Read Online The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes - Free Book Online

until I saw that sign. Once inside a high school, hospital, jail—anyplace they keep you prisoner—I turn ornery. I do whatever they tell you not to do. I’m a truant at heart.
    I sought camouflage. No way was I going to meld with the student body. I could maybe pull off a high school student imitation at a normal high school, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but here, in the midst of all this teenage formality, my interviewing-the-client slacks and sweater looked wrong. I assumed a mask of authority. Maybe I could play teacher.
    There are things I could teach these kids, believe me. Starting with city smarts. Also self-defense, blues guitar, and volleyball.
    I scouted around, entering a couple of the red brick buildings unchallenged. One of them had a framed diagram of the campus on a pale gray wall. Imagine, a campus. My high school was a city square block—eight floors, no elevators—and so overcrowded that classes were held on the roof as well as in the park across the street. Which was worse, no one was sure. Park classes meant the possibility of getting mugged; students on the roof were fair game for stray bullets from the ROTC rifle range.
    The Emerson seemed to have plenty of space. Space for a foreign language lab, a student lounge, a cafeteria, a computer center, a school store, a little theater, and stables. Yes, riding stables.
    The only horses I saw in Detroit were mounted patrol, brought in to quell riots.
    I decided to wander, to soak up the privileged atmosphere Valerie had abandoned. Outside, the grounds were deserted. Everybody was in class, pulled by an invisible magnet. The air smelled like fresh-mown grass. The sun glistened. A thin stoop-shouldered man repaired a goal net on the soccer field.
    I was debating a belated trip to the office when I remembered that all high school kids have to take gym. Including Elsie McLintock. In my guise as a freelance volleyball instructor, keeping the diagram of the school in my head, I found the right building and entered inconspicuously through huge double doors.
    The gym was enormous, but I expected no less from the Emerson. To my delight, a ragged volleyball game was in progress. I sat in the stands, exhausted by all the elegance, welcoming the familiar smell of sneakers and sweat socks.
    I knew Elsie McLintock’s name. I didn’t know what she looked like or even what class she was in. I assumed she was a freshman because Valerie was a freshman, and years mean so much when you’ve experienced so few.
    A cheer came from the court. One game decided and handslapping all around. Two girls on the winning team—one short, one tall—could play. They roamed the court, poaching at will. Their teammates played like they were scared to sweat.
    I play killer volleyball three mornings a week at my local Cambridge YWCA. It’s terrific exercise and lacks the pointlessness of, say, stationary bicycling. Somebody gets to win; somebody gets to lose. I love it. I’m an outside hitter—a spiker—but I can play middle blocker if I have to.
    One of the girls who didn’t mind sweat came out winded, and a replacement ran in for her. She sat two rows in front of me.
    â€œGood game,” I said, moving down beside her.
    â€œThanks.” She was breathing hard.
    â€œTired?”
    â€œI had mono, and now I can’t move. It’s like taking forever to get back.”
    Forever at her age was probably two weeks.
    I said, “Do you know Elsie McLintock?” I figured I might as well try. It was a small school—in enrollment, not area.
    â€œElsie?”
    â€œYeah. McLintock. She’s a freshman.”
    â€œI think I’ve heard the name.”
    â€œYou know when she has gym?”
    â€œNah.” She was watching the game. She had one of those classic WASP profiles with the slightly turned-up nose that makes you look snotty even if you aren’t. She brushed her thick blonde hair back off her forehead. I