School Dayz

By Kenda

            A.J. Simon's hand groped for the 'Off' button on his clock radio.  He gave it three whacks before realizing it wasn't his alarm that was ringing, but rather the telephone at his bedside.  As he struggled to raise himself onto one elbow his eyes caught sight of the bright red digits that told him it was five thirty-seven a.m.

          Who the hell could be calling me this early on a Tuesday morning?

          A.J.'s mouth was dry and his tongue thick with sleep. "Lo?" 

          The voice on the other end was just a bit too perky for the blond man's tastes this early in the day. 

          "A.J.?  Did I wake you?"

          Although A.J. wasn't sure who the female person was he was now engaged in conversation with he had the good grace to be polite.  "No, no.  You didn't.  I was lying here dozing waiting for the alarm to go off."

          A melodious infectious laugh tickled the phone line.  "You liar.  I can tell by your voice that you were sound asleep.   What happened?  With me no longer in the neighborhood to be your running buddy have you given up doing your four mile circuit each morning at dawn?"

          A.J.'s brain became more alert upon assimilating the clues the woman dropped.  "Stacy?"

          "Yes, it's me.  Your old neighbor and running partner Stacy Patterson."

          "How are you?"  A.J. automatically asked.  It had yet to dawn on the private detective this early morning phone call was totally out of the ordinary.  Although he and his former neighbor had indeed jogged together they had never been more than friends who parted ways each weekday morning as they came to their own doorsteps.  A.J. had been sorry to see Stacy leave the Grand Canal a year earlier.  Among other things she had been a loyal neighbor who watched over his house whenever he was involved on a job that kept him away several nights in a row. 

          "I'm fine, A.J.  How about yourself?"

          "I'm okay."

          "I read about you and Rick every now and again in the papers.   How is my favorite cowboy?"

          "He's fine.  I'm sure he'd still be trying to convince you to go out on a date with him if he could get me to tell him your new address."

          Stacy laughed.  "Let's both keep him guessing then.  Especially because along with my new address there's now a new husband who probably wouldn't appreciate the undivided attention Rick was always willing to lavish on me."

          "Really?  Congratulations, Stacy.  That's great."

          "Thank you.  Paul and I are very happy.  But now that we've gotten caught up with each other I need to get to the reason for my call."

          "I was wondering about that."

          "Listen, A.J., do you remember, ooooh, about four years ago when I let you and Rick hide out in my house for a week?"

          A sudden feeling of trepidation overtook the blond man.     "Ummm,....yes.  Yes, I do."

          And then that guy shot all the windows out of it when he discovered where the two of you were?"

          "Uh,......yes, I seem to recall that incident."

          "And do you remember that despite the fact I'm deathly allergic to dogs I allowed Rick to bring Marlowe with him only to spend the whole week with a horribly runny nose and watery scratchy eyes?"
          "Well,.....uh,.....yeah, I seem to remember you were pretty miserable."    
          "And do you remember how Marlowe chased my cat Pebbles all around the house and worked her into such a frenzy that she spent the next month hiding in my wicker clothes hamper?"

          "Mmmmm, yes, now that you mention it I do remember that being a problem."

          "And do you remember how you and Rick told me you'd repay me in any way you could any time I asked a favor of either one of you?"
          Suddenly there was nothing A.J. Simon hated worse than a woman on the phone early in the morning looking for he and his brother to repay a favor.             

          "Uh, yes.  Yes, I do recall Rick saying something to that effect."

          "No, mister, not just Rick.  You said it as well.  You both said it.  Which is why I'm calling.  I need a favor."

          The brightness A.J. managed to muster could have lit up the New York skyline.  "Sure, Stacy, no problem.  What do you need us to do?"

          "Substitute teach."

          "What?"

          "Substitute teach."

          Stacy Patterson, now Stacy Patterson Barrington, was the thirty-nine year old principal of a small private elementary school called Heritage Academy that housed grades kindergarten through sixth.  A.J. was vaguely aware of its reputation based on things Stacy had told him in the past and articles he occasionally read in the paper.  If he ever married and had children it would be a place he'd seriously consider looking into.  While tuition was fairly expensive the school prided itself on the small size of its classrooms, the individual attention the teachers were able to give the students, its outstanding academic program, and the standards of discipline set forth by the parents and staff. 

          For now A.J. wasn't too concerned about those issues.  "Stacy, I'm not a teacher!  And Rick certainly isn't either."

          "You don't have to be a teacher to substitute teach, A.J.  All the state of California requires is that you have a bachelor's degree.  It doesn't make any difference as to what that degree is in.  It could be in Foreign Cuisine for all it matters in terms of being able to sub."

          "That's fine in terms of myself then I suppose.  But Rick doesn't have a college degree at all."

          "I know that.  But if you don't tell anyone I won't.  Please, A.J., I'm desperate."

          "What do you mean you're desperate?  What's going on?"

          "Have you heard about the flu virus that's been going around the country?"
          "Yes.  There's been quite a lot on the news about it this past week."
          "More than a quarter of my teachers are out sick with it.  And yet amazingly enough, the kids seem to be fairly resilient to it as very few of them have been ill.  If we had a lot of absences amongst the children I'd close the school for a few days, but since they're all healthy and able to attend I hate to force us to deal with make-up days at the end of the year.  Please, please, please, you guys would be doing me a huge favor by showing up in my office at eight o'clock this morning.  And you do owe me one."

          "Yes, we do,"  A.J. reluctantly agreed.  "I'll get a hold of Rick and we'll be there at eight."

          "Thanks, A.J.  Thanks a million!  I love you guys!  See you at eight."

          The connection was broken before A.J. could voice the numerous doubts running through his mind.  He laid back against  his pillows and punched a number into the pad on the phone's push-button receiver.

          Rick's voice sounded just as sleepy as A.J.'s own had five minutes earlier.
          "Hey, Rick.  Up and at 'em!  Rise and shine!  I'll be over to pick you up at seven-thirty.  I just got a call about a job.  We've got to be there at eight."
          "A job?"  Rick questioned around what sounded like a mouth full of sock fuzz.  "What job?  I donno nothin' about no job we had scheduled for today."

          "You'd better brush up on your grammar there, big brother.  Double negatives in one sentence will never do for this job."

          "What the hell are you talkin' about?  What job?"

          "Just be ready at seven-thirty."

          Rick was doing nothing more than yelling into a dial tone as he shouted,  "A.J.!  A.J.!   A.J., what the heck is this all about?"          

          Despite Rick's insistent pestering A.J. wouldn't reveal any details about their spur-of-the-moment job nor where they were going.  When they pulled into the Heritage Academy parking lot at seven fifty-five Rick looked around with puzzlement etched on his hawkish features.

          "What are we doin' here?"
          "This is where our job is."

          "Job?"  Rick snorted.  "As what?  Teachers?"

          A.J. shot his brother a sly smile as they climbed out of the Camaro. 

          Rick paused in the act of following his sibling.  "A.J., no.  You're not serious."

          A.J. led the way to the building's main entrance.  Children's shouts and cries echoed from the school's nearby playground.   "I didn't even say anything."

          "You didn't have to.  What other kinda job could we possibly be takin' in a school?"  Rick's hand shot out to snare his brother by the upper arm.  "Come on.  What's going on here?"

          "You remember my old neighbor Stacy Patterson?"

          Rick's eyes lit up.  "Sure I do.  She was one hot chick.  Man, I tried my darndest to get a date with that woman."

          "Yes, you did.  And if they gave a grade for effort you'd have gotten an A plus.  Regardless, if you recall she's the principal here."

          "Oh yeah.  I guess she is."

          "Well, at the moment she's in need of substitute teachers."

          "Substitute tea,......!  A.J., we're not teachers!  I don't know the first thing about......."

          A.J. freed his arm, grabbed his brother by the shirt front and pulled him along.   "Neither do I.  But it looks like we're going to get our first lesson shortly."

          "But I can't,...."

          "Rick, think back about four years.  Stacy let us stay in her house for a week.  All the windows were shot out.  She was allergic to Marlowe.  He chased her cat all over practically giving the poor thing a nervous breakdown and,......"

          "And we told her we owed her a favor,"  Rick finished lamely.  "Great.  How come every time we owe someone a favor it turns out to be something like this?  I mean we're private investigators for cryin' out loud!  Why couldn't she just ask us to investigate something?"

          "Because this is what she asked us to do, therefore we're going to do it."  A.J. dropped his hand from Rick's shirt only to turn and give his brother a meaningful stare.  "And to the best of our abilities.  No fooling around on this one, Rick.  I don't want you to be the cause of any trouble for Stacy."

          "Me?  The cause of trouble?   What makes you say a thing like that?"

          "Because ever since you were five years old you haven't been able to enter a building of education without causing trouble of some kind."

          "You're right on that account, little brother,"  Rick smiled in fond memory.  "Did you know my kindergarten teacher took early retirement because of me?"

          "No, I didn't know that.  But for some reason the news doesn't come as a big surprise."

          A.J. straightened the collar of Rick's khaki work shirt in an attempt to make him look as presentable as possible before they entered the building.  "Oh, and by the way, Stacy's married now."

          Rick rolled his eyes as A.J. pulled open the double doors. 

          "Figures."

          The brothers entered a sparkling spacious foyer that smelled of floor polish and Lysol.  Hallways painted bright yellow branched off in three directions and were alive with children's artwork.   Stacy was waiting outside the school office that was located to the left of the entrance.   She stood five foot six in her low heeled cranberry pumps and was just as attractive as Rick remembered her being.  Her platinum hair was naturally curly, falling in tight ringlets to the middle of her back.   Her clear complexion was as light as her hair and she possessed the high prominent cheekbones and pale blue eyes of her Norwegian ancestors.  She was stylishly dressed in a long skirt and flowing tunic blazer that matched the color of her shoes.

          Stacy exchanged warm greetings with the two men then led them toward her office.  "I really appreciate you guys showing up this morning.  Especially on such short notice.  I hope it doesn't cause problems at your  business."

          "No,"  A.J. assured,  "it doesn't.  We're between cases right now and just in the act of cleaning up some paperwork.  School gets out at what?"

          "Three thirty." 

          "Three thirty,"  A.J. repeated.  "That will allow Rick and me plenty of time to stop at the office and put in a few hours work if necessary."

          "You gotta be kiddin' me?"  Rick moaned.  "You expect me to work here and then go to the office, too?"

          Stacy shook her head and chuckled.  "I can tell not a whole lot has changed since the last time I saw the two of you."  She indicated for the brothers to have a seat across from her desk as she shuffled through some papers.  "If it helps any you will of course, get paid for the time you put in here.  The going rate for subs is twelve dollars an hour."

          "Geez, if Id'a known you get paid that good for substitute teaching Id'a looked into it a long time ago."

          The principal glanced over at the lanky detective.  "Don't let yourself be fooled, Rick.  It's not an easy job.  You'll be thrust into a classroom full of little faces whose names you can't remember while at the same time trying to figure out where they are in their lessons and what their normal routine is."

          "Yeah, well, I kinda figured you wanted me to be the gym teacher so what's the big deal about havin' a buncha kids do a few jumpin' jacks and take a couple laps around the basketball court?"

          "More than you can imagine but that's beside the point.  The gym teacher is healthy."

          Rick couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.  "He is?"

          "She.  Miss Witt is a she.  And yes, she's one of the few healthy teachers I currently have on staff."  Stacy stood back and grinned like the Cheshire cat.  "No, Rick, I have something better in mind for you.  Much better."

          Rick's "What?"  was wary and small.

          "You're going to take over Mrs. Dunford's class."

          "Mrs. Dunford?"

          "Yes, Mrs. Dunford.  She's one of our first grade teachers."

          "First grade!  Oh, no.  No.  Now look here, Stacy, I don't know anything about first graders.  I mean they're just little kids."  Rick used a big hand to gesture low to the ground.  "Just tiny little kids.  I might hurt 'em or somethin'."

          "For heaven's sake, Rick, they're children, not china dolls.  You won't hurt them.  Besides, they'll love you."
          "Love me?"

          "Sure, Rick,"  A.J. grinned as he gleefully agreed with Stacy,   "they'll love you.  All little kids do."

          "I don't need any help from you,"  Rick growled at his brother.  "And speaking of you,...."  The detective looked to Stacy once more.  "If I'm teachin' first graders what exactly is A.J. teaching?"

          "Fifth and sixth grade health classes."

          "Health class?"  A.J. questioned.  "You mean like first aid or proper nutrition, things of that nature?"

          Stacy's answer was brief and vague.  "Yes, exactly.  Things of that nature."

          "Well,....I suppose I could do that." 

          Despite A.J.'s words of agreement doubt was clearly etched on both brother's faces.

          "Look, guys, I realize neither one of you are teachers.  But I also wouldn't have called upon you if I didn't have confidence you could do the jobs I've just outlined for you.  You guys are smart.  You're used to winging it.  Playing all kinds of roles.  Just think of this as another P.I. job.  Please?"

          Neither Rick nor A.J. had ever been able to refuse a damsel in distress.  Especially one to whom they owed so much. 

          "All right,"  A.J. reluctantly conceded,  "I'll do my best. 

          "Yeah, me too.  I'll give it a go."

          "Great,"  Stacy smiled.  "And really, I promise, it won't be difficult.  On the whole our kids here at Heritage are very well behaved.  I don't foresee them giving you too many problems."

          Stacy looked up to see more substitutes milling in the outer office amongst the secretaries.  "Listen, guys, I hate to rush you like this, but I've got some other people I have to talk to before classes start at eight-thirty.   I need to show you to your rooms.  You'll find the teacher's lesson plan book in the top desk drawer.  That should give you a good start in terms of what things the class is currently working on."

          Stacy ushered the hesitant men out the door.  With a quick glance over her shoulder told her secretary,  "I'll be right back."

          Rick and A.J. asked a few hurried questions as they scampered along behind the woman.  She quickly answered them while at the same time indicating where the rest rooms were located and in which direction the cafeteria could be found.   She left Rick outside his classroom and did no more than point the way down the hall for A.J. 

          "Hang a right at the end of this hallway, A.J., then a left at the next corridor.  You want room 203, it will be the third one on your right.  The fifth and sixth graders rotate classrooms like kids do in junior high and high school so you don't need to go get them, they'll come to you.  However, you do have a homeroom."

          "You mean a group of kids who will report to my class first thing for attendance?"

          "That's correct.  They will also be your first class of the day."  Stacy gave both men an encouraging smile.  "I need to get back to the office.  Good luck."

          "Wait, Stacy!"  Rick called.

          "Stacy!"  A.J. echoed.  "Stacy, wait!"

          The woman waved over her shoulder before turning a corner and disappearing from sight.  The detectives stared after her in dismay.

          Right before he stepped into his classroom Rick said,  "A.J.?"

          "Yes?"

          "The next time your phone rings early in the morning?"

          "Yes?"

          "Don't answer it."

          With a heavy sigh A.J. turned and headed for his own classroom.

          The girl's agitation was plain to read as she twisted a long strand of her thick walnut hued hair around one finger and brought it to her mouth.  The powerful gasoline fumes caused her head to ache and her stomach to roll.

          "Bobby,.....Bobby, please let me open the garage door."

          The wiry man's dirty blond hair stood up on his scalp in greasy spikes.  A three day growth of beard circled his mouth like fuzzy caterpillars and his eyes were puffy and rimmed red from lack of sleep.  He was bent over a work bench in the narrow garage carefully transferring gasoline from a bright red container to an empty plastic gallon milk jug.   

          "No, goddamn it!  How many times do I have to tell you no!"

          Bobby's fury caused the girl to take a step back.  She rubbed a hand over the small protrusion around her midsection.  "Please, Bobby, the baby."

          Even the mention of his unborn child couldn't bring serenity to the thirty-three year old man.  "Then git your ass in the house for all I care!  Git the hell outta here!  I'll do this myself if I have to!  Dammit, the last thing I need is you whinin' at me right now, Geneva!  You got that?"

          Geneva Masters reached out a tentative hand and lightly touched her husband's shoulder.  "Please, sweetheart.  Come inside and get some rest.  Just take a little nap.  You'll feel a lot better if,....."

          "Leave me alone!"   Bobby jerked out of his wife's reach.  His arm swung upward so fast Geneva didn't have time to duck.  The back of his hand crashed against her cheekbone causing her vision to momentarily blur.  At five foot seven inches tall and one hundred and thirty five pounds Bobby Masters was far from a large man.  But years of hard labor in factories had left him lean and strong.  His powerful blow sent Geneva reeling into his tool bench with a pain filled cry. The set of wrenches that fell to the concrete floor with a resounding clatter seemed of more concern to Bobby Masters than the fact he'd just struck his pregnant wife.

          He looked up from where he was crouched down gathering the tools and pointed a stern finger.  "Now don't you go cryin'.  I don't wanna hear it, Geneva.  I warned you!  You made me do that, dammit!  I warned you to leave me be but you didn't listen, did you?  The Lord sayeth, Wives obey your husbands.  Now git yourself in the house like I said and leave me the hell alone!"

          Geneva cupped her swelling cheek as she scampered out of her husband's sight.  She ran into the one bedroom bungalow they were renting through the door that connected the home to the garage.  When she reached the safety of the bathroom she slumped down on the lip of the tub and began to sob.  She massaged her belly as though trying to offer her five month old fetus solace from all that was going wrong in their world.

          "He...he....he told me things would be different,"  the girl confided to her child in a voice made uneven and shaky by her tears.  "He said he was....go.....go....going to take me a...a...away from the beatings my step......stepfather was always giving me and the.....the....the things he was always make....make.....making me do.  But no matter how hard I try to be....be.....be a good wife to him noth.....noth........nothing changes.  He's....he's.....he's just like Hank."

            When she'd cried until she had no tears left Geneva rose to wash her face over the white sink stained orange from rusty water.  She studied herself in the mirror seeing the ugly discoloration of her cheek.  She wondered how at nineteen she could look so old.  She'd been pretty once.  Or at least she remembered thinking she was until her mother married Hank when she was eight.  From then on she'd simply felt dirty.  Dirty and cheap just like Hank was always telling her she was whenever he made her come into his bedroom while her mother pretended to be ignorant of what was going on behind the closed door.

          Bobby had promised Geneva he'd make her feel pretty again and sometimes he did.  But lately the temper he'd always possessed had a frightening edge to it and seemed to have magnified itself into proportions even he couldn't control.  He went around the house mumbling strange things, too, verses from the Bible he claimed, while talking of something called the Apocalypse and Armageddon.

          Geneva ran a hand over her stomach one last time and felt the baby kick.  Despite the pain radiating from the right side of her face she smiled at the little life that meant so much to her.

          "It's okay, baby, your mama's here.  Mama loves you, baby.  Mama loves you."

          Rick laid his cowboy hat on a corner of the teacher's desk then stood outside his classroom awaiting the arrival of his little pupils.  At eight twenty-five a bell rang that echoed throughout the hallways and onto the playground.  In short order Rick could hear the children spilling into the building.  Like well-trained cattle the kids herded themselves in the direction of their classrooms.  If need be they broke off from various friends with a quick goodbye and a promise to see one another at lunch time.

          Rick hadn't gotten any farther into Mrs. Dunford's itinerary than to determine he had twenty six year olds in his charge.  He stood tall and straight against the open door leading to his classroom.  The first of the children slowed as they approached this strange man who looked so much different from the elderly teacher they were used to.  Mrs. Dunford barely tipped the scales at ninety pounds and in her orthopedic shoes stood no more than four foot ten.  At sixty-four years old she still possessed a rich peaches and cream complexion and was as soft spoken and proper as an English nanny.

          Three little girls grouped themselves in a tight triangle as though they had velcro sewn on their clothes.  Their eyes rose up with trepidation. They slid past the unsmiling Rick then raced for their desks as if being chased by the big bad wolf.  They cupped their hands around their mouths and whispered to one another. 

          "He's a man."

          "He's a giant."

          "His hair's not white like Mrs. Dunford's."

          "He doesn't have any hair and I think he looks mean."

          The other children arrived in two's and three's as well.  They all blended together in Rick's mind in a blur of confusing brown faces and yellow faces and white faces.    Eyes in all shades of blue, brown, green, and hazel had looked up at Rick with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

          Five minutes later the eight-thirty bell rang signaling the start of classes.  Rick nervously cleared his throat and glanced down the hall two more times with the hope Stacy would magically appear and tell him he could go home.  When that action was not forthcoming Rick had no choice but to enter the classroom and close the door.

          Rick crossed over to the teacher's desk and stood behind it.  He looked out over the classroom.  The children stared back at him in silence, their little hands folded on top of their desks like Mrs. Dunford had taught them to do while awaiting her instructions.     The tiny children seated before him in their minature desks made the six foot two inch Rick feel like a giant in Lilliput.

          The detective was finally forced to break the unnerving silence.  He cleared his throat one last time.  "Uh,......uh,.....good morning, class."

          As one, the children chorused,  "Good morning, Mr.,......"

          That was as far as they got before trailing off in confused chaos.  Some of the children stopped there for lack of knowing what else to say while some kept repeating the word mister as though trying to give Rick the hint that he needed to supply them with his name, while two others simply finished their greeting by calling him Mr. Dunford.

          Giggles erupted amongst the children at that guffaw and for the first time Rick smiled and relaxed a bit.  "No, no,"  he said,  "my name isn't Mr. Dunford.  My name is Rick."

          Before Rick could say anymore a little girl's hand shot up in the air. 

          It took Rick a moment to realize she was waiting for him to call on her.  He pointed a finger.  "Uh,....yes?"
          "Mrs. Dunford says it's not polite to call adults by their first names."

          "Oh,....uh,.....she does, does she?" 

          "Yes,"  the pigtailed blond nodded authoritatively,  "she does.  So you need to tell us your last name."

          Rick Simon wasn't much on formality and hardly thought he could stand having twenty six year olds referring to him as Mr. Simon for the remainder of the day.  But on the other hand he didn't want to get Stacy in any trouble like A.J. had suggested so reached a happy medium.  He walked over to the blackboard and picked up a piece of clean white chalk.

In large block letters he printed Mr. Rick.

          "There."  Rick turned around, swiping his hands together to free them of chalk dust.  "How about if you kids call me Mr. Rick while I'm here today?"

          Some of the children gave eager nods while others exchanged confused glances or dubious shrugs.  But since Rick heard not a word of protest he came to the conclusion all were in agreement.

          He leaned back against the desk and crossed his long legs in front of him only to see another hand fly up in the air.  He pointed to a redheaded boy in the third row.

          "Yes, son?"
          "Are you a real cowboy, Mr. Rick?"

          Rick chuckled.  "No, I'm not a cowboy."

          Another hand shot up.

          "Yeah?"

          "Then how come you wear cowboy boots and have a cowboy hat, Mr. Rick?"

          "'Cause I like 'em, that's how come."

          A black girl raised her hand next.

          "Yeah?"
          "How come you don't wear a tie, Mr. Rick?  I thought all man teachers wore ties."

          "I don't like ties, that's how come."

          Before anymore questions could be asked Rick took charge of the room.  "Okay, now you guys know my name so it seems only fair that I get to know yours."     

          The detective indicated to the first child in the first row.  "We'll start here and go around the room.  What's your name, sweetheart?"

          The ebony skinned little girl dipped her eyes and barely above a whisper answered, "LaKesha."

          "LaKesha,"  Rick repeated.  "Okay.  Next."

          The boy behind LaKesha said, "Stanford."

          "Stanford,"  Rick echoed.  Mentally he repeated, LaKesha and Stanford.

          "Okay, next."

          "Emily."

          LaKesha, Samuel,....no it wasn't Samuel, what was it?  Stanley?  Damn!  Oh, well, I just won't call on the kid.  LaKesha and Emily.

          "Next.  Just keep going kids, don't wait for me to ask you."

          "Autumn."

          "Zeke."

          LaKesha, Emily, Zeke,.......wait a second I'm missing one.  What did she say her name was?  Spring....Summer.....Fall?

          "Anisley."

          LaKesha, Emily,  Zack,....no Zeke I think, and,.......Amy?

          "Jedidiah."

          "Jeremiah.
          Great.  Just what I need.  Identical twins.

          "Chandler."

          "Jessica."

          LaKesha, Emily, Zeke or maybe Zack, the twins, Chance,.....Charles,......?  Jessica,.....

          "Nicholas."

          Soon the children got in a rhythm that Rick's brain had no hope of  keeping up with. 

          "Olivia."

          "Micah."

          "Patton."

          "Sharrae."

          "Grant."

          Rick's head was spinning and he waved his hands in defeat.  "Hold it, hold it.  Stop right there." 

          Geez, don't people give their kids normal names anymore?  

          Rick looked around the room until he spotted a grouping of brightly colored plastic trays stacked on top of one another and lined up on a shelf by the windows.  Each tray was filled with paper.  Some trays contained lined writing paper, while others contained construction paper, while others held paper of various colors, textures, and thicknesses.  Rick walked over until he found what he was looking for.

          The little pigtailed blond who first pointed out to Rick that it was disrespectful to call adults by their first names and whose name Rick thought was Emily raised her hand.

          "Yes,....uh......Emily?"

          "That's Mrs. Dunford's special paper.  She doesn't let us use it."

          Rick eyed Emily as he began laying a sheet of the thick white paper on each desk.  It had a glossy finish and was sturdy yet flexible like thin cardboard.  "You know, Emily, you keep this up and you'll make a great snitch for the CIA some day."

          Rick's words were lost on the little girl which he thought was just as well.  "Look, kids, I want you to take out your crayons.  You do have crayons don't you?"
          Twenty little heads nodded and a smattering of "Yes's," were given. 

          "Good.  So anyway, I want you to take out your crayons and write your names,...."

          A familiar hand was raised.   Rick sighed, "Yes, Emily?"

          "We don't know how to write."

          "You don't?"

          "No.  We only know how to print."

          "Okay, then print your names on the paper and decorate it any way you want.  Then we'll fold it over and set it on your desks like this."
          Rick demonstrated by folding the paper in half and setting it on the child's desk he was standing nearest to.  The sturdy paper held its shape and gave the appearance of a makeshift nameplate.

          Emily's hand wasn't even all the way in air this time.  "Yes, Emily?"

          "Micah eats his crayons."

          Rick looked around.  "Which one of you is Micah?"
          The children pointed to a cherubic boy in the second row who was all blue eyes and thick white hair.  Rick couldn't help but think of A.J. at the same age.

          "Don't eat your crayons, Micah,"  Rick instructed.

          As little heads bent diligently over their desks Rick turned toward the front of the room with the intention of parking his butt in Mrs. Dunford's comfortable looking chair and putting his feet up.  Maybe he'd even take a little snooze.  Now that he had the kids occupied they'd probably never notice.

          I ain't gonna say nothin' to Stacy about it, but heck, twelve bucks an hour seems like a lotta money to pay a sub.  All you gotta do is keep the little buggers busy and it's a piece a' cake.

          Rick hadn't even reached the front of the room before finding out his thoughts were laughingly naive.  In a matter of seconds the detective discovered that what seemed like a simple project to him was a major undertaking for six year olds.  They slowly and laboriously worked at printing their first names while constantly looking to him for guidance.  "Mr. Rick?  Mr. Rick?"

          The detective swiveled around until he found the source beckoning him.   

          "Yeah?"

          "Can I print some of my name in capital letters and some of it in small letters?"

          "Sure, I guess so."

          "Mr. Rick?"

          Rick didn't even have to turn around to know who was hailing him now.  "Emily, we've got to quit meeting like this."
          "Huh?"

          "Never mind."  Rick turned and faced the child.  "What did you need?"
          "Mrs. Dunford says capital letters are only for the first initial of our first names, middle names, and last names.  The rest should be in small letters."

          "Emily, do I look like Mrs. Dunford to you?"

          The girl gave her head a solemn shake back and forth.

          "That's right, I don't.  'Cause I'm not.  So as far as the letters go in your names, you guys do whatever your little hearts desire."

          "Mr. Rick?"  A another girl questioned.
          "Yes?"

          "Can we put our middle names on the paper, too?  Can I print Autumn Nicole on mine?"
          "Fine by me.  You can print George Washington on there if you want to, kiddo, just as long as you answer me when I call on you."

          Rick attempted to make it to the teacher's chair once again only to be called upon by a boy in the back of the room. 

          "Mr. Rick?  Mr. Rick?"

          "Yeah?"

          "Can I make every letter of my name a different color?"

          "Sure, kid.  You do what you want.  You can make it every color of the rainbow if the mood strikes ya'."

          "Really?   Neat!"

          "Mr. Rick?  Mr. Rick?"
          Rick did a three hundred and sixty degree turn.  "Yeah?"

          "Can I make my name different colors, too?"

          "Yeah, that's fine."  Rick looked out over the classroom.  "You can all make your names different colors if you want.  Whatever.  It makes no difference to me."
          "Mr. Rick?"

          Rick refrained from rolling his eyes.  "Yes, Emily?"
          "But will we get a better grade if we don't use a lot of different colors?  Don't you think our names will look better if we just use one color?"

          "Emily, don't get your knickers in a knot over this, okay?  It's just for fun.  Just so I can learn your names.  I'm not going to give you a grade."

          "You're not?"

          "No, I'm not."

          The little girl's pale brows drew together and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.  "Just what kind of a teacher are you if you're not going to give us a grade?"

          "The kind every kid dreams of, Emily.  The kind every kid dreams of."

          Emily eyed the detective a few seconds longer before reluctantly returning to her work.  Rick got the feeling that before the day was over she was going to march down to Stacy's office and report him as an imposter.

          The children finally seemed satisfied with their assignment allowing Rick to give an internal sigh of relief as he headed for the chair behind Mrs. Dunford's desk.

          "Mr. Rick!  Mr. Rick!"

          Oh, no.

          An elfin dark headed beauty who Rick thought might be Jessica, but then again she could be Olivia, pointed toward a classmate.

          "Micah's crying."

          Rick walked toward the blond boy who he had earlier instructed not to eat his crayons.  The child's head was bent down so low over his desk that Rick had to crouch on his hunches in order to see the boy's face.  He looked around and noticed the other children staring.

          "The rest of you get back to work,"  Rick ordered sternly.  "This doesn't concern you."

          The detective waited until the children did as ordered.  He then brought a gentle hand up and laid it on the boy's arm.  "Micah?"  He softly beckoned.  "Micah, what's wrong?  Why are you crying?"

          A  small hand reached up to swipe at a stray tear. 

          "Micah?  Come on, buddy, tell me what's the matter."

          The boy pushed out between the sobs he was trying to contain, "I,....I,.....I printed too big an....an.....an....now my name won......won't.....fit on the paper."

          Rick smiled and reached out to tousle the boy's thick hair.  "Is that all?  Well that's nothing to cry over, pal.  I'll just get you another piece and this time you can print a little smaller."

          "But,...but,....but it's Mrs. Dunford's spec.....spec.....special paper."

          "That's okay.  I'll buy Mrs. Dunford more paper when she gets back."

          Rick patted the boy's back as he rose and crossed over to the shelf where he retrieved another piece of sturdy paper.  He laid it on Micah's desk.  "There you go, buddy."

          The boy sniffled away his remaining tears and looked up with admiration.  "Would you help me this time, Mr. Rick, so I don't do it wrong again?"

          Rick dropped to his knees beside the small desk with a smile.  "Sure I will.  We'll do it together."

          It was close to thirty minutes later before all the children were finished creating their nameplates.  Rick quickly discovered he needed to have other assignments prepared for those who finished early otherwise they tended to get up and wander the room, talk, giggle, and engage in horseplay.

          I guess six year olds don't have a very long attention span.  Geez, who woulda' thought they have so much damn energy.

          Rick's first attempts at gathering up his class and getting the wanderers back to their desks failed.  He'd no more than get one seated when another one would be on the move.  He finally clapped his hands together three times and barked orders like a drill sergeant.   "Everyone back to their seats now or you guys can forget about recess today!" 

          The children pushed and shoved as they scampered to their desks in fear of Rick's wrath.  "Hurry!  Hurry!"   
            From there Rick had to demonstrate how to fold the paper so the names showed.  He soon found himself occupied with helping those children who didn't quite understand what he meant.

          Ole' Mrs. Dunford's gonna blow her cork when she finds out these kids spent all day making nameplates for me.  Oh well, it ain't like I'm gonna be here to deal with it.

          The detective glanced up at the clock when he was finally able to reach the teacher's desk.  He looked down at her lesson plan book to see he was already an hour behind schedule.  The children were to say the pledge of allegiance right after attendance was taken then the day began with math class.

          "Okay, kids, we're gonna get our day started.  Everyone stand and face the flag."

          The children rose with practiced ease and faced the four foot by four foot stars and stripes that hung from a thin pole in the upper front corner of the room.            

          "Mr. Rick!  Mr. Rick!"

          What now?

          "Yes, Emily?"
          "It's Jeremiah's turn to lead us in the pledge."

          "Thanks for the pointer, kid."  Rick's eyes scanned the multicolored papers perched on the front of the desks until he came to Jeremiah.  "Okay, Jeremiah, you start us off."
          The children put their hands over their hearts as Jeremiah's voice began.  "I pledge allegiance......,"

          Rick and his little class joined in as one.  Some of the boys copied Rick's movement when they saw that rather than place his hand over his heart the former Vietnam veteran chose to salute the flag as all military veterans have the right to do.

          As the pledge drew to a close Rick looked out over his classroom of twenty. 

          It's times like this I know what I was fightin' for, was Rick's brief thought before instructing the children to pull out their math workbooks.           

Upon the clanging of the bell signaling the start of the school day A.J.'s class filled with students just as Rick's had.  Though at twelve years old the blond detective's students were far less intimidated by the presence of a strange man. 

          A.J. well remembered his own school days and the pandemonium that often ensued as a result of a substitute teacher.  Therefore it didn't surprise him when a portion of his eighteen students refused to settle into their desks.  Loud talk and laughter dominated the classroom prompting A.J. to immediately close the door.  Wads of balled up paper flew back and forth across the room as four boys engaged in battle.  Three girls giggled together in a tight knot, their eyes never leaving the handsome detective. 

A paper airplane took off from the back of the room and landed neatly on the middle of A.J.'s desk much to the delight of the air traffic controllers who sent it on its way.  They clapped and cheered as though they'd just landed a 747 on a rooftop.

          A.J. folded his arms over his chest and watched as the adolescents frolicked liked hyperactive monkeys just released from the zoo.  Five minutes passed in which they chose to ignore his silent presence.  When he decided it was time to show them who was really in charge A.J. placed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand between his lips.  The whistle was shrill, piercing, and prolonged. 

          "All right, everyone, you've had your fun!  Now take your seats."

          The kids took in A.J.'s stern stance and did as they were told.  The detective made no reference to their misbehavior as he came to stand behind the teacher's desk. 

          "Good morning.  I'm Mr. Simon and I'm here today in place of Mrs. Tarsetti who's ill.  I'll take attendance then we'll spend a few minutes getting to know one another before we begin class."

          A.J. went down the attendance roll he'd already pulled out of Mrs. Tarsetti's desk drawer.  He received well-mannered 'here's' in response to his calling out the first five names on the list.  When he came to number six he said, "Tyler Graffton?"

          A gangly brunette with braces answered a little too politely, "I'm here, Mr. Simon!"

          "Jake Hanley?"

          A blond boy wearing wire rim glasses responded with a prompt,  "Here!"

          A.J. looked up at the two boys.  His words were pointed and stern.  "Unless you two have a good reason for assuming one another's identity vast experience will lead me to tell you such a move is not wise.  I'd also advise you to switch seats so that you, Jake,"  A.J. looked at the brunette, "are sitting in the correct place."  The detective next turned to the blond.  "And as well you, Tyler."

          The boys exchanged glances that clearly said, How'd he do that? while in the process of switching desks  A.J. smiled inwardly at their naivete.  Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen them snickering during the earlier mayhem while they'd traded seats.  He didn't have to be a private detective in order to know what they were up to.

          A.J. didn't comment when saw two other boys on the opposite side of the room discreetly changing seats as well. 

          Role call was finished without further incident.  A.J. stepped out from behind the desk to perch a casual hip on the left front corner.  With a nod of his head he indicated to the first child in the first row.  "Carrie, we'll begin with you.  Tell us something about yourself."

          "Like what?"  There was no doubt the mossy headed girl was in the throes of adolescence.  Her facial features were nondescript and braces filled her mouth giving her lips the puffy appearance of having gone five rounds in the boxing ring.  She was as skinny as the pictures you see of emancipated children in Ethiopia with no indication that womanhood was going to grace her doorstep anytime soon.  Even at a distance A.J. could faintly detect the antiseptic smell of Clearasil and he wondered how much attention, good or bad, Carrie received from her classmates.

          "Anything at all.  Perhaps something no one else knows, a hobby you enjoy or something about your family that you wouldn't mind sharing with the class."

          The girl hesitated a long moment.  A.J. flashed her a reassuring smile.  "It doesn't have to be anything profound, Carrie.  Just whatever comes to your mind.  Just so I can get to know each one of you better."

          "Weeeell, I like to draw pictures of horses.  And,....and someday I'd like to travel the country and make my living as an equine artist."

          "That's great, Carrie,"  A.J praised.  "Good for you.  I have no talent whatsoever when it comes to art so I envy you your ability.  Keep up the good work."

          The florescent lights gleamed off Carrie's braces as she threw A.J. a one-hundred watt smile of appreciation.   He smiled back before his eyes traveled to the boy behind her.  With just a little mental searching he came up with the kid's name.  "Matt, how about you?"

          The pattern continued until A.J. had learned at least one thing about all the children in his homeroom class.  Some didn't offer anything other than, "I like to play baseball,"  or  "I babysit for my little brother every day after school,"  but regardless of what was said A.J. made a positive comment and showed genuine interest.  Without realizing it he was already endearing himself to the kids.

          When the last child was finished it was A.J.'s turn.  "Now that I know something about each one of you I'll tell you something about myself.  My name is A.J. Simon and your principle, Mrs. Harrington, used to be my neighbor.  When we're not.....uh,......substitute teaching my brother and I run a private detective agency called Simon and Simon."

          A.J.'s class was impressed.  The girls found the notion of a private investigator for their teacher a romantic one while the boys found it exciting.

          "Wow!  A real detective!  Just like on TV!"

          "Mr. Simon, have you ever been shot at?"

          "Mr. Simon, have ever been in a car chase?"

          "Hey, Mr. Simon, have you....."

          A.J. held up his hands.  "That's enough for now.  We need to start our day.  I'll be happy to answer any questions you might have after class or during lunch break."

          The blond man picked up Mrs. Tarsetti's spiral bound lesson planner.  "All right.  To begin with I can see that last night you were to read chapter six in your health books which we're going to discuss today.  Now since Mrs. Tarsetti evidently has her book at home I'm without one.  Therefore I need to ask one of you to tell me what chapter six is all about."

          The kids looked from one to another.  Some let forth nervous giggles, some bowed their heads in embarrassment, while some willingly volunteered their friends.

          Jake half rose in his seat and indicated to Tyler by shaking a pointed finger at the top of his head.            "Mr. Simon, Tyler wants to tell you what chapter six is all about!"

          "I do not!"  Tyler turned around and swiped an arm at his friend in protest.   "Jake does!"

          "Oh no I don't.  Brett does."

          "Huh uh,"  came the denial from the back of the room,  "Jonathan does."

          Before the dark skinned Jonathan could pass the buck A.J. put a stop to the nonsense that he realized could take up the remainder of the thirty-five minutes left in the period.

          "Okay, okay, that's enough.  Now would someone please tell me what's so difficult about giving me an answer to my question?  Matt?"

          A.J. waited expectantly but Matt did no more than gnaw on his lower lip.

          "Jennifer?

          "Brian?"

          "Heather?"

          When A.J. still got no response he glared out over his students and played his trump card.  He picked up Mrs. Tarsetti's grade book and a pen.  "Evidently none of you has completed your assignment.  Therefore I'm going to have to give all of you F's, leave a note for Mrs. Tarsetti, and send notes home to your parents."

          A.J. surreptitiously watched through his eyelashes.  Like a series of falling dominos one child nudged the next in an effort to convince at least one classmate to speak up.  He had to hide his smile as he listened to their frantic whispers. 

          "You tell him!"

          "No, you tell him!"

          "Come on!  Go ahead, Matt, you tell him.  You're the one who gets straight A's.  You don't want him to give all of us F's."

          "I don't care if I get an F or not!  I'm not gonna tell him, have Lindsay do it.  She blabs everything else."

          "I do not blab!  And just for that remark, Matthew Meiers, I'm not going to tell him either.  Have Sarah do it."

          "I'm not going to do it!"

          A.J. let them wage their hushed furious battle until finally one hand was reluctantly raised at half-mast. 

          "Yes, Carrie?"

          "About,....about chapter six, Mr. Simon?"
          "Yes, Carrie."

          "We read it."

          "I see.  All of you?"
          Eighteen heads nodded up and down. 

          "Good.  Then perhaps you, Carrie, would like to fill me in on behalf of your classmates.  What is chapter six about that's causing such unrest amongst you?"

          "It's,...it's....it's......"

          "Yes?"

          "Well,...it's....."

          "Yes, Carrie?"
          "It's about safe......"

          "Safety in the home?"  A.J. guessed.

          Carrie shook her head no.

          "Safety at school?"
          Carrie's head moved in a negative direction once more.

          "Fire safety?"

          "No."

          A.J. gave the girl a reassuring smile.  "Come on, Carrie, you can tell me.  Safe what?"
          A.J. had to strain to hear Carrie's last word on the subject.  The girl's head was bowed, her cheeks aflame, and her voice barely above a whisper.

          "Sex."

          The blond detective sank back against the desk.  "Oh.  Safe,.......oh.  I see."     

          When A.J. looked out over his class he saw eighteen pink tinged faces that he knew matched his own.

          Thanks, Stacy.  Thanks a lot. 

          A.J. lips curved in the best smile he could manage considering the circumstances.  "So,....uh,.....safe,.......safe.......yes, that's a good subject for us to discuss today.  I'm glad each one of you read the chapter.  I,...uh......I.....I......"

          A vague idea suddenly formed itself in the back of the detective's mind.  He clapped his hands together with satisfaction.  "Okay, everyone, we're going on a little field trip."

          Several of the children echoed their bewilderment.  "Field trip?"

          "Yes, a field trip.  We're going down to the cafeteria so I expect you to be quiet and orderly in the hallways so we don't disturb the other classes."                    

          The kids shrugged with confusion but did as they were told.  They grouped together with their friends and walked behind A.J. as he led them to the cafeteria with an odd spring to his step.
 

          Geneva sat on the chenille bedspread allowing her eyes to briefly fall to its surface. The worn fabric had at one time been white but was now the dingy gray spoken of in laundry soap commercials, a victim of too many washings.   She'd gotten it at the second hand store where she purchased all their clothing and household items.  She was living far from the luxury her husband had promised her so many months before.

          A violent round of lovemaking had left her sore and fearful that Bobby had damaged the child growing inside her.  Now he paced back and forth in front of her, naked, with a closed Bible in his hand.  Like a perverse version of a TV preacher he thumped and pounded and jumped up and down for emphasis as he quoted what Geneva believed were  passages made up by no one other than himself.

          "And the Lord God has spoken to me saying, Bobby, you are to go forth and spread my message.  Disciples of Satan are poisoning the minds of our children and our children's children!  You must rise up and slay them even as they stand before the innocent.  Let no more evil words spew forth from their throats!"

          Geneva's mind wandered as the man rambled on.  When Bobby got like this he expected her to be an attentive audience until he was finished.  That could be minutes or it could be hours.   Sometimes he 'preached' until he lost his voice or until he collapsed in a heap of exhaustion.  Sometimes it seemed to work him into such a sexual frenzy that he forced her to make love again.   If she was lucky that wouldn't happen today.  She didn't think her body could accept anymore of his careless bruising thrusts.  She wrapped her bathrobe more firmly about her nakedness as though the thin cloth would somehow shield her from his desires.

          Bobby turned so his back was to his wife and made a round of the room preaching to an audience Geneva couldn't see.  Her eyes traveled the small interior.  She wanted to paint the walls before the baby came.  They were lime green and smudged with dirty finger prints and scuff marks from the previous tenants.  She thought bright yellow would be a nice color.  It reminded Geneva of the sun, warm and friendly.   She wanted to let the baby know it was welcome in its new world and repainting the walls seemed as good a place as any to start.

          She hoped by then she could convince Bobby to get rid of the guns.  Much to Geneva's displeasure the bedroom had taken on the look of an arsenal.  Hand guns littered the top of the dresser like discarded change and rifles were lined up like soldiers along two walls.  Bobby had even gotten hand grenades from somewhere.  For now they were safely cocooned in a drawer amongst his socks, but Geneva shuddered to think as to what might happen if a toddler accidently stumbled upon them someday. 

          She had tried to point that out to Bobby two weeks ago at a time when he appeared to be calm and rational.  In short order she discovered her mistake.  He struck her again and again and told her such concerns were not for women.  The bruises were still evident when she went to the free clinic three days later for her monthly doctor's appointment.  She could tell Dr. Qualyn didn't believe her when she said she'd slipped on the wet kitchen floor after mopping it, but there wasn't much else he could do as long as she stood by her story.  In the end he gave her arm a sympathetic pat and handed her a small business card with the name, address and phone number of a women's shelter on it. 

          "If you ever feel the need to,.....leave your situation, Mrs. Masters, the Horizon Center is open twenty-four hours a day.  They'll offer you a place to stay and give you whatever help they can."

          Geneva dropped her eyes as she accepted the card.  She stuffed it deep in a side pocket of her sweater then hid it underneath the tissue paper lining of shoe box in a far dark corner of the bedroom closet.  A year ago the idea of leaving Bobby would have been foreign to her.  But a lot had changed in twelve months time and now she caught herself wondering if she wouldn't be better off to get out before the baby was born.  Bobby no longer had a job, they were living on welfare and food stamps just the same as she'd be living if she were alone with a newborn child. 

          She thought back to the day two months earlier when her husband had called her from work and told her to come pick him up.  His shift didn't end until five but it was only a few minutes after two when the phone rang.  He sounded upset and furious.

          "Geneva, I need you to come get me right now."

          "What's wrong, Bobby?  Are you sick?"

          "No, I'm not sick!  Just git your ass down here and pick me up!"

          "Okay, I'll be,...."