Читать книгу The Rancher and the Girl Next Door - Jeannie Watt - Страница 11

CLAIRE GAVE HERSELF a good talking to as she walked home across the bristly hay field. Once upon a time she’d berated Regan for dating the wrong kind of man—which was truly a case of the pot calling the kettle black, since Claire also tended to pursue guys for the wrong reasons.

She liked to attain the unattainable.

It was a bad habit, and one she was trying to break herself of. Being attracted to Brett Bishop was not a step in the right direction, since she suspected her interest in him was sparked solely by his corresponding lack of interest in her.

But she couldn’t get around the fact that there was something about him that made her want to know more. Like, why the barriers? With her, with his brother, and with his niece, Kylie.

There was probably a simple explanation.

Claire wondered how long it was going to take her to figure it out.

ON MONDAY MORNING Claire started her school day by handing out progress reports listing the students’ grades in each subject.

“What are these?” Dylan asked with a sneer. Claire was going to start working on his attitude just as soon as she’d made some headway with Ashley.

“Those are your grades for your first week of school. I’d like you to show them to your parents, have them sign the bottom and then bring them back by Wednesday at the latest.” The grades were, for the most part, dismal in math and English. Primarily because few of the students were doing their homework.

Dylan frowned. Elena Moreno’s mouth was actually hanging open. Only Rudy and Jesse seemed satisfied with what was on the paper. Rudy had all A’s. Jesse had straight C’s, and apparently that was good enough for him. He was an earnest kid who tried hard, but it was especially obvious he had some holes in his education. His records had yet to arrive from his previous school, and Claire had no idea what his background was.

“Are you going to do this every week?” Ashley asked with disbelief.

“Every Monday. This way there will be no nasty surprises at the end of the quarter. Everyone will know their grades, and your parents will be aware of your progress.”

“But making us bring them back signed shows you don’t trust us.”

“You do know that trust is earned, don’t you? I doubt we’ll do the parent signatures all year, but I want to start out that way, until everyone is aware of what to expect.”

“What’re you going to do if we don’t bring them back by Wednesday?” Dylan asked in his most obnoxious tone.

“I’ll phone or e-mail your parents. Now, please get out your math homework.”

Dylan blew out a disgusted breath and made a show of shoving the grade paper into his pocket in a big wad. The other kids tucked their slips away less dramatically, some in notebooks, some in pockets, and started digging for their math books.

“My mom is going to kill me,” Toni murmured to Ashley later, as the class left for morning break.

“Mine won’t,” Ashley responded with a smug lift of her chin. She spoke loudly enough to make certain Claire heard her. Claire smiled, but it was an effort. She didn’t even have the pleasure of knowing that real life would teach Ashley a lesson or two. Ashley’s family probably had enough money to cushion her from reality.

Pity.

Ashley didn’t have to grow up to be a shallow, arrogant person, but there didn’t appear to be much to keep it from happening. And then, as if to solidify Claire’s opinion, she heard Ashley through her open window after school, making fun of Jesse.

“Do you live here or something?” Ashley asked in a snooty voice.

“No. My dad works late.” The poor kid was often sitting on the swings, waiting for his father to come pick him up, when Claire went home, and she left late most nights.

“Well, I hope he works overtime, so he can buy you some decent clothes.”

Claire barely stayed in her seat. But she knew Jesse wouldn’t appreciate his teacher coming to the rescue. He probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing that she’d overheard the conversation, either.

“Hey, at least people like me,” Jesse said.

“That’s what you think,” Ashley retorted smugly. “Come on, Toni. Let’s go.”

Claire drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and after a quick look out the window, forced herself to continue her grading. Jesse was still sitting on a swing, and he seemed to be okay. And Claire was going to see to it that he remained okay, at least while he was at school.

THE FIRST MEETING of the school parent-teacher organization was called to order that evening by Ashley’s mother, who’d once again raided her daughter’s wardrobe. There were at least twenty parents in attendance, in addition to Trini and Bertie. Claire was impressed. The parent-teacher organization of her old school had been comprised of approximately twenty percent of the parents. The Barlow Ridge PTO attendance seemed to be hovering around the one hundred percent mark. Claire was even more impressed with the treasurer’s report. These people were either prolific savers, or they were talented at fund-raising. It turned out to be a combination of the two.

They discussed the year’s fund-raisers—a Christmas craft show, a chili feed and a quilt auction. Claire knew of the quilt auction via Regan, who now owned two heirloom-quality hand-pieced quilts.

Almost twenty minutes were spent debating whether the PTO’s Santa suit would last another season, or if they’d need to buy another before the Christmas pageant. And then they went on to folding chairs. Were there enough? Should the broken ones be fixed or replaced? And when had the piano last been tuned?

The meeting was almost over when Deirdre focused on Bertie and Claire, who were seated at the back of the room. “Have we covered everything?”

“I, um, have a request,” Claire said.

Everyone half turned in their chairs to look at her. Claire decided it was a good thing that she enjoyed public speaking, because all eyes—some of them not that friendly—were on her.

“First of all, I’m enjoying working with your kids. We have some ground to make up because of teacher turnover during the past few years, and I was wondering if the PTO would purchase math manipulatives and four novel sets, one for each quarter.”

Claire could tell by the way expressions shifted and glances were exchanged that she’d accidentally hit on a sore spot. She wondered what it could be. It certainly wasn’t finances, from the sound of the treasurer’s report. She tried again.

“The novels in the storeroom are not only old and not entirely grade appropriate, they’re in really bad shape,” she explained. “I don’t know if they’ll survive another reading. And as far as math manipulatives go, there aren’t any.”

“There’s a reason for that,” one of the parents said. “We’ve bought several programs in the past that other teachers packed up and took with them when they left.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not at all. And I think our new novel sets and some reference books ended up in Wesley at the elementary school when a teacher transferred there. We also bought a pricey math program that left with another teacher, and she didn’t even stay with our district. She moved out of state.”

Another parent smiled condescendingly at Claire. “How long are you planning on being here?”

“I’m going to graduate school next fall. I made that clear when I interviewed here.” And I was hired because no one else would take the job. Under normal circumstances Claire wouldn’t have held her tongue, but she had enough of a fight on her hands bringing her students under control. She needed parental support, or her battle was going to be twice as hard.

“Couldn’t you borrow what you need from one of the schools in Wesley?”

“I’ll ask.”

“It’s nothing personal, Miss Flynn.” Claire was getting very tired of hearing how nothing was personal in Barlow Ridge. “It’s just that we’ve been burned in the past.”

“And I don’t think our kids need fancy programs and gimmicks.” An older woman near the front spoke up. “They need a good teacher.”

Claire was beginning to see that isolation might not be the only problem with teaching in Barlow Ridge. She composed herself before going on the offensive.

“Your children also need discipline and development of a work ethic, if they are going to achieve grade level.”

Her statement caused a ripple. “What do you mean by ‘achieve grade level’?” Deirdre demanded in a shocked tone.

Claire frowned. “I mean, that many of my seventh and eighth grade students are behind in at least one subject area—primarily math. They need to catch up. Didn’t you get standardized test scores last year?”

There was another ripple as the parents exchanged puzzled looks.

“No.”

“None of you received scores?” Bertie asked. The group shook their heads in unison. “I gave them to Mr. Nelson. He was supposed to staple them to the year-end report cards.”

“And when did Mr. Nelson do anything he was supposed to do?” Trini muttered.

“Didn’t you wonder why the younger kids had scores and the older ones didn’t?” Bertie asked the group.

“I just assumed that the upper grades weren’t tested. You know how they’ve messed with the tests lately, changing dates and grade levels…” Deirdre said.

“We have copies in your children’s files,” Bertie said, with a frustrated sigh. “We’ll need some time to locate and duplicate them, but you’ll get the scores before Friday.”

The meeting was adjourned shortly thereafter, and Claire went into her room to collect her jacket and purse. She had no new novel sets, no math manipulatives—just parents who didn’t think she was up to the job of teaching their children. Parents who hadn’t been aware of how far behind their kids were.

And even though she didn’t need the point hammered home that the parents weren’t supporting her, it had been hammered home.

“What really fries me,” one parent said as she passed by Clare’s open door on the way to the exit, “is that the school district must know we have low scores, but they send out the most inexperienced teacher they can find.”

“Well, she certainly isn’t engaging Lexi,” her companion responded. “It looks like all she’s doing is drawing lines in the sand and daring the kids to step across. That’s not teaching.”

Claire swallowed hard and turned off the lights. She and Bertie stepped out of their rooms and into the hall at the same moment. Bertie signaled for her to wait a minute as the two parents made their way to the exit.

As soon as the door swung shut, Bertie said, “Try not to—”

“Take it personally?” Claire shook her head. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

“These kids haven’t had a real teacher since Regan left, and the parents are getting frustrated.”

“Well, I can’t blame them, but I hate being prejudged.”

“That’s a tendency here,” Bertie said. “You’re newly graduated, which is a strike against you. And the kids are complaining, which is another strike. Plus…” She hesitated, then said, “You dress kind of…fancy. Which might put some parents off.”

“They don’t like the way I dress?” Claire was wearing a knee-length chiffon skirt in a bright floral pattern, a silky peach T-shirt and a chunky necklace. Normal fare for her. But she remembered Elena saying they’d never had a teacher that looked like her.

“Well…” Bertie looked down at her own clothing, which consisted of brown corduroy pants, a white cotton T-shirt and well-worn athletic shoes. “I think it’s been awhile since they’ve seen anyone wear hosiery to school.”

“I’m not buying a new wardrobe to fit in,” Claire muttered. “I like my clothes.” She and Bertie walked down the hall together, exiting the school into the inky darkness of a cloudy night.

“I like your clothes, too. I wish I had the energy to dress better, but I don’t.” Bertie stuck her key in the lock and abruptly changed the subject as she twisted her hand. “This test thing really annoys me. It’s good that Nelson got out of teaching, because I think the parents have cause for legal action.”

“Would they do that?”

“Barlow Ridge parents are not passive parents.” She smiled grimly before asking Claire, “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“It’s going to storm. Do you want a ride home?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Coming to quilting club on Wednesday?”

“Will it be friendlier than the PTO?”

Bertie smiled ruefully. “There’s some crossover—Deirdre, Willa, Mary Ann. I think they’re already betting you won’t show.”

Claire smiled humorlessly. “In that case, I’ll show.” She couldn’t sew a stitch, but she figured she could either be there, trying to do her part for the quilt auction, or sitting home alone with her ears ringing as the other women discussed her.

PHIL’S HORSES AND MULES arrived while Brett was in the middle of his online class. Horses he understood. Reacquainting himself with math was going to take some time. He was making headway, but he was glad to give himself a break in order to drive over to the ranch, less than a mile away, and take delivery.

He went to meet the shipper, who opened the door of a trailer to reveal a handsome black mule. Beyond that Brett could see two broad chestnut-colored backs, but the dividers kept him from seeing the horses’ heads.

“They’re tall,” he commented to the driver.

“Yeah. And Numb Nuts, up front, doesn’t have any manners.”

“Good to hear.”

Brett stepped in and ran a hand over the mule’s neck. The big animal gave him a get-me-out-of-here look. Brett complied, leading the big guy out of the trailer and over to one of the many individual corrals adjacent to the barn. When he released it, the mule circled the pen once and then went to the water trough for a long drink.

“Where’re you from?” Brett asked, suddenly realizing that he had no idea where these animals were being shipped from.

“San Diego. I left them in the trailer last night, because I didn’t know if I could get the stud back in.”

Phil wouldn’t like that, Brett thought. Phil couldn’t tell a good animal from a bad one without help, but he insisted that all of his animals be treated right. It was the one thing that helped Brett overlook his boss’s other foibles, which included a healthy dose of arrogance coupled with ignorance about matters he wanted to look like an expert in. Such as horses.

Brett stepped back into the trailer to unload a very nice quarter horse. The mare followed him placidly to her pen, and then she, too, went straight for the water.

And now for Numb Nuts.

He had a feeling from the way the trailer was rocking, now that the stallion was alone and wondering where his mare had gone, that his nuts were actually not all that numb.

Brett opened the divider and the horse rolled an eye at him, showing white. And then the animal screamed. Brett untied him, taking a firm hold on the rope close to the snap, and started to lead him to his pen. The stud danced and rolled his eyes again, but he respected the lead rope, and Brett got him shifted safely. As soon as the stallion had drank his fill, however, he started pacing the fence, back and forth, back forth, punctuating every turn with a fierce whinny.

The driver smiled and headed for his truck, obviously glad to be on his way.

Brett decided to let the horse settle in for a day or two before he attempted to tune him up. And as soon as he could, he was going to suggest to Phil that unless he wanted to make a complete spectacle of himself, perhaps he might want to find a calmer animal to show.

When Brett pulled into his driveway, he saw Claire walking across the field toward his house. What now? She met him at his truck.

“I need a favor.”

“So do I,” Brett said wearily, pushing his hat back.

“What do you need?”

“I need someone to tactfully tell my boss that he’s in over his head.”

Claire frowned. “Who’s your boss?”

“See that ranch over there?”

She nodded.

“It’s one of many around here owned by the Ryker family. They have a land company and they lease ranches—including the one that I’m living on. Phil Ryker decided to become a cowboy a few years back, and took over that ranch as his personal hobby. I take care of it for him while he’s away.”

“I see.”

“And he likes to buy horses. And cows. And mules. He even bought some llamas, once.”

“And he’s just bought something you don’t think he can handle?”

Brett smiled wryly, wondering why he was unloading on Claire. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “He bought something I know he can’t handle, and now he has to be convinced of it before he hurts himself.”

“Good luck,” she said with a smile. Damn, but she had a nice smile.

“Yeah,” he said, sobering up. “What favor do you need? Snake removal? Cooler renovation?”

“I’m joining the quilting club and Regan has a bag of stuff for me at her place. If you’re going to Wesley this week, could you pick it up?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Thanks.” She smiled again. “Well, I have a ton of planning to do, so I’ll see you later.” She took a few backward steps before turning around. “Good luck with your boss.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. He was probably going to need it.

The next morning Brett made his weekly trip to Wesley, picking up groceries, animal feed, hardware, and vaccines for the new horses. He put off stopping at his brother’s place until last.

It was close to four when he knocked on the door. It swung open almost immediately, Kylie’s wide smile fading when she saw him. She forced the corners of her mouth back up again.

“Hi. I thought you were someone else.”

Obviously. Kylie had grown into a beautiful girl—almost a carbon copy of her mother—which added to Brett’s awkwardness whenever he had to face her alone. Kylie always picked up on the vibe and reflected it back, making their one-on-ones a tad uncomfortable.

“Regan has a bag of quilt supplies for Claire that I’m supposed to pick up.”

“Oh. Right. I was wondering what this was.” Kylie stepped back to retrieve a large plastic bag, which she handed to him. For a moment they stared at each other, neither certain of what to say. As usual.

“Are you coming to watch me ride?” There was a regional 4-H horse show in Elko in two weeks, and Kylie had qualified in several events.

“Yes, I am.” He made it a point to watch her ride or play basketball whenever he could. It hurt in some ways, but it was a price he was willing to pay.

“Do you know about the barbecue afterward?”

“What barbecue?”

“Regan wanted to have a get-together since Claire is here, so that she can introduce her around.”

Brett automatically shook his head. “No. I probably won’t be coming.”

“All right.” Kylie seemed fine with it. Relieved, in fact. Brett felt the usual twinge of regret.

A truck pulled into the drive behind his, and a kid who looked too young to be driving jumped out. Kylie’s face lit up and Brett felt a stirring of protectiveness. Surely Will wasn’t letting her date already? She was only fifteen.

“Hi, Kylie. Hi…” The boy’s face contorted in confusion for a second and then he said, “I thought you were Mr. Bishop.”

“He is,” Kylie said. “This is my uncle.”

“Oh. Hi. I’m Shane.” The boy extended his hand, and Brett gave him points for manners.

“Nice to meet you.” He glanced over at Kylie, encountering eyes exactly like his own. “I gotta get going. Nice meeting you, Shane. Bye, Kylie.”

“See ya.”

CLAIRE PERCHED ON the edge of her desk, an expectant look on her face. After a few seconds of staring silently, she asked, “Is there a problem with the topic?”

The students shook their heads, then began writing in their journals.

Claire waited the full fifteen minutes before asking, “Does anyone want to share?”

As usual, the students sat staring straight ahead. Even the young ones. They were learning fast. Claire sighed and told the kids to get out their social-studies texts. When she’d informed Brett that she could take whatever these students could dish out, she’d meant challenges such as snakes—not things like a stupefying lack of response. And she was fairly certain it wasn’t too late for the younger kids, that they would respond if it weren’t for fear of being laughed at by the older students.

What to do?

Claire drummed her fingers on her desk, then stopped when a few kids looked up at her. She opened her grade book and pretended to study the columns of numbers. The obvious answer was to separate the younger students from the older ones, but she couldn’t do that in the space she had available.

She thought back to her professors, with all their pie-in-the-sky educational theories. Never once had it been mentioned that she might be faced with kids who simply refused to engage themselves. Kids who did not want to learn.

Regan had advised her to ignore the stony stares and reward the behavior that met her expectations, but hadn’t mentioned what to do if the behavior of the older kids was tainting the younger ones.

Claire headed for the office phone. Something had to be done before it was too late.

Back in the classroom, she told the fifth and sixth graders to go outside for recess. When the older kids also rose to their feet, she asked them to remain. She spoke quietly, but there was no doubt that she meant what she said. The seventh and eighth graders sat back down.

“We need to talk. You guys are role models for the younger kids. I want to know if you think you’re setting them a good example?”

They did not even have the grace to appear ashamed. If anything, they looked smug, and Claire felt her anger growing.

“You guys are acting like a bunch of jerks, and it has to stop. I will not have you ruining the education of the other students. I’ve phoned Principal Rupert, and if this behavior continues, he will be driving out to have a talk with each one of you on an individual basis.”

Dylan and Ashley both smirked. Toni gave Claire a stony stare.

“He’s also calling your parents today.”

Ashley looked unconcerned, but Dylan and Toni paled slightly. So there was some fear. That was good. Maybe there was hope.

“I don’t hold grudges,” Claire continued. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you start acting the way you know you’re supposed to act.” She drew in a breath, wondering if the kids knew how much she was winging it. “Instead of recess, I would like you to write about how your behavior is affecting the other kids. Ashley, I want to talk to you privately.”

“Sure,” the girl said with a toss of her head. She followed Claire out into the hallway.

“I know you feel safe, Ashley—like no consequence can touch you.”

The girl smiled.

“And I want a straight answer. Are you going to set a better example with your behavior? Or are you going to continue as you’ve been doing?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with my behavior, and neither does my mother.”

“You don’t see how the younger kids are learning from watching you?”

She shook her head.

“Then my only option is to put you where they can’t watch you. Your desk will be in the hall for the remainder of the day and tomorrow, until we talk to the principal. We’ll reevaluate then.”

“I’m going to sit in the hall?”

“Yes.”

“How will I hear what you’re saying?”

“What would that matter, Ashley? You seem to think you already know everything. Stay here. I’ll go get your desk.”

Claire took a few steps toward the room, angry with herself for sniping at the girl. She turned back, wanting to give it one last stab. “This is your choice, Ashley. I don’t want you out here. If you’ll participate in class in a respectful way, I want you in the room with everyone else. You’re a bright girl, and you can help the younger students learn.”

She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. But she did not respond.

A steaming Ashley was sitting at her desk in the hall when the younger kids came traipsing in again. Claire stood next to her door and watched the procession. The kids looked first at Ashley, then at Claire. No one said anything.

There was a definite change in attitude, now that Ashley was no longer in residence. Claire took her the work for the afternoon, then closed the classroom door. There would, no doubt, be a hot phone call from Deirdre Landau later. Maybe even a personal visit. But it was worthwhile, if Claire could save her younger students from going over to the dark side.

Surprisingly, Ashley left school that afternoon without summoning her mother. She walked away, her chin held high and her books pressed close to her chest. Toni walked with her, but their heads were not together as usual. Claire felt a little bad, but knew she had to draw the line somewhere.

She graded papers until three-thirty and then went into her storage closet, prior to her usual trip to the basement before going home. Every evening she sorted and carted one shelf of stuff off to the nether regions. She almost had space in her closet now to store the textbooks that were shoved into boxes under her counters. And in the process she had uncovered some useful supplies, as well as some hilarious artifacts of days gone by. She figured that with her box-a-day strategy, she’d have decades worth of haphazardly stored items properly sorted and put away by the end of the semester. If nothing else, she would leave the school better organized than she’d found it—and the students better educated. Even if it killed her. And them.

Claire pulled open the stubborn basement door and started down the stairs, descending into the earthy coolness, which felt good after the heat of the classroom. She had just heaved the box up on top of the lowest stack of rubber bins when she heard a heavy scraping noise, followed by a dull thud.

The door. Someone had closed the basement door.

Bertie must have come back, seen it open…

Claire trudged up the stairs and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She controlled a twinge of panic, twisted the handle and pushed again. Nothing. Someone had thrown the dead bolt. She began to pound with the heel of her hand.

“Bertie!”

No answer. Claire pounded until her hand was bruised, more in frustration than from any hope of being heard. It was pretty obvious she’d been locked in on purpose. Three guesses as to who had done it.

She sank down onto the top step and stared at the dangling light. About time for the bulb to burn out, the way things were going. She had a flash of inspiration and shot a glance over her shoulder at the door.

But the hinges were on the outer side. Drat.

The frog croaked and Claire’s shoulders slumped.

Could it be she was going to spend a night in the basement? Not if she could help it.

She rose to her feet and tromped down the stairs. The ventilation windows were covered with screens, and they were quite small. And high—probably seven feet off the floor. Claire glanced down at her hips, then back up at the window. What would be worse? Spending the night in the basement or spending the night stuck in a window?

It was a no-brainer. She was going for stuck-in-the-window.

Claire searched for some moderately safe way to get herself up there. With all the stored files and equipment, would it have been too much to ask that a ladder be among them? Apparently so. The only bits of furniture were rickety or broken. An old file cabinet wobbled when she tried to move it, so she started stacking rubber bins. The ones that were full enough to support her weight were also quite heavy. She managed to pile them three high and then climbed on top, grimacing as her hands pushed the damp, mossy wall when she steadied herself.

The window was now at shoulder level, and it wouldn’t open. It had no latch.

Claire said a word that was normally frowned upon in a school setting, then climbed off the stack of boxes to find something she could use to break the glass.

THE PHONE RANG just as Brett started working on his algebra assignment. He’d already done all the damage he could to his humanities lesson, and it was time to move on.

“Hi, Brett,” Regan said. “Have you seen Claire?”

“Uh, no. I left the bag of supplies inside her door. She wasn’t home.”

“She’s not answering her phone, and I’m getting concerned.”

“Maybe she’s in the shower.”

“For two hours?”

Actually, he could imagine that. Brett glanced out the window and saw the lights weren’t on in the trailer, shooting that theory to hell. “I’ll walk over to her house.”

“Thanks, Brett. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Maybe it was quilting night, Brett reasoned as he headed across the dark field, flashlight in hand. Or maybe she had a date. On a Thursday? Probably not. Maybe she was still working. That seemed the most reasonable answer, even if it was going on seven o’clock.

Claire pulled into her driveway just as Brett rounded the rear of her trailer. He turned off the flashlight and thought about disappearing when she got out of her car, but then noticed that she was looking…rough. Her white blouse and her face were smeared with a dark substance, which he hoped wasn’t blood. It was hard to tell in the fluorescent glow of the yard light. And her skirt was ripped up the side.

Alarmed, he stepped out of the darkness, his movement obviously startling her, and then he saw to his relief that the stains were not blood.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a remarkable amount of dignity, considering the fact that she was green.

“Regan called. She was worried about you.”

“Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to—” She broke off and frowned at Brett. “Well, thanks for checking on me. I’ll give her a call.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

She shook her head. “No. I think I’ll employ that we-need-to-keep-our-own-space rule you invented.”

“Suit yourself.” His mouth tightened as he fought with himself. She was vertical, obviously not hurt—physically, anyway. He’d love to know how she’d gotten smeared with green gunk, but it was none of his business. Still…“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She walked past him into her house, the tear in her skirt exposing a lot of leg as she disappeared. The door closed with a thump.

Brett stared at it for a moment, then turned his flashlight on again and started back across the field.

This was not going to be a restful school year.