Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Read online

“Jeez. Chill out, Ms. Thome. He makes all the girls try out,” Crystal says.

  Janie gives a sniff of disapproval. “I told her not to.”

  I count to ten and scan the approved list of sanitized curse words posted on my bulletin board. Totally unsatisfactory. “Listen up, class! You do not have to ‘try out’ to be a teacher’s aide.”

  I smack my hand on the desk for emphasis.

  “Oooo,” Crystal mocks. “Thorndyke better be careful. Ms. Thome’s flippin’ out.”

  Because Nick is now in his advanced math class, I send an SOS via Janie, offering to buy Marcy dinner Friday night if she’ll cover my class for a few minutes. A deal is struck, and I go in search of sweet, dull Allison, who’s in my room by default. She wasn’t sneaky enough to run away when two other girls set fire to the trash in the bathroom. Allison is no more an arsonist than Stella and Stanley, the classroom goldfish.

  Her problem is more complex than simple arson. Large of bosom and fair of face, her desperate need for attention makes her an easy target for teenage boys looking to score. Donny Thorndyke is a different story. Though he has the morals of a goat, he is presumably an adult male, albeit a recently divorced one. Damned if I’d let him manipulate her.

  I find her in Coach Thorndyke’s office. The door’s ajar, and I see Crystal standing on a chair in her mini skirt and three-inch heels. She holds a bottle of glass cleaner in one hand, a wad of paper towels in the other. Donny Thorndyke leans back in his chair and enjoys the show as she sprays, rubs and wriggles, reaching for the top corner of the window.

  In a towering rage, I throw the office door open. The front legs of Thorndyke’s chair crash to the floor and Allison squeaks in alarm. The glass cleaner slips from her hand and she teeters precariously. I grab her hand and help her down.

  I try to keep my voice calm. “It’s class time, Allison. Wait for me in the hall and I’ll walk you back.”

  I usher her out and shut the door.

  “What the hell are you doing, Donny?”

  He stands up and blusters, “Hey, hey, babe. Take it easy. She asked to be my TA. I figured if she’s one of yours, she’s short on credits. I’m trying to help her out.”

  Spittle gathers in the corner of his mouth. “I gave her an interview—you know, like a real job—and asked her what she was good at.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you did.” I take a deep breath. “Here’s the deal, Donny. Allison will not TA for you. If you ever pull that stunt again with Allison or any other girl, I’ll go to R.D.”

  His gaze slides away from mine and then comes back hot and angry. “You threatening me, babe? Go ahead. Do your best. R.D. and I are like this.”

  He crosses his middle finger over his index finger and jerks them skyward effectively flipping me off. He seems to grow larger in the small office. The air is thick with hostility. He takes a step toward me. I fold my arms and hold my ground but feel a flicker of fear when I realize Donny would like nothing better than to punch me in the face.

  “Just stay away from Allison.” I reach for the door.

  He gives a snort of disgust and shuffles papers on his desk.

  My classroom is in chaos when Allison and I return. Marcy, looking like a trapped animal, hisses, “Boy, do you owe me,” and scurries out the door. Still boiling inside from my encounter with Donny, I stand in front of my desk and fold my arms. My students, all savvy survivors of raging parental emotions, pick up quickly on my mood and settle down. Straightening up the jumble of papers on my desk, I unearth a note from Marcy:

  TALK TO JIMMY FELTHOUSE ABOUT SARA.

  I crouch next to Jimmy’s desk and whisper, “Do you know something about Sara Stepanek? Have you seen her?”

  Jimmy tucks his stub of a pencil behind his ear and cracks his knuckles. “Yep, I seen her Friday night.”

  “Saw.” I can’t help myself.

  “But you said ‘seen.’“

  Now is not the time for a lesson on helping verbs. “Just tell me what you saw.”

  “Well,” he says, “I saw Sara during my break, probably ‘bout eight. I work at McDonald’s, y’know. They can’t never get along without me on the weekends.”

  I cringe but encourage him with a nonjudgmental “Uh huh.”

  “Anyways, I was outside havin’ a smoke when I seen her go by in a blue Taurus.”

  “Driving or riding?”

  “Ridin’ shotgun. She was with some lady.”

  “Anybody you know?”

  “Nope, but I know one thing: It wasn’t Mrs. Hewitt.”

  I stand up and pat his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  Nick and I don’t have a chance to talk until after school. The dismissal bell rings, and my students bolt, the scent of adolescent pheromones lingering in their wake. With a weary sigh, I slip off my shoes and plop down in my swivel chair. Nick straightens desks knocked out of alignment by the stampede while I fill him in on Jimmy’s revelation.

  Nick freezes. “He’s sure it was a blue Taurus?”

  “Come on, Nick. We’re talking about Jimmy. He stole cars for a living. So who drives a blue Taurus?”

  He walks slowly to my desk. “Her caseworker, Peggy something, drives a blue Taurus.”

  “So she was with her caseworker Friday night at eight,” I say. “Funny the Hewitts didn’t mention it.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “All the more reason we need to go to Better Buy.”

  Chapter 6

  Better Buy Auto Sales sprang up on a single, dusty lot in the area of town crowded with mattress factories, fast-food joints, and a cement plant. Multiple garish billboards and an aggressive television ad campaign by Guy Hornbuckle, its horse-faced owner, have won the hearts and opened the wallets of Vista Valley folk. Better Buy’s ads feature Guy atop a real horse against a background of purple sage and the immortal words “If you’re tired of horse bleep, come see Guy at Better Buy.”

  Now resplendent on an acre of land, the glittering L-shaped showroom might look inviting if not for the cluster of snappily dressed salesmen lurking beneath the “Grand Opening” banner.

  A life-sized cardboard cutout of Better Buy Guy astride his steed graces the inside of one showroom window. A curtain, torn loose from its moorings and caught in an updraft, billows and flaps across his Stetson, giving him the appearance of a cowpoke moseying through an opulent Middle Eastern harem.

  Before I can turn off the ignition, one eager beaver peels off from the crowd and bears down on us. I reach for the lock. Nick flashes me a grin and bounds from the car, intercepting the salesman with “Hi. I’m Nick Dorsey. My mom’s looking for a new van and, since she’s real busy, my aunt brought me down to take a look.”

  Startled, the salesman reluctantly leaves my window and grasps Nick’s diminutive hand in a hearty shake that almost topples the little guy. “Trent Maguire. Pleased to meet you, Nick.”

  I ease the door open and slip from the car. Big, buff, and tanning booth-enhanced, Trent flashes me a gleaming smile. His eyes do the up-and-down thing before he says to my breasts, “And you are?”

  “My aunt,” Nick says, “Allegra.”

  “Ah-LEG-ra!” he booms. “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. All you need is a beautiful car. Right? What can I show you folks today?”

  He gives me a seductive wink and rubs his hands together. Lust or greed? I ponder this mixed message before pointing at Nick. “Like he said, his mother wants a van. I’m just the chauffeur.”

  Trent’s expectant gaze dims, and he turns to Nick. “Whatcha looking for, kid?”

  “A Dodge Caravan like the one Dwight and Patsy Hewitt bought. They told me they got a real good deal here. Were you the salesman?”

  Trent holds up a finger. “Just a sec.”

  He trots away to interrogate the others.

  I’m in the middle of an exasperated sigh when he reappears. “Lou sold it to them. He’s off today.”

  Nick says, “I want to test drive a Grand Caravan. You know all about financing … right?”

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sp; Trent stares at Nick, brows gathered in suspicion. “You old enough to drive?”

  “I’m small for my age.” Nick digs out his wallet and flashes his Washington state limited driver’s license. “I can drive with an adult but not with other kids in the car.”

  Trent squirms. “The boss doesn’t like us to let kids drive. Maybe your aunt should drive—take ‘er for a spin, see how she handles. Whaddaya think, Ah-LEG-ra?” He waggles his eyebrows.

  I ignore the innuendo. “How’s this for a plan? School’s out for the day, and the student parking lot’s empty. You drive to the school and let Nick try ‘er out in the parking lot, see how she handles.”

  Nick grins. “Sure you don’t want to go, Aunt Ah-LEG-ra?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Alrighty then.” Trent points at the showroom. “There’s a waiting room inside—TV, coffee, whatever you need.”

  I meander back to my truck feeling righteous. I’d make good use of my time and correct the math papers I stuffed in my bag. Reaching for the door handle, I hear, “Ms. Thome! Ms. Thome! It’s me…JJ!”

  I shade my eyes against the late afternoon sun bouncing off a sea of chrome and spot Jeremy Jones heading my way. Dressed in crisp, blue coveralls, lank brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, he seems delighted to see me—typical with former students who’ve given me the most grief.

  “JJ!” I extend my hand. “Good to see you.”

  He looks at my hand with horror, as if shaking it would break some cardinal rule of teacher-student interaction. Finally, he wipes his hand on the leg of his coveralls and gives mine a delicate squeeze. Pulling a towel from his pocket, he flicks a bit of dust from the Ranger. “I’m working here now, Ms. Thome. My PO got me the job. I detail the cars, keep ‘em looking good.”

  Wow. This is cool: JJ proud of his accomplishments and gainfully employed. Not bad for a kid who came to class high and resisted my efforts to provide him with basic skills.

  “Nice of Mr. Hornbuckle not to hold your past… er … indiscretions against you.”

  “Yeah, he said he’d kick my ass … oops … be disappointed in me if I let him down.”

  In his criminal days, JJ was the king of smash and dash. Astride his bike, he’d swoop down on a parked car, smash the window, grab the goodies, and disappear like a phantom in the mist. The twisted logic of a car dealer employing JJ appeals to my sense of whimsy.

  “Lookin’ for a new car? We got some sweet rides.” JJ is coiled and ready to sprint off to fetch me a salesman.

  I shake my head. “I’m waiting for somebody.”

  A shrill whistle splits the air. “Hey, kid, get your butt over here. We need you to make a run for us.”

  The summons comes from one of the salesmen: short guy, crew cut, cocky stance.

  “Just a sec, Dave,” JJ hollers. “Gotta go, Ms. Thome. The guys order take-out from the El Taquito. I walk over and get it for them.”

  “Walk?” I ask before realizing my mistake. “Oh, sorry, guess you aren’t driving yet.”

  He flushes. “Not ‘til I get off probation.”

  I feel bad about embarrassing him and a little pissed off at the men who treat him like their personal lackey. I motion at Red Ranger. “Hop in. I’ll drive you.”

  A smile blooms on his thin face. We pull up to the men. JJ collects their money. As we pull away, Crew Cut winks at JJ. “Hurry back now, stud.”

  Under the guise of adjusting my sunglasses, I resort to immature behavior and flip him off. Crew Cut’s mouth drops open. He grins and salutes.

  Later, in El Taquito’s parking lot, JJ and I sit at a picnic table munching on tacos and dishing the dirt. I get caught up on all of JJ’s criminal buddies and fill him in on the latest school gossip, omitting any mention of Sara’s disappearance.

  But, hold the phone! I’m missing a golden opportunity here. JJ’s a smart kid in a felonious sort of way. “Hey, JJ,” I say. “If I wanted to buy a car and needed financing, who would I talk to?”

  JJ dabs at the hot sauce running down the front of his coveralls. “Ms. Sawatsky. She’s the old biddy who takes care a that. Why? I thought you wasn’t looking for a new car?”

  “I’m not, but a friend of mine is. She wants a van like the Hewitts bought and is wondering how they financed it.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember them. Sweet van—if you like that kinda thing. Which, a course, I don’t.”

  He glances at his watch and munches thoughtfully. “Ms. Sawatsky’ll be gone at five then Rosie comes to work. We can ask her.”

  “Rosie?”

  “Yeah, you remember Rosie … the one with all the kids.”

  “My Rosie? She works here? In the finance department?”

  I’m astonished. Rosie created quite a stir at last year’s graduation. Hugely pregnant, she walked across the stage to shake hands with a school board member and receive her diploma … and then her water broke.

  She screamed, “Oh, shit!” frightening the school board member so badly he took a startled step backward, slipped in the puddle, and fell on his butt. That night, Rosie was blessed with a diploma and a set of twin girls.

  “Yeah,” JJ says. “Welfare-to-work program. She comes on at five, works ‘til nine. Ms. Sawatsky leaves a bunch of filing for her to do. But she knows how to work the computer. She has to ‘cause sometimes the salesmen have questions, ya know?”

  I nod. With two of my former students employed at Better Buy, clearly I’d have to rethink my opinion of Guy Hornbuckle. If he was kind enough to hire them, I sure didn’t want to screw it up.

  “Hey, JJ,” I say. “Just forget it, okay? I don’t want to get you or Rosie in trouble.”

  A crafty gleam appears in JJ’s eyes. He stands and gathers up the take-out bags. “Don’t worry about it, Ms. Thome. You won’t.”

  We get back a little after five. JJ points out a dusty Toyota Tercel with two baby seats in the back. “Rosie’s car. And there goes Ms. Sawatsky.”

  The salesmen part and fall silent as a tall thin woman in a pink pants suit throws open the door and marches to the parking lot, where she slips into a sensible beige sedan. After she pulls out, JJ sidles into the building while I wait in the truck.

  Moments later, an electric blue Dodge Caravan pulls to a stop in front of the showroom, and then out pop Nick and Trent. After a few minutes of circling the van and looking thoughtful, Trent pumps Nick’s hand once again and glances my way. I slump down in my seat and avoid eye contact.

  Nick climbs in the Ranger, one corner of his mouth turned down.

  “Struck out, huh?”

  He shrugs. “Trent said he couldn’t tell me how the Hewitts paid for their car. It’s confidential. Told me if we want to finance, we need to go talk to some woman, a Mrs. Sa—Saw—”

  “Mrs. Sawatsky.” I smile smugly.

  Nick starts to answer but, instead, sniffs the air. “It smells like tacos in here.”

  I reach behind the seat and hand him a take-out box from El Taquito. He mumbles his thanks and digs in. “How do you know about her? Mrs. Sawatsky?”

  I see JJ pop out a side door. I twirl an imaginary mustache and say, “Uno momento, ma petite chou.”

  Two years of high school French were hardwired into my brain before mating with the Spanish I hear spoken every day, resulting in a bizarre argot my friends call Franco Con Carne.

  Nick looks up from his tacos. “Hey, there’s JJ.”

  I turn on the engine and zip the window down. After greeting Nick, JJ whispers a single word in my ear.

  JJ and I exchange thanks—his for the food, mine for the information—before Nick and I hit the road.

  “Well…” Nick demands.

  “Cash,” I say. “The Hewitts paid with cash.”

  “The deluxe model is over $20,000. That’s a big wad of cash.”

  “Maybe somebody died and they inherited money. Maybe they won the lottery.”

  “Maybe somebody paid them to keep quiet about something,” Nick says.

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sp; “What could the Hewitts possibly know? Or who? They don’t exactly hang with the rich and famous of Vista Valley.”

  “Not the legitimate ones anyway,” Nick says.

  He looks out the window and slaps his forehead. “Oops, I forgot to tell you I’m not going home. You can drop me at the Church of the Holy Light. Mom’s picking me up later.”

  I brake, pull over to the side of the street, and turn off the ignition. “This truck doesn’t move until you tell me what’s going on. The whole story. Sara. Her big secret. All of it.”

  He stares at me, unblinking, eyes owlish behind round glasses. Finally, he sighs. “Sara told me not to tell anybody, even you, or she wouldn’t be my friend anymore.” His voice cracks, and he lifts his glasses to rub his eyes.

  My sense of unease grows. Kids keep dangerous secrets, even smart kids like Nick. Especially like Nick. Pint-sized and frail, he struggles to find his niche in a world that prizes athletic prowess and “hotties.” Sadly, few of his fellow students have taken the time to know and value him for his giant brain and wicked sense of humor. Until Sara.

  Nick says, “Remember when the class studied birds?”

  “Yeah, Sara’s report was on magpies.” Oh, duh, I think. Magpie.

  “We were at the library looking up stuff for her report. She found out magpies steal eggs from other birds’ nests and even kill the baby birds. She started to cry and said she was worse than a magpie.”

  I’m still trying to fit the pieces together when Nick takes a deep breath and the story pours out. Sara was twelve when her home blew apart. Placed with a foster home in a neighboring town, she was scared and lonely, easy prey for a teenage gang. It took a year, but she finally gave in to the gang’s promise to be her family. She then faced an ordeal so horrific that Nick looks everywhere but in my eyes as he relates it.

  “Sara had to prove she was tough enough to be in the gang. They call it ‘jumping in.’“

  He glances up at me, eyes foreshadowing the revulsion he feels. “She had to fight all the girls and have sex with all the guys.”

  I shake my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

  “She got pregnant,” he continues. “When she started throwing up in the morning, her foster mother found out. Sara had an abortion and was moved to Patsy and Dwight’s.”