Dear Miss Demeanor

home.”

Thud’s simian brow sank until his eyes were barely visible, and his lips crept out. Cheryl Anne, on the other hand, gave him an impertinent sneer and flounced back to her desk. The ponytail and other things wiggled with disdain. The rest of the students resumed their whispers, feigning no interest whatsoever in the argument.

I decided to forego the newspaper and spent the rest of the period preventing a holocaust in the cave. Thud and Cheryl Anne exchanged numerous dark looks and made numerous inarticulate and threatening noises, but restrained themselves from further verbal combat. I kept the maternal frown on Lull power until the bell finally rang and I could send them away. As the two met in the doorway, they resumed their argument. I could hear them all the way down the hall, but I didn’t care. It was three-twenty-five.

The cafetorium was at the far end of the first floor. I found a seat toward the rear, smiled vaguely at those around me, and prepared for utter tedium. Other teachers looked equally excited. The Furies marched in and took possession of the front row; Miss Hart and Coach Finley slipped in to sit in the row behind me. Evelyn and Sherwood joined me seconds later, looking like naughty children who had come straight from the cookie jar. Sherwood bowed slightly and gave me a broad wink.

Mr. Weiss strode to the front of the room, with Miss Dort on his tailwind. He snapped at her to take attendance (to whom would she send it?) and glowered until she made her way from “Aaron” to a final “Zuckerman.” All were present.

“This will be short and to the point,” he barked. “Item one:

the schedule for Homecoming activities is on the mimeograph Miss Dort will distribute, along with the names of dance chaperones and stadium-concession supervisors. There will be no changes, tradeoffs, or excuses. If your name is there, be there. Thirty minutes early.”

Miss Don snapped to attention and passed out the pale purple mimeographs, eyeing us challengingly. When she arrived in the rear, she curled her lips at me. “You’ll cover for Parchester at the dance, Mrs. Malloy,” she whispered with the expression of a barracuda swimming alongside a cellulitic snorkler. I managed a nod.

Mr. Weiss tapped his foot until Miss Dort finished her chore and scurried back to his side. “Item two: the auditors will be here next week to examine every club ledger, along with the journalism account and our general accounts. I want records in my office tomorrow morning before home room. I want copies of expenditures for the previous year. I want a list of deposits and checks for this semester-in duplicate. Your books had better balance to the last cent. No excuses.

A groan went down the rows, and a particularly unhappy one from Miss Hart behind me. According to Caron, she had oodles of accounts. No hot date that night. From Sherwood Timmons came a barely audible, “Quem Dens vult perdere. prius dementat- those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad. The man’s a veritable draconian these days.”

“Any questions?” Mr. Weiss said, looking over our heads.

Paula Hart raised her hand. “Mr. Weiss, the seniors are frantic to know what will happen with the yearbook. Several of the girls actually burst into tears in my room because they’re so worried they won’t have a memento of their final year.”

To my surprise, Mr. Weiss did not roar at the insubordination. He located Miss Hart in the corner and smiled with all the sincerity of an airport missionary. “I have not reached a decision about the Falconnaire. The seniors would be concerned, naturally.” He tugged on his chin, then glanced at Miss Dort. “Tell the substitute-ah, the Malloy woman-to get on with the yearbook, Bernice. Miss Hart and I wouldn’t want our senior class to be disappointed, would we?”

“Wait a minute,” the Malloy woman yelped. “I have no idea how to ‘get on’ with the yearbook. I don’t make books; I sell them. They come ready made.”

“The Falconnaire staff can handle it,” Miss Don said firmly.

Paula Hart tapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll help whenever I can, Mrs. Malloy, and I’m sure Coach Finley will, too.” Jerry nodded without enthusiasm.

In the front of the room, Mr. Weiss’s expression turned to stone. “Coach Finley may find himself occupied with other matters, Miss Hart. I received certain information today from Farber College that may shed a new light on Coach Finley’s career at our school.”

That earned a collective gasp, followed by furtive looks and whispers. Sherwood murmured, “Has Weiss made alapsus lingua, do you think?” His comment earned a kick from Evelyn. “A slip of the tongue,” he translated in a wounded tone as he rubbed his shin.

Jerry stood up, his hands on his hips like a playground combatant. His blue eyes were circles of slate, his dimples tucked away for the moment. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Weiss?”

“That means, Mr. Assistant Coach Finley, that you and I shall have a long conversation as soon as the auditors are gone.

“As long as I have your attention, Mr. Weiss,” Jerry continued tightly, “What about Immerman’s eligibility? He said you refused to consider a temporary suspension of the rule until mid-semester grades are in. That means he can’t play in the Homecoming game. Our policy says that-”

“I am aware of our school policy. I do not need a first year assistant coach to explain it to me, nor do I care to engage in an argument about my decisions. Immerman is no longer eligible to participate in extracurricular activities, in that his grades are below one point two five. Is that clear?”

“As clear as mud, Mr. Weiss!” Our gray-clad hero stormed out of the room without a parting glance for Miss Hart, who seemed on the verge of a collapse. Beside me, Evelyn looked grim, but Sherwood Timmons was battling not to snicker too loudly. I considered a kick, but opted for a glower.

“Dum spiro, spero,” he said, shrugging. “While I breathe, I hope.”

“Shut up, Sherwood,” Evelyn hissed. She looked back at Paula Hart. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Once the auditors arrive, Weiss will forget all about this. But in the meantime, keep Jerry away from him.”

Paula’s eyes filled with tears, but she bravely held them back. “Jerry doesn’t deserve to be abused, and it’s not fair,” she said in true pioneer-woman fashion.

Miss Dort cleared her throat. “One final item, please! Today I noticed a marked increase in the flow of students in the hallways during class, especially from the basement. Any student who leaves your room for any reason must have a blue slip with the current date, room of origin, destination, and your signature. Is that clear?”

Oh, dear. How slipshod some teacher must be to allow students to roam the hallways without blue slips. I slumped down and stared at my ankles, which are trim and appealing. When those around me began to shuffle, I presumed it was safe and stood up.

Evelyn accompanied me to the sunless labyrinth of the basement. “By the way, Claire,” she said as I turned toward the cave door, “on Fridays we have a potluck lunch in the lounge. The Furies, Paula and Jerry, the Latin pedant, and whoever else drops by. Sherwood considers it a prime opportunity to needle any and all of the aforementioned, but you mustn’t pay any attention to him.”

“I haven’t yet,” I said. “I understand from the gossip that he and Paula used to-to, ah…”

She laughed. “For almost three years, Sherwood had a jewel, and he knew it. She did his tax returns, balanced his personal checkbook and that of the Latin Club, edited and typed his manuscript, and did almost everything a devoted wife would do for her hubby. All in hopes, I’m afraid, that he would marry her so that she could quit teaching and start reproducing in a vine-covered cottage.”

“Then Jerry showed up?” I said encouragingly. I will admit to a flicker of shame for encouraging gossip. A teensy flicker. Curiosity snuffed it.

“He strolled into the first staff meeting of the year in his saggy gray sweats, his blond hair flopping in his eyes and his boyish grin just a shade shy. Paula melted; she hasn’t recovered since.”

“Was Sherwood devastated by the loss of free labor?” I was now utterly shameless, and I scolded myself without mercy as I panted for further details.

“More irritated than devastated, I believe. He does sulk whenever the lovebirds coo too loudly in the lounge, but other than that, he seems to have recovered. He may think he can persuade me to take over her duties.”

“Is that possible?” Pant, pant.

“As the kids would say, no way. I was married once upon a time, to a tool salesman from Toledo. During the first trimester of newly wedded bliss, I had the opportunity to meet two of his other wives. And I thought bigamy was reserved for Mormons!” Laughing, she waved and clicked away down the hall.

I picked up a bundle of old Falcon Criers and started for the stairs and a dose of scotch. As I passed the teachers lounge, I heard loud voices from its interior.

“Jerry,” Paula said with surprising vehemence, “there’s nothing he can do to you. Even if he does fire you, there are lots of coaching jobs in other schools. it’ll be okay.”

“He’s a damn tyrant. How in the hell did he ever get hold of my transcript, anyway? I’m doing a good job with the team. Fred thinks I’m a good assistant coach, and so do the boys. We have a chance at the district title, Paula. Fred’s talking about retiring at the end of the school year, which means I could take over the head coach position. We could afford to get married!”

“Oh, Jerry,” she sighed.

Conversation halted. Anyone with an ounce of scrupulosity would have tiptoed away, and allowed the two to do whatever they were doing in private. I edged closer to the door.

Jerry came up for air. “Somebody ought to do something about Weiss. Maybe I’m the somebody.”

“What can you do? He already knows about your past, and he’s probably told Miss Dort. She’ll tell the Furies, and they’ll broadcast it to God.” Paula was trying to sound stern and sensible.

“I’ll think of something.” Jerry merely sounded angry.

Wincing, I opted to retreat before the door opened and my nose was creased. I turned around and ran into Sherwood Timmons, who was wiggling his eyebrows like venetian blinds.

“Trouble in paradise?” he murmured, noticeably undistressed. “Could there be some bone of contention between the two?”

“I have no idea. I came by to see if I left a folder in the lounge.”

“And were prevented ingress by our Echo and Narcissus? Did you catch them in flagrante delicto?”

Evelyn had the right idea-and the right shoes-to deal with Sherwood. I gave him a quick frown and went around the corner to go upstairs, but he followed like a faithful old dog. Or a slobbering old bloodhound. I gave up and stopped.

“Yes, Mr. Timmons? Was there something else?”

He backed me into a corner, close enough for me to smell a hint of wintergreen on his breath. “Would you be interested in a peek at the journalism accounts, Mrs. Malloy?”

We had found the darkest corner of the basement, which was no sunlit meadow to begin with. I dared not glance at the ceiling, due to a phobia of bats and other rabid creatures, including men in goatees.

I put a finger on his chest to remove him from my face. “Why would I he interested in a peek at the journalism accounts, Mr. Timmons? I’m a substitute teacher,