for not saying a word about any work-related troubles. But how could I damn him for not telling me what Iâd expressly said I didnât want to hear?
I fumbled on the floor mat till my hand found the keys. Studied my watch in disbelief. There are times when the clock moves slowly and times when it speeds; it had sprinted for the finish line while I was closeted with Mooney. Iâd be hard pressed to meet Roz at the high school. I ran a hand through my hair and promised myself time for a full-blown breakdown at a later date. The meter maid was watching, her face carefully blank. I gave her a smile that must have looked more like a grimace and gunned the engine.
Cutting behind the Museum School, speeding down Fenway to ParkDrive, I tried to outrace what Mooney had said about Sam. And failed. Iâd need to talk to him, mention the unmentionable. I couldnât avoid the consequences of my actions any more than Josefina Parte couldâor Marta Fuentes, for that matter. Across the BU Bridge, traffic crawled on Putnam Street. The question wasnât whether anyone was crazy enough to take their hatred for Sam out on Paolina; people are looney enough to hijack airplanes and shoot up their local elementary schools. A line of cars waited to cross Mass. Ave. at Putnam Circle, delayed by semi-frozen pedestrians darting suicidally across the street against the light.
Cambridge Rindge and Latin, a huge concrete bunker located next to the public library, has been remodeled and restructured and redesigned so many times I never know what to expect when I walk past the metal detectors. Those, I expect. And the smell of chalk dust, unwashed bodies, wet sneakers; the smell manages to stay the same.
Quarter to three. I sucked in a deep breath. Where had the long hours gone? The bell had chimed to end the day; the kids had fled, loosed into the community. One had left a backpack and a torn blue sweater at the curb, lying in a heap like a forlorn abandoned pet. They werenât Paolina's; her backpack is worn and red. Someone else, or maybe the same careless teen, had left a battered French horn case on the front stoop.
Roz was in the lobby, sipping from a steaming Styrofoam cup, sitting on a bench with her knees drawn up, staring at nothing while two loitering teenage boys watched her out of the corners of their eyes, trying to look up her skirt. She wore ripped black tights, high-heeled boots, a short red wool skirt, and a low-cut plum-colored top that clung to her breasts like paint. Her hair was silvery white, her lipstick deep purple. A silver stud pierced her left nostril. When she saw me, she lowered her legs, and the boys averted their gaze. Slowly she got to her feet and wandered in my direction. I kept walking. We strolled past the principal's office, turned a corner, and stopped near a deserted stairwell.
âI dunno.â She shook her head slowly, frowning. âThese kids, man, like to them, Iâm old. Iâm not sure theyâre dealing straight up with me.â
âThe dudes in the lobby thought you were hot,â I said to comfort her, and the thought cheered her enough to give me what little she had. Aurelia Gutierrez, Paolina's best friend, insisted that Paolina hadnât said word one about running away. The truant officer, recently returned toduty, was clueless, an old townie more eager to reminisce about other missing kids whoâd eventually turned up than reveal anything about current cases. Paolina's homeroom teacher had treated Roz to a lecture on school overcrowding, Proposition 2 1 /2, and local property taxes, his way of saying he had too many kids to grade, much less monitor for quality of life.
âGet back to Aurelia; go for gossip. Any point in me talking to the homeroom guy?â I was thinking maybe he hadnât responded positively to Roz's outfit.
âYou need a lecture, go right ahead.â She glanced at the back of her hand where numerals were scrawled in
I fumbled on the floor mat till my hand found the keys. Studied my watch in disbelief. There are times when the clock moves slowly and times when it speeds; it had sprinted for the finish line while I was closeted with Mooney. Iâd be hard pressed to meet Roz at the high school. I ran a hand through my hair and promised myself time for a full-blown breakdown at a later date. The meter maid was watching, her face carefully blank. I gave her a smile that must have looked more like a grimace and gunned the engine.
Cutting behind the Museum School, speeding down Fenway to ParkDrive, I tried to outrace what Mooney had said about Sam. And failed. Iâd need to talk to him, mention the unmentionable. I couldnât avoid the consequences of my actions any more than Josefina Parte couldâor Marta Fuentes, for that matter. Across the BU Bridge, traffic crawled on Putnam Street. The question wasnât whether anyone was crazy enough to take their hatred for Sam out on Paolina; people are looney enough to hijack airplanes and shoot up their local elementary schools. A line of cars waited to cross Mass. Ave. at Putnam Circle, delayed by semi-frozen pedestrians darting suicidally across the street against the light.
Cambridge Rindge and Latin, a huge concrete bunker located next to the public library, has been remodeled and restructured and redesigned so many times I never know what to expect when I walk past the metal detectors. Those, I expect. And the smell of chalk dust, unwashed bodies, wet sneakers; the smell manages to stay the same.
Quarter to three. I sucked in a deep breath. Where had the long hours gone? The bell had chimed to end the day; the kids had fled, loosed into the community. One had left a backpack and a torn blue sweater at the curb, lying in a heap like a forlorn abandoned pet. They werenât Paolina's; her backpack is worn and red. Someone else, or maybe the same careless teen, had left a battered French horn case on the front stoop.
Roz was in the lobby, sipping from a steaming Styrofoam cup, sitting on a bench with her knees drawn up, staring at nothing while two loitering teenage boys watched her out of the corners of their eyes, trying to look up her skirt. She wore ripped black tights, high-heeled boots, a short red wool skirt, and a low-cut plum-colored top that clung to her breasts like paint. Her hair was silvery white, her lipstick deep purple. A silver stud pierced her left nostril. When she saw me, she lowered her legs, and the boys averted their gaze. Slowly she got to her feet and wandered in my direction. I kept walking. We strolled past the principal's office, turned a corner, and stopped near a deserted stairwell.
âI dunno.â She shook her head slowly, frowning. âThese kids, man, like to them, Iâm old. Iâm not sure theyâre dealing straight up with me.â
âThe dudes in the lobby thought you were hot,â I said to comfort her, and the thought cheered her enough to give me what little she had. Aurelia Gutierrez, Paolina's best friend, insisted that Paolina hadnât said word one about running away. The truant officer, recently returned toduty, was clueless, an old townie more eager to reminisce about other missing kids whoâd eventually turned up than reveal anything about current cases. Paolina's homeroom teacher had treated Roz to a lecture on school overcrowding, Proposition 2 1 /2, and local property taxes, his way of saying he had too many kids to grade, much less monitor for quality of life.
âGet back to Aurelia; go for gossip. Any point in me talking to the homeroom guy?â I was thinking maybe he hadnât responded positively to Roz's outfit.
âYou need a lecture, go right ahead.â She glanced at the back of her hand where numerals were scrawled in
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