Miss Taken (5 page)

Kyle rather ingeniously saved the day by
finding a yardstick leaning against the wall next to him and
retrieved it that way. He flattened the paper out, read it, wrote a
longer sentence back and then crumpled it up again. He had this
neat little technique where he hung his hand down at his side, but
then flicked his wrist somehow so the ball of paper popped up into
the air.

I may be repeating myself, but it is so
unfair the way some people get all the athletic talent.

The paper dropped neatly in the center of my
desk. I smiled before I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be
encouraging him. I flattened out the sheet again and read it. “Is
this really what you guys do in here every day?”

I nodded solemnly. He gave me a double finger
pistol and a big grin. Holding my hands up in surrender, I then
pretended to collapse from getting shot. I almost scribbled back
asking him how he did that wrist-flick thing but I decided that we
had had enough note-passing for the day. Instead I wrote, “We’re
supposed to take notes on the video” to indicate that our chat
session was at an end. I didn’t attempt anything fancy, but rather
passed the ball directly into Kyle’s hand. Our fingers brushing
caused some piloerection all the way up my arm. I was glad it was
dark in the room so no one could see it.

Kyle read my response and then surveyed the
room. There were kids following M. Waddell’s lead and taking naps
themselves. Others were playing finger football with little
triangles of paper. A couple of girls were braiding each others
hair. A few people might have been taking notes, but it was more
likely they were doing homework for other classes.

His skeptical look caused a giggle to escape
my lips. I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle it. Kyle wagged
his finger at me in an admonishing way that was also sexy. I was
very happy to hear the bell ring. Time had never passed so quickly
in French class before.

As we walked out of class together, Kyle
said, “I thought you were joking when you said you just watch
videos all the time.” I nodded my head like the wise old owl. “I’m
so glad I transferred into your class.”

I felt a little rush at the idea that Kyle
transferred into the class because it was mine and not just because
all we do is watch videos.

“That Mirabelle is one foxy lady.”

I guess I was wrong about that.

Kyle went on, “So, what’s up with Mr.
Waddell?” He said it like ‘waddle’ again. Good thing we were out of
the room. “Does he nap every day or just on days when he goes on a
bender?”

“What do you mean?”

Kyle put his hand up in front of his mouth
like he was drinking out of a bottle.

I stopped dead. “You think M. Waddell is
getting drunk at school?”

Kyle tipped his chin down so he could look me
in the eye over the top of his sunglasses. “Absolutely.”

Detective Robin Jane felt like she had been
taken down a peg or two. “How can you be so sure?”

“The smell.” Kyle tapped the side of his nose
in Gallic fashion. “I’d know it anywhere.”

Before I had the chance to ask him how he
would know that, the bell rang. “Oops.”

“I gotta hit my locker before shop. See ya,”
said Kyle. Wink. Pistol shot.

“See ya,” I said to his back.

I was slightly furious that Kyle had figured
out the mystery of M. Waddell’s ‘special’ smell after just two
classes while I had been wondering about it since the beginning of
the year. Then again, Kyle might have been making up his theory
just to show off. I wasn’t totally sold on the idea. I wanted
concrete evidence.

I got my proof, no pun intended, soon after,
just by having the idea put in my head. M. Waddell asked me to get
something for him out of the supply closet. He requested, so I
wasn’t snooping.

Well, he asked me to get him some more chalk,
and since I found it right away, I figured I had a little bit of
time to snoop.

I discovered a bottle, and not very well
hidden either. You would think someone who deals with teenagers for
a living would be more careful or at least somewhat creative. It
was inside a cardboard box that was merely folded closed. The
bottle itself was labelled “cleaning fluid,” but I had never seen
any cleaning product in that particular shade of tan. One whiff
told me it was Scotch. I recognized the odor from having to act as
waitress to a bunch of my parents’ friends at their boring bridge
parties.

There was no time to mess around. I composed
my face and went to make the delivery to M. Waddell. I am sure I
gave nothing away but chalk.

When I got back to my seat, Kyle whispered,
“See a ghost in there?”

Okay, so maybe my expression was somewhat
grave. But this was serious.

I had to talk to someone. I tried Ned, but
all he said was, “Don’t knock any teacher who’s willing to give you
an A for showing up.”

Of course he had a point, but it is my duty
as Robin Jane to be helpful. I didn’t think Diana would care
because she didn’t even have M. Waddell, plus she had been a little
hostile toward me ever since Kyle showed up. Miss Kindley was my
next choice except that I didn’t want to get M. Waddell fired.

The only logical person left was Kyle.

We didn’t get a chance to talk during
biology. My former partner Raj was still out, apparently sick with
mono. I had to wonder who kissed him because he has a face only a
mother could love. But he didn’t deserve to get mono just because
he hasn’t grown into his ears yet. So I hope whomever it was was
worth it.

It took until wood shop for us both to have a
little free time. I beckoned to Kyle with my eyes and he came. I
could definitely see how Hannah could get carried away with this
type of power.

The whine of the table saw was pretty good
cover, except that I had to talk louder because of the noise.

I figured it’d be safest to start off
non-specifically. “So you were right.”

Kyle played along. “Oh. That’s nice. I always
like to be right.”

“About, you know, M. Waddell.”

“That he’s a great teacher because he shows
us videos of foxy chicks who don’t wear bras?”

I could have easily allowed myself to get
pulled off track and given Kyle a full discourse on the
objectification of women and their misportrayal in the media. But
since I didn’t have that much time, I let his unbelievably sexist
comment about Mirabelle pass.

But I really don’t see what is so enthralling
about Mirabelle. Other than the times when she sports unnecessarily
low cut sundresses, she wears boring unnecessarily tight sweaters.
All are in drab colors that are not at all flattering to her skin
tone.

“About, you know.” I made a quick drinking
motion with my hand. But since it involved removing one of them
from my piece of wood, sharp-eyed Mr. Krakowicz caught me and
launched into yet another lecture about the dangers of inattention
and carelessness while operating power tools.

His voice is such that his warnings can
probably be heard by people at the opposite end of the school and
possibly even in the next state. But since he stood directly behind
me to deliver this speech, I had to drop my topic and pretend to
care about running my warped piece of wood through the machine.

I was soon finished cutting, thank goodness,
but that meant that I didn’t have any reason to stand right next to
Kyle anymore. Claiming that I needed help with the sandpaper would
have been a difficult position to defend. The revelation had to
wait until the end of the period and then we only had the four
minutes between classes. I made it quick.

“So what should I do about it?”

“About your bookshelf? I say chuck it. It’s
hopelessly crooked.”

I huffed impatiently. Kyle was not acting the
attentive suitor that I was used to. M. Waddell’s potential
drinking problem was more important than my bookshelf, that I was
working very hard on by the way.

“I mean M. Waddell!”

“Oh.” Kyle clacked his invisible gum
reflectively. “I don’t know. I don’t think I would do anything. The
class is easy, why mess it up?”

I was a little disappointed to get a response
that was more or less exactly like the one Ned had given me. Then I
felt bad that I had even wanted or expected a more considered
answer from a kid I barely knew rather than my boyfriend. I huffed
again, but this time to myself.

Kyle took it personally. “What do you want me
to say? That we should head up a committee of concerned students
and teachers and stage an intervention? He seems harmless enough. I
say leave him alone.”

He had a point. But the teensiest germ of an
idea started growing in my head. And once it got in there, I
couldn’t get it out again, as distasteful as part of it might
be.

I devoted an entire afternoon and evening
trying to decide whether or not this was really a good plan. I
triple checked with myself to make sure I was not certifiably
insane to voluntarily go see Mrs. Rochel and compliment her
cooking.

The facts are as follows: 1) Mrs. Rochel had
a son in rehab for alcoholism. 2) She is a widow. 3) M.Waddell is a
widower.

If anyone at the school would be sympathetic
to M. Waddell’s situation, there was a good chance it would be
her.

The longer I thought about it, the more it
seemed like a Robin Jane-esque thing to do, especially with
Valentine’s Day coming up.

Strange but true scientific fact: Female
scorpion flies are attracted to males who make the most spit. Using
his enlarged salivary glands, the male both attracts and entraps
her so she can neither fly away nor eat him until the deed is
done.

Using personal time on any day I did not have
lunch with Ned, I would stroll by the faculty lounge to check if M.
Waddell and Mrs. Rochel were ever there at the same time and if so,
to see if they were chummy. I never saw M. Waddell, but a few times
I saw Mrs. Rochel, or at least evidence she had been there, leaving
her foul baked goods lying about for anyone foolish enough to take
a chance on them.

After a few days of background research, I
went home and baked a coffee cake using a reliable recipe and
brought it in to school. It was a good thing I had thought to hide
a chunk for M. Waddell or else Ned could have easily polished the
whole thing off.

“I thought you took home ec last semester,”
Ned mumbled, mouth full.

I scoffed distainfully. “I did not bake this
in home ec.”

It did occur to me that if M. Waddell had
ever eaten any of Mrs. Rochel’s “treats” that my plan might unravel
before it got a chance to take off. But then I thought that if I
buttered up Mrs. Rochel enough, she might make an effort to cook
something edible for a change.

M. Waddell’s normally bleary eyes brightened
when he saw the cake.

“Here,” I offered him a big piece. I even
remembered to bring a paper plate. “I learned some new recipes in
Mrs. Rochel’s class.” I wasn’t even lying. I had learned plenty of
recipes in her class, just none that I would ever serve to
anyone.

“Merci, uh,” said M. Waddell, clearly
struggling to remember my name.

“You’re welcome. I mean, de rien,” I said
with a winning smile and an impeccable accent. I strode back to my
seat with what I hoped was Mirabelle-like confidence. But
remembering Kyle’s comment about her bralessness made me stop. I
surveyed the faces of my classmates to see if they had been
checking out my upper half for proper support, not that I had
nearly enough stuff to bounce like Mirabelle.

No one was looking at my chest, but more than
a few were giving me dirty looks about the cake.

Oh, well. Sometimes Robin Jane has to risk
being unpopular for the greater good, not that I was ever popular
in the first place.

I took a seat next to Kyle in the back of the
room. He was eyeing the small piece of cake left in the wrapper. I
presented it to him. “You like?” I said, trying to sound foreign in
an amusing and non-goofy manner.

Guys are so predictable. I wonder why I don’t
take advantage of this feed-them-and-they’ll-do-anything-for-you
thing more often.

Oh, yeah, now I remember. It’s because I’m a
thoroughly modern woman who won’t be shoved back into the
kitchen.

“Thanks.” He dug in with gusto even though he
really should have had the decency to wait until after class. “My
mum made me a really lame lunch today.”

Kyle was speaking loud enough that several
people heard and saw my second cake exchange. While I wouldn’t have
minded if the news got back to Ned about my generosity toward M.
Waddell, I definitely did not want him to hear about my giving the
very last piece to Kyle. Robin Jane needs to learn to rein herself
in sometimes.

I thought about being preemptive and telling
Ned myself about the cake exchange (CE), but it was so silly and
meaningless, I decided not to mention it. If he brought it up, I
would feign incomprehension, and play it down to the last few
crumbs in the tin foil.

In the meantime, I had to get going on the
second half of my plan. I screwed up my courage and went to see
Mrs. Rochel on my way to art the next day. Mrs. Dipsey is too laid
back - or spaced out - to worry about taking attendance, so it
wouldn’t matter if I was a few minutes late.

Mrs. Rochel had a cook book open in front of
her. How she can be such a bad cook if she uses real recipes is
incomprehensible. She looked confused to see me in her class. That
at least was understandable.

“Why, Miss Grey. What a surprise.” I’m sure
she would classify me in the same category of ‘surprises’ as a worm
crawling out of that apple she leaves on her desk. I know she put
that thing there herself because for sure no student would ever
give her one.

I forged ahead. “Sorry to bother you, but I
just wanted to tell you that M. Waddell, the French teacher, really
liked the coffee cake I made from your recipe.” After replacing all
the weird ingredients, like prune juice, with normal things, like
butter, so it was actually worth eating.