Ted sat silently, stating at me.
It was over, then. We could turn our attention to other things-at least, for the moment. I had a feeling we might be getting back to Ted. Or that he would get back to me.
People moved around restlessly outside.
The clock buzzed.
No one said anything for a long time, or what seemed like a long time. There was a lot to think about now.
Chapter 18
Sylvia Ragan finally broke the silence. She threw back her head and laughed long, hard, and loud. Several people, including me, jumped. Ted Jones didn't. He was still on his own trip. 'You know what I'd like to do after this is over?' she asked.
'What?' Pig Pen asked. He looked surprised that he had spoken up again. Sandra Cross was looking at me gravely. She had her ankles crossed the way pretty girls do when they want to foil boys who want to look up their dresses.
'I'd like to get this in a detective magazine. 'Sixty Minutes of Terror with the Placerville Maniac.' I'd get somebody who writes good to do it. Joe McKennedy or Phil Franks . . . or maybe you, Charlie. How's that bite your banana?' She guffawed, and Pig Pen joined in tentatively. I think he was fascinated by Sylvia's fearlessness. Or maybe it was only her blatant sexuality. She sure didn't have her ankles crossed.
Out on the lawn, two more trooper cars had arrived. The firemen were leaving; the fire alarm had cut out a few minutes ago. Abruptly Mr. Grace disengaged himself from the crowd and started toward the main doors. A light breeze flapped the bottom of his sport coat.
'More company,' Corky Herald said.
I got up, went over to the intercom, and switched it back onto TALK-LISTEN. Then I sat down again, sweating a little. Mr. Don-God-Give-Us-Grace was on his way. And he was no lightweight.
A few seconds later there was that hollow
'How are you, skinner?' I asked.
'Fine, thanks, Charlie. How are you?'
'Keeping my thumb on it,' I said agreeably.
Snickers from some of the boys.
'Charlie, we've talked about getting help for you before this. Now, you've committed a pretty antisocial act, wouldn't you agree?'
'By whose standards?'
'Society's standards, Charlie. First Mr. Carlson, now this. Will you let us help you?'
I almost asked him if my co-students weren't a part of society, because no one down here seemed too worked up about Mrs. Underwood. But I couldn't do that. It would have transgressed a set of rules that I was just beginning to grasp.
'How does Ah do it?' I bawled. 'Ah already tole dat dere Mr. Denber how sorry Ah is for hittin' dat 1'il girl wit dat Loosyville Sluggah. Ali wants mah poor paid shrunk! Ali wants mah soul saved an' made white as snow! How does Ah do it, Rev'rund?'
Pat Fitzgerald, who was nearly as black as the ace of spades, laughed and shook his head.
'Charlie, Charlie,' Mr. Grace said, as if very sad. 'Only you can save your soul now.'
I didn't like that. I stopped shouting and put my hand on the pistol, as if for courage. I didn't like it at all. He had a way of slipping it to you. I'd seen him a lot since I bopped Mr. Carlson with the pipe wrench. He could really slip it in.
'Mr. Grace?'
'What, Charlie?'
'Did Tom tell the police what I said?'
'Don't you mean 'Mr. Denver'?'
'Whatever. Did he ... ?'
'Yes, he relayed your message.'
'Have they figured out how they're going to handle me yet?'
'I don't know, Charlie. I'm more interested in knowing if you've figured out how you're going to handle yourself.'
Oh, he was slipping it to me, all right. Just like he kept slipping it to me after Mr. Carlson. But then I had to go see him. Now I could turn him off anytime I wanted to. Except I couldn't, and he knew I couldn't. It was too normal to be consistent. And I was being watched by my peerless peers. They were evaluating me.
'Sweating a little?' I asked the intercom.
'Are you?'
'You guys,' I said, an edge of bitterness creeping into my voice. 'You're all the same. '
