“How’d Al do?”
“Not bad sniffing explosives.” Jamal paused and rubbed his chin. “Al’s problem was pissin’ and shittin’ on everything.”
“Still is,” I said. “What about Walanda? Did you know about her relationship with Shony?”
“Another Crawford tragedy. Shondeneisha Wright lived with her on and off. She’s a freshman, but she hasn’t been around in a while.”
“What kind of kid is she?”
“She’s one of the good ones, Duff,” Jamal said. “Respectful, don’t curse, don’t wear foolish-lookin’ belly shirts and having all her business fallin’ out of her blouse. That girl is proper, like a throwback.”
“Any idea what she was into?”
“She’s quiet. I think she was church-goin’. She liked to sing, and I think she was even in one of the civic groups. Not sure how she got that way-that Walanda was a trip.”
“Tell me about it. How’d you know about her mom?”
“A couple times she came down here all raggedy-assed, cracked-up, making a scene. The kid was mortified. She was ashamed that she lived with her and made a big deal about saying she’d never be like that. It was the only time I heard the kid make a lot of noise.”
“You know where I could find a teacher who really new her?”
“Miss Hippenbecker was her homeroom teacher. She’s free this period. She’s in 206.”
I thanked Jamal and headed to 206. I knocked lightly on the door’s opaque glass and let myself in. Behind an old wooden desk sat a fifty-something, rather fat woman in half glasses, reading an Oprah magazine and eating a Snickers bar.
“Miss Hippenbecker?”
“You’re supposed to have your guest badge. Have you stopped at administration?”
“I-”
“I don’t have time right now to go over any student report cards.” She laid the Oprah magazine down and continued to speak while she waved the half-eaten Snickers in her hand. “You really should make an appointment for a parent-teacher conference.”
“I’m not a parent. My name is Duffy Dombrowski. I’m a counselor at Jewish Unified Services. Was Shondeneisha Wright in this homeroom?”
“I’m not supposed to release that information.”
“Yeah, but it has to do with her stepmother’s murder.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” She took a bite out of her Snickers. “Frankly, the kid’s better off. Her stepmom was worthless.”
“Has Shony been in class?”
“I’m not supposed to say, but no she hasn’t.” She picked up her magazine. “You know how they are. They have no sense of responsibility. I’ve been here for twenty-seven years and I see it all the time.”
“They?”
“Oh please. Look, I don’t know who you are and I’m sure you want to believe all these wonderful things about these people but face it, there’s no mistake why they wind up like this.”
“Aren’t you supposed to alert someone when a kid’s absent?”
“I sent the letters.” She exhaled impatiently. “They just ignore them anyway.”
“Who did you send them to?”
“I don’t know. Whoever is the legal guardian.”
“That’s her father and he’s an addict who changes addresses weekly.”
“Not my problem. I have thirty of these animals to look after. The letter definitely went out.”
She chewed her Snickers, leaned back in her desk chair, and picked up her magazine. Without a word she went back to reading, ignoring me like the chalkboard erasers behind her.
“Uh… Miss Hippofucker?” I said.
“What did you say?” She looked down her nose at me and put her magazine down.
“Have a nice day.” There was something about being back in high school that made me do it.
Next, I headed down to the school psychologist’s office on the chance that the shrink might have had a relationship with Shony. The office was on the first floor but at the opposite end far away from the administrative offices. The placard on the office door read, Dr. Nancy Madison-Riverchild, School Psychologist. The name scared me.
I knocked on the door lightly and waited. I tried again and waited some more. I thought she might be in session, but there was no evidence of a sign to not disturb, so I checked the knob and let myself in. Dr. Madison- Riverchild was sitting cross-legged on a tattered Persian rug starring at a candle. The room reeked of patchouli and though her eyes were open, she made no motion to acknowledge my presence.
She looked about fifty, she had wavy gray hair down to her ass, and she wore a hemp peasant top and baggy pants that gathered around her ankles like a TV gypsy would wear. She was painfully pale, had crooked teeth, and was very thin. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her tits hung down around her belt line. It was one of those moments that you know is real but there’s part of your mind that wants it to be a dream. I was deciding whether I should split when Dr. Riverchild spoke.
“One moment, please,” she said without changing her position or diverting her attention.
I folded my hands in the same sort of way that I do when I’m in line at a wake. I was trying to be reverent and I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands.
The doctor stood up and walked over to me.
“I’m Dr. Madison-Riverchild,” she said. She had amazingly good posture and the absolute worst halitosis I’ve ever experienced. “I’m sorry to have made you wait, I was getting centered. How may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Duffy Dombrowski.” For the first time in my life, I felt like I needed a hyphened name in my title to be on equal footing with someone. “I’m a counselor at Jewish Unified Services and I was hoping to discuss Shony Wright.”
“Shony is a terribly troubled child.” She didn’t ask for a release or if I had any permission to speak to her. Apparently, if you’re centered enough, regulations are trivial. “She has been parentified from a very early age, and it has forced her into an untenable heroic identity.”
“Uh… I’m not sure I understand.”
“She comes from a most dysfunctional environment.” The breath was worse than anything that ever came out of Al’s ass. “She parented her parents more than they parented her.”
“I had heard she was a pretty solid kid.”
“Mr. Duffy,” she gave me an incredibly patronizing smile, which was fine with me as long as she didn’t breathe in my direction. “That’s what you see on the outside. Inside you have an inner child struggling against that external self-induced parent. She is the best example of a most dysfunctional teenager.”
“Her grades were great, she sang in the choir, volunteered, and seemed to be pretty popular?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Doctor Riverbreath said with a sigh that nearly made me lose my own center.
“Well, Doctor, you have been a great help.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Duffy,” she said. “Mr. Duffy, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you in therapy yourself? You seem to have your own internal conflicts.”
“I think I’m going to need some real soon,” I said.
“My private practice has openings,” she smiled. “We take most insurances.”
“Good to know,” I said, and I was never happier to leave a room.
I was heading out of the school when I heard the bells ring for lunch. Kids rushed out from behind doors at a crazy pace. After the last two hours that I had experienced in their school, I couldn’t say I blamed them. I fell in the throng of kids rushing to the doors and not a single one paid any attention to me. There’s something about being a teenager that gives you the uncanny ability to focus on the right-now and how it happens to pertain to yourself at that particular moment. A strange adult, out of place in their usual environment, meant nothing to them.
On my way to the car, I stopped to talk to four young black girls. They were all talking at once, snapping gum, and shouting over each other’s voices. It took awhile for them to notice me.
“Excuse me, girls?”
