Deadly Lessons. David Russell W.Читать онлайн книгу.
all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Bremner replied, recovering sufficiently to participate in dialogue. “It’s this cold weather.”
“Yeah, it’s a bitch.”
“So, what can I do for you, Winston?” Bremner asked, recognizing slowly but surely that I probably had some purpose for standing out in the cold with him.
“I was thinking of going for a run with your class,” I replied casually.
“Really?”
“No.”
“Ah, shit, you had me going there for a second.”
“I’m looking for one of your students. I was hoping I could steal her for a moment.”
“You just want one?” he smiled. For a moment I worried he might start laughing again. I don’t know CPR.
“One will do for now. Tricia Bellamy.”
“Uh-oh. What’s she done now?”
“Done? Trish a problem student in your class?”
“Nah, not really a problem. She’s just got some attitude at times. Truthfully, she’s not really the kind of girl we usually get in elective phys-ed.”
“What kind of girl is that?”
“You know. Nothing wrong with her really. She’s usually pleasant enough. But when she’s in a pisser of a mood, there’s almost no working with her. You know how melodramatic teenaged girls can get ‘at that time of the month.’ ” Bremner made those obnoxious quotation marks with his hands.
“Not really, but I guess I’ll learn.”
“Yes you will, my friend. Luckily for me, when they get bitchy, I can just make them go run outside. Keeps me sane, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure. So you don’t mind if I take her away for a few minutes?”
He looked across the field as the first of the runners began to appear. “Nah, help yourself.” The first four or five runners approached the entrance to the gym. “Here she comes now,” he continued.
“Which one?” I asked him.
“You don’t know her? She’s not one of yours?”
“No. I just need to ask her something to do with one of her classes.”
“Oh. Well, that’s her. First girl in the group. She’s pretty fast, I’ll give her that.”
I nodded. I had no idea what constitutes fast for a teenager. I wondered if fast to Ralph meant anyone who could complete a run without stopping for a smoke break.
“Trish!” Bremner suddenly bellowed, nearly jolting me into the wall behind us. Smoking hack or no, this man could project his voice. I thought he might double as a drama teacher. A student, still breathing heavily from her run, turned and trotted lightly towards us.
Tricia Bellamy was the kind of girl that sent eighteen-year-old boys for a cold shower. High cheekbones, deep green eyes and an engaging smile peered out from under beautiful, thick brown hair tied back in a tight knot on the back of her head for her P.E. class. For a student who thus far I had come to think of as a bookworm, Trish had the body of an athlete. Muscular arms, rock-firm legs and shoulders that looked like she could probably press her own weight, held together by a torso that seemed never to have heard of the term “body fat.” I suddenly thought: if Carl had fallen for a student, at least on appearances, I could see why Tricia Bellamy might be the one.
“Trish,” Bremner said, “Mr. Patrick wants to see you for a few minutes.”
Trish looked up at me and smiled. “Hi, Mr. Patrick?” If the thought of some strange teacher coming to see her gave her any reason to be worried, Trish didn’t show it.
“Hi. Yes. I’m Mr. Patrick. I teach in the Social Studies department.”
“Oh, yeah,” she replied. “My best friend Jessica McWilliams is in your Law class.”
“Sure, yeah, I know Jessica. Do you mind if we talk for a couple of minutes?”
A brief flash of genuine concern passed across her face. “Is everything okay? Is something wrong with Jessica?”
“No, no. She’s fine,” I told her. “I just need to ask you about something school-related. Why don’t we go inside? I may be dressed warmer than you are, but you’ve had the benefit of cardio exercise.”
She relaxed again and smiled. “Sure,” she said, following me into the gym. We walked across the gym to the door exiting into the hallway on the far side, small talking about the run the class had just endured. Trish seemed to think it wasn’t so bad and had actually enjoyed blowing off steam after her French class the period before.
“You don’t have sore pieds?” I asked.
“Non, monsieur,” she responded with what was becoming a regular smile. I was not looking forward to this conversation. In the just over two months of my teaching career—longer if you count my student teaching practicum the year before—I had by no means become an expert on adolescent behaviour. It was nearly impossible for me to conceptualize this sweet-looking, pleasant student concocting a story of sexual misconduct against a well respected teacher. Still, I’ve been duped before, and I didn’t think it was a good idea for Carl’s legal counsel to find himself in a precarious situation with a student. I made sure we stayed out of earshot of the rest of the returning gym class, but within clear view of Ralph Bremner and the rest of Tricia’s classmates.
“So,” I began badly, “how’re you doing?” Did I mention I was never good at talking to the opposite sex?
“Pretty good, I guess. How are you?” She had been raised polite, if nothing else.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” I stopped for a minute and wondered how to begin. If Carl was telling the truth—as I believed he was—this was a troubled girl. I had no way of predicting what her reaction might be to my questioning her about her relationship with her biology teacher. Would she freak out? Cause a scene? Spit at me? You never know with teenagers these days. Man, I’m starting to sound like my dad.
“Mr. Patrick, did you want something? Why are you pulling me away from class?” Smart, too.
I sighed. “Okay,” I began. “I need to talk to you about one of your teachers. Mr. Turbot.”
Any pretense Trish had been displaying had been false. My bringing up Carl’s name had the effect of sucker punching her. Her eyes grew to twice the size they had been just seconds before, and it took nearly a minute before she was able to respond.
“What about him?” she finally managed.
“Well, I...he’s your biology teacher, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And, Tricia, would you say you and Mr. Turbot get along all right?”
“Holy shit!” she blurted. “He told you.”
“He told me what?”
“Cut the bullshit, Mr. Patrick. It’s obvious why you’re talking to me about Carl.” She used his first name like it was something she did everyday.
“Carl? You refer to Mr. Turbot as Carl?”
“He told you about us.”
“What is it you think he told me, Trish? Why don’t you tell me about you and...‘Carl’?”
She suddenly took me by the arm and led me through the gym’s exit doors into the hallway beyond. Given the circumstances, I was leery about being alone with Tricia without any witnesses, but if I wanted her to continue our conversation, I might have to work on her terms.
“You know about our relationship, Mr.