had listened sympathetically.
In turn, she had confessed to problems in her own marriage, nebulous but enough to make her lower her voice and to cause the light that imbued her to dim. She had never once suggested that Craig was abusive or that she was afraid of him, but she was never quite specific about what was wrong at home, either.
Robin felt guilty that she hadn’t stayed in touch with Brett. He and Malcolm were more soccer buddies than close friends, rather like their mothers, but Mal would have been okay with inviting Brett over. She just hadn’t thought to suggest it, even though she’d read all the newspapers with her friend’s face constantly in her mind, wondering at her fate, first thinking about Craig as a distraught, loving husband, then as a violent man who wouldn’t take rejection. She and Malcolm had had their own turmoil about the same time, thanks to Glenn…. But that was just an excuse. Robin prayed that Brett’s closer friends had been more faithful.
The bell rang, its shrill clamor making her start. Feet thundered in the hall and two boys jostled to be the first into the classroom. Other children pressed behind them.
“Children” was still the right word, although they wouldn’t like to hear it. This was her favorite age, these boys and girls on the brink of so much more: of physical maturity, of making decisions that would direct their lives, of being genuinely cool, of “going together” meaning more than the words. You could mistake a sixth-grader for a sophomore in high school one minute, a fourth-grader the next. Like the boys’ voices, cracking and squeaking and booming, these eleven-year-olds wavered between childhood and adolescence. She liked to think she could still have an effect on them that she might not be able to in another year or two.
She smiled as they poured in. “Take a seat. Any desk is fine today.”
A few she knew well, because of extracurricular activities or because they were younger siblings of former students. Others were familiar faces, because she’d seen them in the halls every year. A few were new to the district.
As always, she marveled at how much less mature the boys were than the girls—a sad fact that had the girls longing for middle school. A curvy brunette sauntered in, flipping her hair and eyeing the boys sidelong. Pants darn near as low and tight as Christina Aguilera’s hugged her hips; her baby tee, snug over a buxom chest, announced that she was a “princess.” Slipping quietly into a front seat was another girl, slight as a fourth grader, who would undoubtedly pretend with friends that she was interested in boys, even though she still played with Barbies at home.
Boys punched each other, rocked their desks, guffawed and shouted at friends passing in the hall. Most were shorter than the girls, just beginning a growth spurt that would have them looking like men in only a few years.
Unless he had changed extraordinarily, Brett Lofgren hadn’t yet made an appearance. Robin scanned faces yet again. The second bell rang, making a few kids clap hands over their ears. She started toward the door with the intention of shutting it.
A tall, handsome boy with his father’s dark hair and gray eyes ambled in. She’d have been fooled by Brett’s air of nonchalance, by his sneer, if she hadn’t seen how fixed his gaze was. He walked right by her and sat down without meeting anybody’s eyes or speaking to a soul.
It might have been her imagination, but there seemed to be a brief hitch in the noise level, a moment when others snatched a surreptitious look, then ostentatiously turned back to their friends and began chattering again. Brett slumped in his chair and began tapping his fingers on the desk.
Robin closed the door and cleared her throat. Quiet spread slowly.
“Good morning. Welcome to sixth grade, and your last year at Roosevelt Elementary School.” She smiled in acknowledgment of the cheers. “I’m Robin McKinnon, and I look forward to getting to know all of you.”
She called roll. Most said, “Hey!” or “That’s me.” Brett flicked a hand in the air and didn’t look up. They talked about seating and agreed to start the year wherever they liked.
“After the first few weeks, once I get to know you, I’m going to start assigning seats.”
Groans.
She smiled. “It’s important for you to learn to work with people who aren’t your best friends. There are rewards, too, in getting to know kids who aren’t in your circle, who maybe have different interests. And finally, I know you’ll concentrate better when you can’t whisper with your best friend.”
Brett, it appeared as the day went on, had no best friend, at least not in this classroom. He spoke to no one. Some of the girls made tentative efforts to flirt with him, not at all to Robin’s surprise; Brett was not only good-looking, but his sulky expression gave him a James Dean air. The other boys were downright wholesome in comparison.
She handed out paperwork for them to go over with their parents concerning her expectations, both for behavior and quality of work. They reviewed math, so she got a sense of where they were, she distributed texts and talked about her requirement for reading: a report a month, each written after reading a book from a different category on a list she gave them. She wanted them to read widely; one sports book was okay, for example, but not nine. The kids always grumbled early on, but her experience was that they found their interests broadening when they dipped into a biography or a play or science fiction or a classic.
At morning recess and lunch, Brett waited until last to slouch out of the classroom door. Robin peeked to see what he did on the playground and saw him shooting baskets by himself. He moved as if he did this often. He’d feint, dribble, shoot and rebound like a pro. As good as he was, no other boy went to join him.
Oh, dear, she thought. Usually she arranged desks in clusters of four once she started assigning seats. Brett was going to be a dark cloud over every group stuck with him if his attitude didn’t improve.
It didn’t.
Although there were no incidents, he stayed sullen through that first three-day week.
On the following Monday, Robin saw another boy poke him as they waited in line to go to P.E., and heard Brett snarl a startling—and forbidden—obscenity.
“Brett!” she snapped. “You will not use that word at school again. Is that clear?”
Eyes filled with dark, churning emotion, he stared at her for a long moment. Then he gave a curt nod.
“Please apologize to Trevor.”
This pause was even longer. Finally he mumbled something that she suspected was as unintelligible to Trevor as it was to her, but she decided not to make an issue of it.
Oh, dear, she thought again.
Tuesday, Amanda Whitney, she of the baby tees and tight jeans, sat down beside him and began tossing her hair and giggling as she tried to coax him to talk.
Brett leveled a cold stare at her and said, “Will you just leave me alone?”
From the other side of the classroom came a boy’s voice. “Jeez, Mandy! Stay away from him. He’s probably a killer like his dad.”
Brett erupted from his desk, sending the chair flying. Shoving aside other desks and kids, he lunged toward a cluster of boys. He crashed into Ryan Durney and the two went down.
Robin yelled, “Stop, now!” and grabbed Brett’s arm before he could punch
