Read Online Lullaby for the Rain Girl by Christopher Conlon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Conlon
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stared at the message, noticing again all those x’s and o’s—and, this time, an invitation, even if it was couched in humor, to “get together.” It was no doubt completely innocent, but I decided to tread carefully.
Hi!
Maybe we’ll talk next week about whose life is more boring! Meanwhile I have to shut off the computer now; it’s back to papers for me. See you Monday!
Ben Fall.
I hit “Send.” Then, just to be sure, I switched off the computer.
# # #
Monday was chaotic, as Mondays—especially rainy ones—tend to be. Students show up late in the morning, they don’t have their homework, they’re tired and cranky. I fumbled through my morning composition classes well enough, but found myself short of energy by lunchtime. Normally I just sit at my desk and eat whatever I’ve brought with me—the faculty room is a den of smoky temptation—but today I felt the need of a caffeine jolt, so I headed downstairs to the soda machine outside the main office. Frosty Coke can in my hand, I stepped into the school library on impulse, waved toward Mrs. Lewis behind the desk, and wandered over to the Mystery section, hunted around for Leprechauns Can Be Murder. I looked at the most recent checkout date; I was surprised to see that the book hadn’t been taken out in a year. Well, no, that didn’t surprise me; but I’d assumed my young friend had taken the book from here. Surely she hadn’t read the whole thing while sitting at one of the tables? Odd.
Afternoon classes were better than the morning ones. The advanced class got into a healthy argument about why Gatsby stopped hosting his parties, and whether he was actually in love with Daisy at all.
“He’s a stalker,” Annie declared, certain of herself as always. “He built his mansion just to be close to her but he didn’t even tell her he was there. He’s not in love with her. He’s obsessed with her. He’s creepy.”
“She’s creepy,” Dion said. “I mean, what’s the matter with her? She’s crazy.”
The discussion narrowed to the burning question of who was crazier, Gatsby or Daisy—not the deepest or most probing line of inquiry, perhaps, but they were staying on-task, which is half the battle. The kids in the back were unengaged, of course, but they were quiet enough. Overall, it was a good class period.
Unfortunately, once the bell rang I knew it was time for our staff meeting—always the deadliest part of any week. After gathering my things I shuffled lifelessly toward the school cafeteria, our usual meeting spot, and found a seat. It occurred to me that I’d not seen my young friend anywhere around today; I wondered if she might be outside waiting for me. But why would she wait for me?
When Barb Seymour blew into the room, papers falling this way and that from her grasp, I waved her over.
“Hey, Ben!” she said in her breathless way, depositing her pile of work on the table and sitting.
“See the agenda?” I asked.
She chuckled. “I saw it.”
“How much will you pay me for not revealing the secret of the stolen chalk?”
“I’ll pay you in sexual services,” she said, brushing hair from her eyes. “How’s that?”
I laughed. It was easy with Barb exactly because, except as friends, we were utterly unattracted to each other.
The meeting commenced. My attention wandered, as it always does. I heard talk of sports schedules, of paperwork, of plans for Thursday, the last day of school before Winter Break. Someone suggested that the teachers have some sort of small party that afternoon. Our dyspeptic principal, Mr. Geiger, assured us it wasn’t in the budget. Our vice-principal, the young go-getter Mr. Russell, said that there was some discretionary petty cash that might cover it. Food was suggested. Pizza was discussed and agreed on, but then someone else said that not everyone liked pizza. There should be salad. Others suggested cheeseburgers, Buffalo wings, desserts. Mr. Geiger told them the school wasn’t a
Hi!
Maybe we’ll talk next week about whose life is more boring! Meanwhile I have to shut off the computer now; it’s back to papers for me. See you Monday!
Ben Fall.
I hit “Send.” Then, just to be sure, I switched off the computer.
# # #
Monday was chaotic, as Mondays—especially rainy ones—tend to be. Students show up late in the morning, they don’t have their homework, they’re tired and cranky. I fumbled through my morning composition classes well enough, but found myself short of energy by lunchtime. Normally I just sit at my desk and eat whatever I’ve brought with me—the faculty room is a den of smoky temptation—but today I felt the need of a caffeine jolt, so I headed downstairs to the soda machine outside the main office. Frosty Coke can in my hand, I stepped into the school library on impulse, waved toward Mrs. Lewis behind the desk, and wandered over to the Mystery section, hunted around for Leprechauns Can Be Murder. I looked at the most recent checkout date; I was surprised to see that the book hadn’t been taken out in a year. Well, no, that didn’t surprise me; but I’d assumed my young friend had taken the book from here. Surely she hadn’t read the whole thing while sitting at one of the tables? Odd.
Afternoon classes were better than the morning ones. The advanced class got into a healthy argument about why Gatsby stopped hosting his parties, and whether he was actually in love with Daisy at all.
“He’s a stalker,” Annie declared, certain of herself as always. “He built his mansion just to be close to her but he didn’t even tell her he was there. He’s not in love with her. He’s obsessed with her. He’s creepy.”
“She’s creepy,” Dion said. “I mean, what’s the matter with her? She’s crazy.”
The discussion narrowed to the burning question of who was crazier, Gatsby or Daisy—not the deepest or most probing line of inquiry, perhaps, but they were staying on-task, which is half the battle. The kids in the back were unengaged, of course, but they were quiet enough. Overall, it was a good class period.
Unfortunately, once the bell rang I knew it was time for our staff meeting—always the deadliest part of any week. After gathering my things I shuffled lifelessly toward the school cafeteria, our usual meeting spot, and found a seat. It occurred to me that I’d not seen my young friend anywhere around today; I wondered if she might be outside waiting for me. But why would she wait for me?
When Barb Seymour blew into the room, papers falling this way and that from her grasp, I waved her over.
“Hey, Ben!” she said in her breathless way, depositing her pile of work on the table and sitting.
“See the agenda?” I asked.
She chuckled. “I saw it.”
“How much will you pay me for not revealing the secret of the stolen chalk?”
“I’ll pay you in sexual services,” she said, brushing hair from her eyes. “How’s that?”
I laughed. It was easy with Barb exactly because, except as friends, we were utterly unattracted to each other.
The meeting commenced. My attention wandered, as it always does. I heard talk of sports schedules, of paperwork, of plans for Thursday, the last day of school before Winter Break. Someone suggested that the teachers have some sort of small party that afternoon. Our dyspeptic principal, Mr. Geiger, assured us it wasn’t in the budget. Our vice-principal, the young go-getter Mr. Russell, said that there was some discretionary petty cash that might cover it. Food was suggested. Pizza was discussed and agreed on, but then someone else said that not everyone liked pizza. There should be salad. Others suggested cheeseburgers, Buffalo wings, desserts. Mr. Geiger told them the school wasn’t a
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