Lost Girls

''I wouldn't characterize them as spies.''

''Beg your pardon. Please go on.''

Principal Warren sighs again, looks about her as though she's just noticed the walls slowly closing in around her. Then she looks down and sees that she's still standing. But instead of moving around to her chair she settles on the edge of the desk, perches a fold of thigh onto the wood surface, the tendons in her ankles straining to prevent a sliding collapse.

''Well, what they observed was what I would categorize as an inattentiveness,'' she continues, a finger rising to flick back a strand of hair that isn't there. ''Staring out the classroom window for minutes at a time while students engaged in unruly conduct right behind him. Spitball fights, standing on the desks, leaving the room without permission, and the like.''

''And you still didn't do anything about him?''

''Mr. Crane, teachers who lose control of their students are hardly unusual.''

''What about the Literary Club? You weren't concerned that an emotionally disturbed man was spending so much time with two young female students?''

''There were no formal grounds for concern. In fact it seemed an encouraging aspect of his job performance at the time. Krystal and Ashley seemed to get so much out of it, and the Board was very supportive. Granted almost every one of Mr. Tripp's applications for budgetary supplements.''

''What did he need money for?''

''Not him. Little things that the girls needed. Makeup, props, costumes. That sort of stuff.''

''Can you tell me why a Literary Club would need costumes?''

''Performances, I suppose. I'm not sure anybody really asked. But I can tell you--in fact I'd like to emphasize-- that budgetary procedures were not my personal area of responsibility.''

''No, of course not.''

Principal Warren slides a few inches along the edge of the desk to assist the flow of blood to her legs. Crosses her arms.

''Well, I do hope I've been of some assistance,'' she says. ''Although, in dealing with such a tragedy, it's likely inappropriate to conceive of it as people taking sides.''

''Actually, it's likely the only way to conceive of it.''

She gives me a look like a hound that's just picked up a strange and troubling scent.

''Perhaps--you know, it may--oh,'' she says, abandons the thought. The arms uncross, reach down to the desk's surface to support her now obviously painful position.

''I was wondering if I might meet briefly with one of your teachers here,'' I say. ''Miss Betts. I understand she used to be a friend of Thom's.''

''Well, you're of course free to make your own inquiries. But I can't assure--let me check her schedule.'' She says it shed-yool . Reaches behind and lifts a huge blue binder to her lap all without moving from her place on the desk. ''Well, she's running a practice at the moment. You're free to wait until her next spare, which will likely--''

''So she'll be outside, then?''

''Miss Betts is the field hockey coach. And field hockey is generally not considered an indoor sport, Mr. Crane.''

With this she smiles, hard and fast. Throws herself up to her feet, extends her hand over my shoulder to show me the door, which is no more than eighteen inches from the back of my head.

''I may give you a call,'' I say on my way out.

''I would always welcome an opportunity to clarify my position,'' she says brightly as she closes the door behind me.

There's a cold drizzle settling over the flapping ponytails and stocky calves of the Georgian Lakes girls' field hockey team as I skirt along the sidelines toward midfield. The players appear not to notice me, though, screaming for passes and uncalled penalties, their faces pale as chicken skin. At the foot of the bleachers stands Miss Betts, polished whistle between her teeth, her body wrapped in puffy layers of nylon windbreaker over cotton sweat suit. Behind her sit the half-dozen substitute players, silent, rubbing their forearms for warmth.

''Miss Betts?'' I ask when I'm only a couple feet from where she stands but she doesn't look my way. Then her voice, a chesty bark echoing out over everything else.

''NOTHING FANCY! C'MON TRACEY! NOTHING FANCY!''

I turn to watch now as well, and there's the girl who must be Tracey with her stick held loose along her waist like an infantry rifle pointed directly our way.

''Excuse me. Miss Betts? My name's Bartholomew Crane,'' I try again, my eyes now following a heroic rush toward the goal by a girl with bruised kneecaps that ends in a vicious slash to her ankles and a sprawling skid fifteen feet across the mud.

''GET UP NOW, ZOE! SHAKE IT OFF!'' Miss Betts shouts to the fallen girl, but refuses to call a penalty. I'm about to suggest that the foul was so clear you'd have to be blind not to see it when she says in a normal speaking voice but still without turning her head, ''Thom's lawyer?''

''That's right. I was wondering if I could ask you about him.''

''You can try. HUSTLE!''

''Okay. What happened that made him start to act strange in the time leading up to Ashley and Krystal's disappearance?''

''Nothing really. Just the total destruction of his life. One of those divorces with so many lawyers involved it probably left both of them broke. But Thom was never worried about the money. It was Melissa that he wanted. To keep his daughter. So when the judge awarded him joint custody I tried to tell him, 'Hey, you did all right there, guy,' but he wouldn't say anything. Just get this dark mask around his eyes like the Lone Ranger or something. And then he really fucked up. TASHA! WOULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR AND GET UP OFF YOUR ASS?''

She keeps the whistle clenched in her mouth, the little ball inside rattling with her words as though caught halfway down her own throat.

''Fucked up how?''

''Started trying to see Melissa when he wasn't supposed to. The idiot. Courts do not take kindly to fathers mooning around their daughter's schoolyard on days when they don't have visiting privileges. Everybody gets very upset. And so I try to tell him that, and he just gets that Lone Ranger face again. I DO NOT LIKE BALL HOGS! Told me how one time he went to Melissa's school and walked in the front doors to try to pick her up or talk to her before her mother got there, or something like that, but the vice-principal sees him coming and calls the cops. Because everybody knows about this guy, right? So the cops come and write him up some ticket saying he's in violation of the custody order and leave him there outside the school grounds and tell him to leave the girl alone. And then it starts to rain . I swear to God. Thom Tripp was not the kind of guy to make stuff like that up. Just pissing down on him. But he doesn't move, staring up at all the windows of the school to find Melissa's face and sure enough he does. She's right up there on the second floor looking down at him along with everybody else in the place--they'd heard the sirens, eh--and that's her dad, just standing there. This drowned rat of a man waving up to his scared little girl.''

Now Zoe is running over toward us, one of her bruised knees dripping a neat line of blood into her sock. ''Rock out there,'' she pants. ''Got scraped up.''

''SUB!''

One of the girls from the bleachers behind us trots stiffly out, giving Zoe a swift whack on the behind with her stick as she goes.

''I heard that he later tried to take Melissa away,'' I say, the words turned to a billowing mist against the side of Miss Betts's face. ''That that's why the court finally denied him access. Why the wife moved away.''

''I heard that too. But Thom wasn't saying much by then. To anybody. I mean, I still cared about the guy, right --he was in need of some serious help--but what can you do? I say hello to him and all he can do is give me this do-I-know-you? look. DIG! DIG! DIG! After a while looking out for a guy like that starts to get a little tired.''

There's the crack of lumber as one of the bigger girls gets away a good shot that's stopped dead by the