Read Online Till the End of Tom by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online

had written an article that gave no specifics, but made it clear that close to a complete assortment of drugs—at least of the party and club variety—was available within five minutes’ walking distance of the school.
    “And wasn’t that drug found in the dead man mentioned in the article?”
    And yes it had been. I suppose Faye’s mental scenario was that the police would assume I had a fit of temporary insanity and asked a student where to make a buy before I doped up this Severin stranger. Little did she dream that they had a far more logical reason to think I was involved, one that did not require a question mark at the end of the supposition.
    “Thanks for your concern,” I told her, “but there’s no cause for it. Knowledge is power—not guilt. Only actions get people in trouble.”
    For the entire remainder of class, she’d look my way till I felt her glance and met it, and then she’d do the forehead thing and I’d smile, understandingly, and disengage eye contact. By the end of the period, I was no longer sure I was completely innocent.
    As usual, before I left the building, I picked up the flyers, notices, ads, and general junk that mysteriously refills our mailboxes each day.
    “Find everything okay?” Mrs. Wiggins asked that every day. I wondered if she’d worked in a supermarket before coming here.
    “Just fine.” I said that every day, too.
    “And . . . about that . . . I saw on the news that—he was on drugs.”
    “Not exactly. The theory is that somebody put a drug into his tea and he didn’t know it. It’s tasteless and odorless.”
    She looked pale and overly anxious and she neared the office divider cautiously. “Do they know who?” she whispered.
    I shook my head.
    “Have any theory?”
    “Me? Or the police?”
    That choice stymied her, then finally she laughed, nervously, and said, “Either, I guess.”
    “I surely don’t, and as far as I know, neither do they, but then, they wouldn’t have any reason to tell me if they did. How about you?”
    “Me?” She stepped back from the divider, as if it had become electrified. “What do you . . . ?”
    I tilted my head toward Dr. Havermeyer’s closed office door. “About . . . not seeing Mr. Severin come into the school. You know. Is it okay?”
    She took three shuddery breaths, and nodded, then kept her gaze downward. “I think so. It was . . . embarrassing.”
    “You’re only human. Don’t worry.”
    She looked up at me and blinked. She was going to spend a long time analyzing what I meant, so I waved and walked outside, into the lobby—to the infamous bottom of the staircase, in fact. I thought about the remainder of the day, about putting in a few hours at Ozzie’s office. Moonlighting under October sunshine. The office would be a welcome change. My tasks there were so routine my mind could go on sleep mode while I entered numbers and mailed out bills.
    I’d stay two hours, I decided, then head home and mark those essays that, because of too much wine and talk with Sasha, had not gotten themselves read the night before. For about the millionth time, I wished math were my subject. I bet math teachers spent their evenings enjoying all the books English teachers, stuck marking papers, wish they had time to read.
    But, I promised myself, today I’d zip through them and then I’d move forward with the wedding things, I’d pick an invitation, decide what it should say—except, of course, for where the event would take place, and I’d thereby bring a little sunshine into the bridal bullies’ lives as well.
    Making plans and lists and schedules fills me with energy and optimism. Carrying out the plans, actually doing the work, and being disciplined exhausts me. No fun at all, in fact, but I try to ignore that part of the equation when I’m high on planning, as I was at that moment.
    I was nearly out the door when Liddy Moffat, carrying a mop and pail, shouted, “A minute of your time!” It was not a request but a