Read Online The Tell by Hester Kaplan - Free Book Online Page A

rifled through what they knew about the girl: mouthy, fifteen, bright, twice repeated grades. She’d given Owen cookies at Christmas; she laughed wickedly, often cruelly, at other kids. She never did her homework, and shrugged as if to say, Mister, you know how it is . He was fond of her, but what he knew about any student, even the ones he knew best, was treacherously full of holes, and too often meaningless when a kid was eclipsed by problems. They called him cocksucker and motherfucker and mostly Mister . Some were sweet and bright, others were sullen and dull-eyed, impossible to reach. They all came and went too fast anyway, a new crop filling the seats in September and emptying them in June, each taking another’s place in startling repetition. Here was America’s true limitless natural resource—squandered. Owen wondered if Mrs. Tevas was thinking, as he was, that the girl might be pregnant. He hated his quick assumption that if Jacqui wasn’t doing her homework, if her bra straps showed, if her lip gloss was too pink, if she was poor and throwing up, then she must be fucking, and fucking carelessly, too. But he’d also been teaching a long time. He’d seen it before.
    Mrs. Tevas took Jacqui down to the office, though this wasn’t the one day a week the nurse was in the building. What remained was the soupy trash can in a ray of sun and the encyclopedia in his hand. The stink had made its way into the classroom. The kids waved their books in front of their faces and yelled they were dying. Reading was impossible now, surrendered to the more relevant drama of Jacqui and the fact that bodies in distress were the most fascinating of all. He tugged again at the window. He wasn’t sure why he kept at it after all this time, all these years. Justin yelled that he should just break the thing, that it was an emergency.
    â€œI think I have it,” he said.
    â€œFuck you do,” a boy shouted. “You’re a pussy.”
    His fingers strained. His shirt stuck to his chest, his arms trembled. Once, Spruance had been the home of soldierly virtues with its medieval arches and heraldic designs stamped in brass above the doors. Everything was dull-colored and indestructible these days, soldierly now in an entirely different kind of way. How many kids had also heard the distressing rumor that the end was near? He gazed out over Lincoln Street, its well-kept houses and wide stone driveways that led around to back doors and gardens. The NASCAR whirr of lawn crews at work came from every direction. He closed his eyes to imagine Mira at Brindle just then, waiting with a mixture of determination and care—that was pretty much what you needed—for the afterschool kids to arrive, and then someone said that there was a guy outside the door. Owen turned to see a face pressed up against the glass, goggle-eyed, lips smashed, a deranged mouth, pink tip of tongue.
    â€œYou said if I was interested, I should come by and see what you do,” Wilton whispered, when Owen opened the door a few inches. “So here I am.”
    Owen hadn’t actually expected the man to take him up on the offer—because he hadn’t meant him to. It was just something he’d tossed out at the end of another one of their long dinners together. The man had become a regular at their table, a regular in their house, a regular in Mira’s days and conversation. And then sometimes Wilton would go away for a couple of days, and his house would remain as mysteriously dark as his destinations and desires. Mira would be left blinking at his porch light left on.
    â€œLook, the period’s almost over,” he told Wilton. The kids were itchy and noisy behind him, straining to see what was going on. “This isn’t a good time.”
    Wilton’s face sagged as if a tension line had been snipped. “I wanted to see you in action.”
    â€œThere’s no action. They’re