...

Mrs. Peters hung up her phone, sat back in her chair and rubbed her temple. It was only 8:30 in the morning, and already it was turning out to be a long day. She had just gotten off the phone with Missy’s parents and would finally be able to give some definitive answers to the steady stream of people coming into her office. Stephanie was able to limp away with a sprained ankle and wrist; but nothing broken. As the cushion to the fall, Missy didn’t fair quite as well; she had a sprained knee, a fractured femur and some bruised ribs. A painful result, but it could have been so much worse. Of course, it went without saying that both girls were on the bench as far as cheering, for the rest of football season for sure, and possibly the rest of the year.

The post puzzling thing about the whole incident – other than why Ms. Williams would allow them to perform such a dangerous stunt – was the girls’ attitudes about being on the sidelines indefinitely. When she’d talked to them that morning, both had seemed relieved. The cheerleaders were such a tight-knit, intense group. You hardly ever saw them apart from another girl on the squad, and on game days they always wore their uniform to school the entire day (Mrs. Peters expected some would wear their uniform every day if they could). Even girls who couldn’t cheer that day for some minor injury or illness showed up in uniform.

Mrs. Peters sighed. Well, there was no use trying to figure out the minds of teenage girls, that she knew.

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Monday was a change the light bulbs day. Pretty much everyone at the school, from teachers to students were used to seeing Scott walk into a classroom or office carrying a box of light bulbs or tubes, and tended to just smile at him then forget he was there. He tended to overhear some very interesting conversations. On this Monday, there was plenty of buzz around school about the accident at the football game on Friday; plus a puzzling exchange between Ms. Williams and Coach Ryan, the athletic director.

“Look, I know we talked about this last spring, but last spring we didn’t know that the cross country team would get an invitation to the tournament in New York. It’s really a once-in-a-lifetime chance,” Ryan was saying.

“As is this clinic in Boulder,” Ms. Williams said, her voice icy.

“I understand that,” Ryan countered, “but the cheer squad got to go to Boulder last year – a very expensive trip, by the way – and the cross country team has never had this kind of opportunity. The clinic will be there next year.”

“Yes, but no one cares about cross country,” Ms. Williams replied. Scott glanced at the faceoff, and felt a slight shiver go up his spine at the look on Ms. Williams face. Yikes.

“The athletic department is not run like a popularity contest,” Ryan said, his voice becoming heated.

“Clearly,” Ms. Williams said. “Or you would not be standing in front of me.”

What did that even mean? Scott thought. Obviously, she was trying to take a shot at Ryan’s position as athletic director, but still, that woman had a screw loose.

“You are not changing my mind.”

The silence drew Scott’s gaze again, and again a shiver ran up his spine. “This isn’t over,” she finally said, her voice dripping with ice and venom. She left the room and Scott would have sworn the temperature rose five degrees.

...

The late morning/early afternoon sun was streaming in the windows of Mrs. Peters’ office, gleaming off the mahogany finish of her desk and filing cabinet and turning the pale yellow walls into sunshine. Outside the nearly floor to ceiling windows, Mrs. Peters could see students crossing Eastbrook’s center courtyard, occasionally stopping to chat with a friend or two. Most associated with Eastbrook affectionaltely referred to this particular courtyard – one of three on the Eastbrook campus as ‘the pig yard’ because of a school legend wherein an agriculture class in the 1950s raised a litter of piglets in the corner of the courtyard. Whether or not this was true not many people knew, but these days no one could imagine anything like that happening in this courtyard. It was one of the first places that visitors saw on a tour of campus, and maintained an appropriately refined appearance – if you didn’t count the occasional boxes of laundry detergent being dumped into the pond by harmless pranksters. It was paved with sandstone and dotted with Japanese maples, dogwoods, and redwoods; a huge old oak tree stood in one corner, a coveted lunch spot or study spot for those with free periods. Several wooden and wrought iron benches were placed throughout the courtyard, and in the center stood the fountain. Mrs. Peters smiled at her view as she stretched and gently worked at a knot in her kneck. The view from her office – for which she’d campaigned several years before landing the coveted space – always made her smile at how perfectly academic it looked.

It had been a long morning, but typical of the first day of school. As the director of student services, Mrs. Peters spent a lot of time dealing with paperwork – forms of all kinds, from registration to waivers to permission slips from everything from extra curricular activities to field trips. She dealt with every special parent request, and oversaw all student-wide assemblies and actvities. There were days when it made her want to lay down and take a nap and days when she wanted to smack more than a few obstinate adults-behaving-like-toddlers. But most days she loved it.
She picked up the pile of late registration forms and set them in her to-go box before grabbing a stack of notes that needed to be delivered to various classrooms. By next week, Mrs. Peters would be sending a student worker off to do that task, but she liked doing it the first day of school.

“Hi Mrs. Peters,” a senior girl waved to her as she passed by the senior lockers.

“Hi, Karen,” she smiled and waved back. Mrs. Peters had known Karen since she was born; her parents were very active Eastbrook alumni. She’d been invited to Karen’s Bat Mitzvah, and her older sister Janey’s wedding. Mrs. Peters had made many of those kinds of connections through the years she’d worked at Eastbrook. In fact, it was part of what she loved most about the job.

Mrs. Peters made her rounds of the school, passing along messages and paperwork as she did, smiling at all the bright and shiny faces. Even the scowling ones seem bright and shiny today, she thought. Drama had yet to present itself – kids liked each other, staff liked each other – or at least had no opinion yet. She relished these serene days, no matter how long or not long it lasted.

“Hi Mrs. Peters.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Peters stopped short, realizing she’d almost run into Scott coming out of the cafeteria. She laughed. “Sorry about that. You’d think I’d have learned by now not to space out when I’m walking somewhere.”

“No worries,” Scott smiled. “How’s your day going?”

“Busy as always, but really well, thanks.” Mrs. Peters motioned to Scott’s box of food. “You headed to eat lunch?”

“Yep.”

“Come keep me company while you do,” she said. “I’m headed back to my office.”

“Sounds better than the closet, that’s for sure.”

“So tell me how Eve is doing,” Mrs. Peters asked as they walked down the hallway.

“Really well,” Scott said. “The new quarter started a few weeks ago, and she has an entirely new group of students. She’s loving that.” Eve taught piano at a music academy.

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Peters replied. “What is it she loves so much about the new students?” They’d arrived at her office. She unlocked the door and turned the light on; Scott explained as he took a seat on Mrs. Peters denim sofa.

“She says that it’s a chance to try some new directions. The students tend to get into one particular groove – same practice techniques, same styles, same ideas. The new students make it more fresh, I guess is one way she puts it.”

“Well, I’m happy she’s getting that chance again.”

“It’s actually unusual for her not to have at least one or two veteran students, Scott said around a bite of meatball; he grabbed his napkin to catch a stray drop of marinara sauce.


They chatted about school and the first day – comparing their individual impressions of the freshman class.

A persistent beeping interrupted their conversation.

“Sorry,” Scott said, glancing at his pager. “Mind if I use your phone?”

“Of course not.”

He threw away his trash on his way to Mrs. Peters’ desk, then picked up the phone that she’d pushed to the edge.

“Hi Judy, it’s Scott…..mmmhh….where……”

Mrs. Peters smiled to herself as she started to organize her afternoon to-do pile. It always amazed her how Scott could keep such an even keel at work, particularly when talking to people. She knew he got frustrated – he knew she was one of the only people he could be honestly frustrated around – but he rarely showed it. He had the best dead-pan face of anyone she’d ever known.

“I’ll take care of it,” he was finally saying. “Is there anything else you know of right now that needs done this afternoon? Sure. Bye.”

“Well, here’s another first,” Scott said with a grin as he hung up the phone.

“How so?”

“Never had to paint over vandalism on the first day.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Peters said, shaking her head. “You’re kidding me I hope.”

“Sorry,” Scott replied. “A nice, first day of school message painted on the back of the scoreboard.”

“And?” Mrs. Peters raised an eyebrow.

“180 days and counting.”