Latin and the kids look at me like I’m a lunatic. Except Shy. She’s got a good ear. It’s like she can hear the roots, you know?”
Total silence. Poor Sammy.
“Unless she’s cheating,” Shy’s mom insisted. It was almost like she wanted Shy to be more devious than she actually was.
“It’s pretty hard to cheat in Latin. The vocab has to be memorized. I ask a lot of open-ended questions. There’s no right answer. You just have to be engaged.”
“I’ll speak to Shy about a peer tutor in algebra and maybe physics,” Miss Melanie suggested gently. “That often helps.”
“Mmm.” Shy’s mother didn’t sound convinced. “I have to get back to work.” There was a rustling as she tied on her trench coat, or whatever rustling item of clothing she was wearing, and swept out of the classroom.
“Honestly,” she muttered, nearly tripping over Liam.
Liam leapt to his feet, his last calculus test in his hand. He’d gotten an A minus.
He waited for Shy’s unnecessarily frantic mom to rustle away and some of the teachers to wander back to their offices. Then he lunged awkwardly into the classroom.
“Hello, Liam.” Miss Melanie offered him her useless, sunshiny smile. “We were just finishing up a conference. Do you need this room?”
Mr. Streko was typing on his phone. A half-eaten Chipotle burrito rested in his lap. He looked wiped, like Shy’s mom had grabbed his mangy beard and dragged him around behind her Mercedes.
Liam took a deep breath. He’d never done anything this bold before. “Sorry, I was totally eavesdropping. I can tutor whoever it is. I do pretty well.” He held up his test. “I could use some extracurriculars and stuff. You know, for college?”
“The student in question is female,” Miss Melanie said.
Liam shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that tutoring some dumb girl would be kind of annoying, but he could handle it. “That’s okay.”
“You know Shy Clarke?”
He shrugged his shoulders again. “Kind of?”
* * *
Torso of Woman Found Behind Ikea Red Hook
A man (who wishes to remain unnamed) was walking his dog along the pier behind Ikea Red Hook early Monday when he spotted what looked like a mannequin in the water. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a headless human torso, severed just below the chin and at the waist, with the arms intact. The man called 911.
Torso of Woman Identified by Sister
The dismembered torso of a Staten Island woman was identified by the woman’s sister late Tuesday evening. Police had released photographs of a tattoo of a red rose with green leaves on the upper arm of the torso in hopes that it would help to identify the body. A woman has since confirmed that her youngest sister had been missing since late Friday night after leaving the Staten Island restaurant where she worked part-time as a hostess. The woman’s house, where she lives with her parents and younger brother, is now a crime scene. The entire family has been brought in for questioning.
Foot in Hudson River Linked to Staten Island Woman. Blood Found in Ex-Boyfriend’s Home
Yesterday a foot was found by a kayaker in the Hudson River near Battery Park City. Police have matched the foot to the dismembered torso of the murdered Staten Island woman found by a Brooklyn man early Monday while out walking his dog. The torso has since been identified by a family member who recognized the rose tattoo on the torso’s upper arm. Police have been investigating the woman’s family and close friends. The women’s ex-boyfriend is now in custody after police discovered traces of blood on the cement floor of his garage. The woman’s head and other remaining body parts have not yet been found.
* * *
Wendy Clarke rocked back and forth in her expensive, ergonomically correct, springy, gold metal and white leather swivel chair and tapped her manicured nails against the white Italian marble desktop. She clicked her way chronologically through The Brookliner links, grimacing as the gruesome story unfolded. She read The Brookliner religiously, hoping it would make her feel more Brooklyn-y. Nothing this morbid ever happened in England. England was full of thieves, not murderers. They cleared out your house while you were eating dinner in a restaurant. Wendy’s closed office door rattled and she reduced the page, returning to the article she was supposed to write about the history of the French perfume industry. Tanners in Grasse. Catherine de’ Medici. Dior. Chanel. The May rose. It was an amalgamation of pieces she’d written before. She reached across her