaps she even belonged in this town. “Oh, you’ll see me again. Once this baby gets born.”

Outside in the parking lot they heard cars starting and loud boasting about the game this coming Friday, the blast of celebratory music to signal freedom from school’s daily oppression. Clara had the windows open to let in a cool breeze and cleanse the room from the lingering odors of the flour-sack babies. The big green felt curtains stirred slightly as an icy breeze that tasted of blowing grit passed through them.

Leah chewed at her nails, already ragged. “Do you still think about him?”

“I do.”

“He talked about you all the time. He was obsessed with your class. It was all your stories of battle and warriors.”

Her feet aching from the long day, Clara sat on the edge of her desk.

“I’ve been going to Kelan’s house after school,” Leah went on. “We can do whatever we want down in his basement. His mom doesn’t care. Kelan knows stuff. He knows things that you wouldn’t believe. Have you ever done a séance, Mrs. Warren?” She trailed her finger along the smooth surface of the desk.

“You should really be talking to a counselor, Leah.”

“I am. Useless old prick over in Fell Creek. My dad makes me go.” She tapped her nails on the desk.

Leah’s eyes looked cagey, darting about the room. “Do you hear the coyotes? Sometimes it sounds like they’re right under my window. Like they’ve followed me home, and they’re just waiting for me to go outside. Everyone in town is talking about them.”

“They belonged to Seth, didn’t they?”

Leah nodded. “They were the only thing he loved, really. He said the world hates them, but they find a way to survive. He wouldn’t let any of us go near them, even though Kelan begged him. Seth said they were dangerous.” Leah exhaled and then tugged at her baggy sweatshirt. “I must look like shit.”

Is this what she had come to tell Clara, that she was damaged now? People could see Clara’s damage, the bad hand, the person who could never be