Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,38

heart was rabbiting, and he gripped the edge of Ms. Wick’s desk with both hands. “The lights…” He pointed at them, as if the custodian couldn’t locate them for herself. “There’s a problem with them. They went out without warning.”

Mrs. Denham’s smile was kind, if a bit patronizing. “In this wing of the school, the overheads use motion sensors to reduce energy consumption. If you don’t move for a while, they’ll go out, but as soon as you wave an arm, they’ll come right back on. Don’t worry.”

“Oh.” Of course. Of course. “Thank you.”

“Next summer, they’ll install the sensors on your side of the school,” the custodian added. “Why are you here, anyway, instead of your own classroom?”

It was yet another question that didn’t have a single, clear answer.

He hated those sorts of questions. Always had, always would.

So before he could make a fool of himself yet again, before he spent another moment contemplating a problem with no solution, he said goodbye to Mrs. Denham and left.

Two

By the following Monday, Simon’s mind had settled itself, regaining its accustomed calm clarity.

Or at least it would have, had he not overheard part of a murmured conversation in the faculty lounge, as he was removing his usual healthy-but-filling lunch from the shared refrigerator. Two members of the science department were huddled up close at the round table, brows furrowed in…was that concern? Fear?

When he heard the word Mildred, he lingered in front of the refrigerator. Bending at the waist, he extended an arm, as if unable to locate the insulated bag positioned directly in front of him, in its normal spot.

“…such a shame, what happened,” one of his colleagues whispered.

The other teacher nodded emphatically. “I feel so much less safe now.”

At that moment, he happened to accidentally knock over a can of Diet Coke in the refrigerator, and the noise halted the conversation behind him. When it didn’t resume after a moment, he admitted defeat, righted the can of soda, gathered his lunch, and left to eat in his classroom.

If the incident left him rattled, that was only to be expected. Anyone would be distressed by the possibility that a longtime coworker had mysteriously vanished, or possibly even met a violent end.

And if the memory of how Ms. Wick had cringed and stepped back from him, hurt dousing the sparkle in those hazel eyes, also came to mind uncomfortably often, surely that was natural under the circumstances. For the purposes of a productive mentor-mentee relationship, open lines of communication would prove crucial. Any logical professional would feel compelled to apologize and make necessary amends as soon as possible.

Accordingly, he’d hoped to arrive in her classroom several minutes before the start of seventh period, allowing him enough time to speak privately with her and offer his regrets for his unguarded, hurtful remark. But one of his sixth-period students had appeared distressed at the results of the test he’d handed back earlier in the period, and he needed to talk with her at the end of class to reiterate the various ways she could receive extra help and/or raise her grade. His regular after-school hours for struggling students, for example, or extra credit work—or even the option of retaking the test at a future date, when she felt more confident in the mathematical concepts covered.

“You can rectify the situation,” he’d calmly promised, after outlining her various avenues for assistance. “I will help.”

By the time the student departed his classroom, no longer near tears, he had no hopes of a private discussion with Ms. Wick. In fact, he arrived at her doorway just as the bell rang for the start of seventh period. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and observed.

Her students had already settled at their two-person tables and were beginning to write in notebooks they’d evidently retrieved from the open cabinet near the doorway. On the whiteboard, Ms. Wick had written their initial task for the class, a five-minute writing prompt to settle them down and channel their thoughts toward the day’s lesson: What one topic do you wish people understood more fully? Why? What do you wish they knew about that topic?

He’d known, of course, what work awaited the students. Ms. Wick had e-mailed him her week’s lesson plans on Saturday, attaching the agendas and objectives for each day and listing the state standards her lessons satisfied.

Her thoroughness had surprised him, although perhaps it shouldn’t have. Not once he’d seen the orderliness of her classroom, despite all the potential for