then, nice and slow, and he said it again. “Never. Trust. Anyone.” Like it was going to be our new school motto.
Alice looked over at me, like You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.
And all I could do was give her the same look back.
What was going on? Was Duncan doing good cop/bad cop—but without the good cop?
“The security at this school,” Duncan went on, “is appalling.” Then he started ticking problems off on his fingers. “Nobody looked. Nobody checked. The gate to the courtyard was standing wide open. Nobody asked me who I was or required that I get a security badge. The security guard was fast asleep in a folding chair with a fishing magazine over his belly.”
Alice and I shared a glance—and a head shake. Raymond.
Duncan kept going. “I’ve just completed an assessment of your security practices. Do you know that the school’s emergency plan has not been updated in seven years? Did you know that half of the posted emergency instructions in the classrooms are missing or obscured? Did you know that a third of the surveillance cameras are nonoperational?” He held up a yellow notepad. “I could go on for hours. For a school of this caliber to care so little about its students’ safety is a disgrace. This school is a national embarrassment. It’s a nightmare.”
I looked around at our sunny cafeteria. Its tall, bright windows. Its cheerful yellow checkerboard floor. The kid-painted paper lanterns strung from the ceiling. The bulletin boards already papered in orange and red and yellow, just waiting for some kindergarten self-portraits to fill them. Not to mention the wall mural of giant butterflies that Babette and I had lovingly painted a few years back—colorful and whimsical and joyful.
I wouldn’t exactly call it a nightmare.
“What I don’t understand,” Duncan went on, “is how things could be this bad? What current-day school doesn’t lock its gates during the school day? Or require that visitors show ID? Or have security guards that are conscious?”
We assumed these were rhetorical questions, but then he waited for an answer.
Finally, Carlos shrugged and said, “Because we’ve never had a problem before?”
Duncan nodded and pointed at him. “Exactly.” Then he addressed the room. “No one ever has a problem—until there’s a problem. The state of things at this facility is, frankly, an insult. An insult to you, and to me, and to the children who come here every day. You’re begging to be attacked.”
I wouldn’t say begging.
Did Duncan have a point? Probably.
Were security practices a little too lax at our breezy island school? Maybe.
But was he alienating everybody in the room right now? You betcha.
What could he have been thinking? This was our very first meeting. Even people with terrible people skills didn’t have people skills this terrible. Why wasn’t he charming everybody and being awesome? There was no way he didn’t know what we’d all just been through with Max. What exactly about scaring the hell out of everybody with a fake gun and then calling our sweet, sunny school “a nightmare” seemed like a good idea?
From the looks on all the faces in the room, everybody was as lost as I was. We knew the new guy wouldn’t be Max—who could ever be?—but nobody had expected … this.
If nothing else, Duncan Carpenter had had people skills. He was—or at least had been—a genius with kids. And with grown-ups. And with animals, too, while we’re at it. Basically, if you were a living thing, Duncan knew what to say to you, and how to interact, and how to encourage you to be the best version of yourself.
Not anymore, apparently.
Max had taught us all to care desperately about the school. To be invested. To participate—actively and deeply. Nobody here was dialing it in. Most of us worked extra hours on a weekly basis. Most of us had found a dream job here—where our opinions were valued, and we were admired for whatever gifts we brought to the table, and we were encouraged to have a stake in what the place was and how it was run.
That was all Max. He’d set up a culture of admiration and support.
And he’d spoiled us all terribly.
This Twilight Zone version of Duncan didn’t see any of that. All he saw was what was wrong. Which was the absolute opposite of the Duncan I’d known—who had been the best person I’d ever met at seeing what was right.
Duncan stepped closer to the edge of the stage and stood up taller in some