CHAPTER EIGHT ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

Mr. Dolph Jackson’s Forensic Science Class w/ Josh O'Dell

 

 

I enter fifth period English, Creative Writing and Computers classroom with a few other students. We pause, waiting for instructions. The teacher, Ms. Fergus, is standing by her desk. She's very tan, about six feet tall, short brown, naturally curly hair and blue eyes. She's wearing brown sensible shoes, a camel colored pantsuit and a white top. She says, “Pick a seat. It's first come first serve in my world.

I like her instantly. I slide into a desk near the window, trying to keep my head from exploding. Sean is so toast. Why did he have his arm around another girl? There has to be a logical explanation, right? Like Josh, he’s a touchy feely guy. I keep reminding my self that Sean is new around here. He probably doesn’t know about the Public Display of Affection rule. You know what? Who cares? I’m over Sean! I unzip my backpack and take out a fresh notebook and a pencil. I have bigger fish to fry like passing an advanced science class.

Ms. Fergus sits on the corner of her desk and starts talking about her life and stuff she's accomplished. She's only twenty-something, already a published writer, and a retired Marine vet. She tells us about how her tank was struck with an IED and how she escaped with all but one of her limbs. Her right arm is a prosthetic limb, but you can't tell, it looks very real. She holds up her arm. “Yeah, this thingamajig is great. I mentally tell it what to do, and blamo, it does it. And please, call me Fergus. Not Ma'am or sir, or Ms. Fergus.”

Ten minuets into the class, Fergus is called to the office. Before leaving, she tells us to, “Sit quietly, and if for some reason I'm not back in time, your assignment is to write a short story about why the hell you took this class.” She shuts the door, and then opens it a crack, sticks her head and gives us the evil eye. “Leave before the bell rings and die!”

She's not gone five minuets, and a few of the (bolder) students get up and leave. They'll hangout in the bathroom; the only place there isn’t any cameras.

I outline my short story, and then pack up my stuff and pull out The Parrot. I find an article on the back page about the new science wing written by Jezi Indy.

Somewhat like our Founders, the new science wing was designed with the Botanical Gardens in D.C., and science in mind. I liked going there when I was little. The plants were exotic, nothing like what you'll find at a nursery around here. Anyway, our school won the Gates dough and they razed the old school, which was built in the 1920’s. And as the politicians, say, "crumbling". To speed up construction, the “New” Georgetown High School was built in two phases. The science wing is part of the second and final phase. I sports fields were upgraded as well. I haven’t checked them out yet, I'm not an athletic supporter.

Very funny. Ha-ha! Not a great writer IMHO, but she gets the point across.

Three years ago, they had a groundbreaking ceremony. There's a water color painting of our new school hanging in the library. Next to it are framed newspaper articles about the Bill Gates Foundation donating a bucket load of money to build Schools of the Future or something like that. I must’ve been bored enough to read them one day.

I consult my watch. Still no sign of the teacher. I hope she's okay. I really like her spunkiness.

I study the shrunken blueprint layout at the bottom of the page. I compare it to the map Mrs. Everett gave me. Looks like I'll save some time if I take this side door. I just hope it's not an emergency exit only.

The bell rings. I grab my stuff and I'm the first out the door. I beeline it for the side door I saw on the map. I push it open. No alarm. Phew!

Once outside, I blow out a breath and stroll by our awesome olympic size swimming pool shimmering in the bright sunlight. There's no cover over the sidewalk and it's really hot.

The pool and the gymnasium were part of the Phase 1 and finished three years ago, the same year I started my freshman year. I joined the swim team that year. Mom was always telling me practice hard and you might make it to the Olympics some day. Now, I don’t know if I have what it takes. She was the one who encouraged me to go out for swim team. She was a strong swimmer and said in Russia and her dream was to be an Olympic diver, but she never got the chance to pursue that dream due to unavoidable consequences. She never would tell me what those ‘unavoidable consequences’ were.

Whenever I’d ask about her past she’d brush it off by saying, “Oh, I don’t know. Life has a tendency to get in the way of a lot of things.” Her answer to everything.

She wasn’t there the day I tried out and made the cut. It was my first really big accomplishment. Over the past three years, I’ve come in first place in the state competitions and other meets. Mom missed them all. Pop never misses anything I do. It makes me sad that she never saw me compete. Now she’ll never see me do anything.

I lean on the fence and stare across the grounds at the new stadium and athletic fields. From here, the people running around the track look like they're only a foot tall. I walk and watch the flow of traffic around the perimeter, wishing I were driving my Mustang instead of being stuck here at school.

A taxi stops at the corner and a dark figure gets out. It looks like the man at the Checkmart. He stands on the corner staring my way, and then walks toward the corner. Oh. My. God. Is he stalking me? I stop, shade my eyes and strain to see what he's up to. When the light changes, he crosses the street and gets in the same rental. I think. Right…get real. It's not him.

Yeah, the heat must be making me imagine things. I push off the fence and my head throbs. I touch the scar and grimace. What's going on with my head?

I hear the second bell, which means I have five minuets to get to class.

Better get going don't want to be late for your advanced science class.

I consult the map in my damp fingers and suck in breathes of warm air, letting them out slowly. I can’t shake the eerie feeling that something bad is about to happen. Maybe, Madam Suzie can tell me what it is. The little voice in my head says, you don't believe that crap do you?

Yes, some of it.

Get real, fifteen bucks wasted on a kooky lady that thinks she's a medium!

It's a fun inexpensive girl's night out.

I turn the corner and see two police cars parked over by the gym. Ms. Fergus is talking to the officers. Geez, what now? Oh well, nothing I can do.

I push through a pair of glass doors and walk down a brand new hall that (according to the map) should take me to the southwest corner of the campus. The air is cold and smells like new construction. Odd, there’s not a soul in sight. Good, I like being alone, especially when I’m freaking out. I shiver and glance down at the map; looks like I'm going the right way. Halfway down the long hallway, I start feeling majorly anxious about being shifted to a harder science class with a bunch of brainiacks. What was I thinking? I’m going to look like a complete idiot!

I really don’t feel well. Did I catch the flu? I touch my forehead. It’s clammy and damp. Maybe I should go see the school nurse. I stand completely still check my watch and chew on my lip, debating what to do next. Wait. I check the date on my watch,. Duh, Aunt Flo is due any day. That's why my stomach hurts. I pause and grit my teeth as a cramp runs through my lower abdomen like clock-work, every 27 days. Wonderful. Thank God, she doesn't affect my swimming.

Up ahead, faint off-key notes of a trumpet come from the band rooms located next to the Performance Center. As I walk by, the trumpet player stops and I glace up, suddenly aware of the whoosh sounds coming from the AC vents mixed with a mechanical whirring noise. I observe the row of security cameras mounted in the ceiling, rotating like bionic eyeballs, silently recording students' and teachers’ every move––big brother at your service. Werthoust, the old dude in the rental, and the white van, all flash through my mind like snapshots in time.

Jeez-Louise! Stop freaking out about every little thing.

The yucky feeling slowly passes and I get a second wind. Okay, according to this stupid map the new science wing doors are supposed to be here. I pivot on my feet and see yet another brand new area I’ve never seen before. I forge ahead, push through another set of glass doors, and stop in my tracks.

“Hello, Alice in Wonderland!”

I’m standing in a Botanical Garden and its freaking beautiful! I take a few steps and twirl around slowly, taking it all in. Jezi was right, this looks like a miniature version of the one in D.C. with a domed ceiling made of huge panes of glass and held together by steel beams. Above it, is the vast blue sky. Wispy trees, plants and flowers have a name tags.

I wind my way around a wide round paved flooring reading the well known quotes written in blue, white, and gray ceramic tiles. “Those who know, do. Those that understand, teach.” Aristotle

I look up and see Aristotle, Einstein, Newton, Curie, and Edison on five Greek pedestals placed around the parameter with life size busts carved in white marble.
“Wow, this is so cool!” I run my hand over Albert’s hard cold head. If I remember correctly, this is where the old modular classrooms used to be parked. Now they take up half of the parking lot. This explains why parking is limited to official vehicles, school staff, teachers, and seniors (moi), who have parking permits. Everyone else has to park down by the athletic fields and hoof it back.
Bending over, I sniff the blue and white pansies in huge ornate pots sitting between cement benches. The colors represent GHS's school colors. There’s even a bubbling fountain in the center. I take a few deep breaths, enjoying the sweet clean air and dig the quarter out of my pocket. I turn my back to the fountain, and after making a wish, tossing it over my shoulder. I hear it plunk into the water, and turn around to watch it sink to the bottom. I didn’t ask for much, just good health and enough smarts to pass this class.

“Ahhh, if only life were that simple.”

Startled, I look around to see who said that.

“Mom?”

No one is there, just the artificial sound of controlled temperature equipment. Goosebumps. Your grief counselor said it’s normal to hear voices in your head just as long as they're not telling you to do something bad. Still, it's unnerving. Pop's voice rings in my ears, “Quit dillydallying and get going Lassie.”

Smiling a little, I push through the next pair of heavy glass doors and stand in awe, yet again. Inside, the domed glass ceiling and blue tiled floor extend the length of the hallway where all of the science classrooms are located. Several students are still coming and going so I can't be too late. Odd, it’s not loud and rowdy like the other halls between classes. I can't recall hearing the final bell. I sort of lost track of time in the garden––like a time warp.

Double rows of book lockers, made of high gloss pine and framed with strips of ebony wood, line the sides of the hall between each classroom door. They are fancier than the others. I touch a locker door and look up at a giant chemistry beaker and a giant replica of DNA suspended overhead with invisible filament. At the opposite end of the wide corridor is a giant rotating replica of the solar system. On the floor just inside the door and written in blue tile is Albert Einstein's quote, “All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.”

This is incredible!

I pause to read what’s typed on a sheet of paper taped to door 500: Sixth period report to the Performance Center to hear Professor Bradley speak about science and the Genesis account of creation.

Oh-kay. Georgetown High Schools has faith-based classes if you elect to take them. I attended a Catholic school K-9th grade so I'm all set with my beliefs in God and creation. He's my one and only savior. End of discussion.

I move on and look up, smiling discreetly at the security camera lens, and then sneak a quick peek through the rectangular window in at classroom 501. I’m surprised to see all the students sitting down in their seats like good children. There’s a different, more civilized feeling here. I’m not so sure I can blend in with these people.

Who said, I have nothing to lose except my dignity?

Ha-ha!

A short stocky boy with glasses and fair skin notices me and comes over carrying a clipboard. His dark blond hair is short and thick. His camouflage pants and black shirt are loose fitting but in style. I see the plastic badge clipped to his collar. I’m guessing he’s a hall monitor and I’m busted.

“May I help you find your classroom?” he asks politely. He has braces and speaks with a slight lisp, but he has a nice voice.

“Sure,” I say, digging my schedule out of my back pocket and hand it to him. “See. I'm legal.” I point at the paper. “I figure the longer I screw off out here the less time I have to spend in class.”

He looks at my schedule, and then gives me a sly look.

I smile. “Just kidding.” I hold up my hand. “I swear. I’m in, Mr. Jackson’s class.” Geez, this must be what it was like to live in Russia.

He gives my schedule back. “I can read, Cookie Blakely.” He grins and I see the tiny rubber bands hooked to his uppers and lowers.

He points and I pivot to see where.

“Mr. J is in five-o-seven and five-o-eight, down there on the right. He pauses and stares at me. “Hey, you’re her, I mean the girl in the news. Um, so sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks, but it was almost a year ago,” I say, and give him a little wave. “Later.”

I get a little glib when I’m super nervous; for the same reason people laugh at considered socially inappropriate moments, like funerals.

I stop outside the door marked 507 and blow out a breath. “Here goes nothin',” I mutter and reach for the door knob. The door swings opens on its own. Startled, I step out of the way.

Jilly Flynn––the second smartest, richest, nicest, and prettiest girls in the entire school––comes out and shuts the door soundly. She’s five foot nine and toothpick thin. Her long sleeve, brilliantly white, cotton top covers the tops of her hands and is tucked and into her Dolce and Gabbana, skinny jeans, that are belted low on her slim hips. The word 'PEACE' is spelled out on her chest in Swarovski rhinestones, and matches the diamond studs in her ears.

I used to aspire to be just like Jilly. Yeah, how's that working out for you?

Jilly smiles politely. “Hi Cookie,” she says, sliding a stylish chocolate brown leather backpack over one shoulder. Then she actually girl hugs me.

I smile sweetly and step back. “You too, Jilly. Love your outfit!” I lower my eyes and see the tops of her designer leopard ballerina slip-ons. I point down. “Those I like a lot.”

She whispers, “Thanks. Got them cheap at Macy's back to school sale.”

I reach for the doorknob and Jilly looks at the door and then back at me. Her blue eyes widen. “Hey, are you in Mr. Jackson's class?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes! You are so going to adore Mr. J, he is so totally awesome!”

Smiling, I nod my head, suddenly happy to be here.

“Well I need to do an urgent errand for Mr. J so I better get!” She waves a single sheet of paper.

“Yeah, okay. Bye for now!”

I watch Jilly sprint down the hall, long blonde ponytail swinging side to side in the middle of her back, apparently in a big-ass hurry. When the hall T’s off, she whips to the right and disappears.

Ha! Wait until Char finds out I’m in this class with Jilly Flynn. She’ll tell her cheerleader friends and it will be all over the school by the end of the week. Cookie Blakely is back and she's bad to the bone! Maybe this is a good thing.

I open the door, step inside the massive multi-leveled classroom, and close the door behind me. The air smells like lacquer and something else that’s (ewe) very stinky. I rub my nose and look for Mr. Jackson, the teacher everyone seems to adore. There are about twenty or so students mulling around and talking in low voices. I recognize a few familiar faces, but no one I would call a close friend.

Huh. No sign of an adult or a teacher. Unsure where to sit, I remain next to the wall and pretend to check out the cabinets and fixtures made of the same glossy pine as the book lockers in the hall. The lab tables have shiny black surfaces and drawers and bar stools like biology class. The equipment looks very high-techish.

An accordion wall splits open and a deep voice says, “Yo, Mr. Beal, could you please give me a hand with the partitions?” I detect a slight French-Cajun accent. Okay, that has to be Mr. Jackson. Mrs. Elliot said he was from New Orleans.

“Sure thing Mr. J. I'm on it!”

Oh, crap! That nerd Jimmy Beal is in here. Gross!

Horrified, I watch Jimmy Beal lop over and help a nice looking, very tall black man with a shaved head, wearing tan twill trousers and a brown belt, push open the accordion wall that divides the two classrooms, 507 and 508. From where I’m standing, he looks to be thirty-something––around Pop’s age, maybe younger.

He says something else to Beal, motioning over his shoulder. Then he picks up chalk and writes across the top of the blackboard in neat fast strokes.

Beal turns around and I leap behind a tall cabinet. I wait a few seconds, and then peek around the edge. Beal is sitting on the front row with his back to me. I step out from behind the cabinet and read the blackboard. I can't hide forever.

Welcome to Crime Sciences and Forensics class. My name is Mr. Dolph Jackson. Your name is taped to the top of a lab drawer. Please, locate your assigned seat quickly and sit quietly.

Oh crud, assigned seating. This can’t be good.

Mr. Jackson makes a face and waves his hand in front of his nose. “Sorry about the smell. There was a minor mishap with a bottle of chloroform. It should fade fairly quickly.”

I squat down and check the table on my left. On the face of the drawers are black strips of plastic tape with names punched in white letters. Patterson, Susan. Walker, Edwin. Yeager, John. I meander down the center aisle reading off the names. I’m having trouble breathing. Next row: Mason, Robbie... Dear God, please don’t make me have to sit in alphabetical order in this class. Why can't random seating always be available. What happen to freedom of choice...? Someone taps me on the shoulder and I twirl around and yelp. “Sorry,” I mummer and feel my face heat up. I take a step backwards and down one level to move out the way.

Josh O'Dell is standing right behind me looking surprised. He smiles wide and his eyes sparkle. “Hey, you.”

I can’t help but smile. “Oh hey, Josh.”

A few more students show up and move down the center of the classroom looking for their places. Josh and I skirt to the left at the same time in a little dance.

I stand there while Josh checks for his name. I'm in no hurry to find out the inevitable. He puts his satchel on the floor and perches on a stool, looking me right in the eyes. My heart races. Josh O'Dell has the most beautiful brown eyes. Even as a little kid, he was intense. He always looks you right in the eye when he's talking to you. It used to make me feel uncomfortable, this time I like it.

He asks, “So, you’re in this class?”

I nod. “Yeah, I know,” I say laughingly. “Can you believe it, moi in an advanced class, go figure?”

My casual act is a joke. I feel like I'm going to scream. Who am I kidding? I'll never pass this course.

Josh frowns, and as if can read my mind, says, “Cookie, stop putting your self down! You've always been smart.” He glances around the room. “So where are you sitting?”

I blink and look down front. “Um, don’t know yet. I just walked through the door a second ago.”

A dozen or more students come through the doors and gather around Mr. Jackson waving pinks slips and copies of their schedules, and asking for instructions.

“This class started out small,” Josh says under his breath.

“Not any more,” I murmur, and take a step down, moving toward the front of the classroom. The seats are filling up quickly.

Josh motions me closer.

Curious, I lean over the table. “What?”

He lowers his voice, “I guess you read in The Patriot about all the people who had to be uprooted from their homes because of Katrina.”

I look at him. “Yeah, well, as fate would have it that's why they switched me to this class.” I briefly explain about my talk with Mrs. Everett and hoping against hope that my name miraculously shows up on the drawer next to Josh’s…yeah right. “So, I need to pick a university. I thought it was too good to be true or that they made a mistake. Guess not.” I proudly show him my schedule. Funny how my tude has completely changed now that I know Josh and Jilly are in this class.

“That’s great.” Josh says, nodding his head and looking at my classes.

I take my paper. “Well, I better find my seat. Looks like I’m in the hated front row next to Jimmy Beal.”

Josh reaches over, touches my hand and electrical sparks shoot up my arm like when he touched me at the Safeway. I jump, but not so much that he notices.

“Hey.”

“What?” I move even closer to him. He has a small freckle on his left cheek. I breathe in and smell the fabric softener on his shirt mixed with citrus aftershave.

Josh whispers, “I never got the chance to tell you how much fun I had at your party. I wanted to call, but time got away from me.” He laughs softly. “I’ll never forget the look on your face when everyone yelled surprise!”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well I owe you one so don’t turn your back O’Dell!” I smile and wave my finger at him teasingly. Then I mentally smack my forehead. I haven’t thanked him for his gift. “Speaking of thank yous, thank you for the CD. How’d you know that the Goo-Goo Dolls are my favorite group?”

“I didn’t, they’re my favorite as well.”

Mr. Jackson claps his hands and shouts, “Okay, everybody please find your seats. We have a lot to cover in a very short time.”

I turn my head and see that Mr. Jackson is sitting on top of the large lab cabinet down front, adjacent to Beal. The two of them are talking. Mr. J's long legs are crossed at the ankles exposing the tops of navy blue socks and brown leather loafers.

I whisper to Josh, “See ya later.”

I turn to go and Josh says, “Yeah, let’s get together.”

I stop short and smile over my shoulder at him. I shrug. “Um, okay. When?”

“Soon.”

I smile. Heard that before. Still, get together and do what? Is Josh O’Dell interested in me? Wait a minute...Josh knows I’m dating Sean Palmer. Hum, what’s this all about? I kneel and check the names on the last two drawers willing my name to show up: Robbie Mason and Karri Otis. Uh! Drat!

I feel Jimmy Beal’s eyes burning a hole in me as I approach the front row with impending doom. I pause on the step next to the lab table and take off my backpack. Mr. Jackson is still sitting on the lab cabinet a few feet away. His hands are resting on his thighs, and a wide gold band is on his wedding finger. I smile a little and he smiles back at me and nods his head politely. He has nice white teeth and smooth dark brown skin. I want to whine to him about my sitting assignment, but how immature is that?

“You’re right here Cookie Blakely,” Beal informs me, patting the seat of the stool next to the window.

I look over. At least I'm next to the window.

Humph!

Marc Davison strolls over looking surprised to see me. “Oh, hey Cookie. I thought that was you.” He moves around me and sits down on the first stool at my table. “I saw you, in the garden by the fountain.”

I stare at him, thinking funny, I didn’t see anybody in the garden.

He says, “I thought you were lost...the way you were just wandering around out there.” He unzips his backpack and starts taking out a notebook and pen.

“Nope. Just checking out the place. Um Marc,” I mutter glumly, and motion with my hand. “I need to get by you.”

Marc scoots his stool in, letting me squeeze by. He's on the boy’s swim team, and a close friend of Sean’s. They’re actually cousins. It’ll be weird sitting so close to him if (I mean after) I break up with Sean. Great.

“Hey, Cookie B!” Jimmy says loudly, “I can’t believe we have a class together!”

I pretend not to hear him and avert my eyes to the ceiling, sucking in my gut, as I slide by Marc and then Beal. I plop my, purse, backpack, and schedule on the tabletop.

Mr. Jackson hollers from his perch, “Okay, hurry up, we're burning daylight people.” He consults his watch and then rubs his palms together eagerly. “We seriously need to get this show on the road!”

I scowl and quickly unzip my backpack, taking out a notebook and pencil. Then before sitting down, I set my stool on top of the AC floor vents, in a tight space between the lab table and the wall of windows—as far away from Beal as possible. I sit down and straddle the table leg. I position my purse and backpack in between Beal and me, and drop my chin so my hair falls forward,1`2q` covering my face.

Beal pokes my shoulder with his bony finger, and I jump. He slides a piece of printed paper over my backpack and it lands on top of my notebook. I look down at it, and then glance over the top of my stuff at Beal. “What's this?”

Beal cocks his head towards me and whispers in a rasping voice that makes my skin crawl.

“It's a copy of Mr. Jackson's assignments. As soon as I got here, I grabbed an extra copy just encase Mr. J ran out...you know...because of all the Katrina Kids.””

I drop my gaze and mumble, “Katrina Kids?”

Beal whispers, “You’re welcome.”

I mutter, “Thanks.”

“Psssst, Blakely,” Beal hisses again and I reluctantly look over. He points at The Parrot newspaper poking out of my backpack. “I’m senior staff photographer, again. Fourth year in a row, pretty neat huh?”

I shoot him a tight smile. Beal is a photography freak—it’s all he ever talks about and he smells as if he bathes in developing chemicals.

He snorts a laugh and I see something green on his front tooth.

Ewe.

I zone out and look over the assignment paper Beal just gave me. Mr. Dolph Jackson is typed across the top. I underline Dolph. Adolf, now I remember why Mr. Jackson’s first name sounds so familiar. It reminded me of the Alpine Chalet Resort’s housekeeping manager. His name is Adolf Gandler. Not that movie star. Pop chased Mr. Gandler around the lobby. He wanted to throttle him because he forgot to report the black car he saw speeding away from the Alpine Resort the morning Mom disappeared. I can’t remember if their confrontation happened before or after we found out Mom was dead. The sequences are out of order and sort of a blur. Why can’t I remember now? Think, think. Scenes flash in my mind like scattered puzzle pieces. It’s too overwhelming. My dreams are so weird too. In them Mom is still alive as if nothing happened. I wish I knew what they mean. Dr. Hillman thinks my dreams are normal for someone who loses their Mom. Sometimes I think it would be better to just forget the bad parts of my past, and just start anew. You know, pretend Mom’s out there somewhere. But I can’t...

Don’t think about this now...pay attention to Mr. Jackson.

I sit up straight and realize everybody is laughing. I glance around the room. What? What’d I miss? I prick my ears and tune into the discussion.

Jimmy Beal is up front moon-walking his way across the floor.

Mr. Jackson shakes his head. “Very good Mr. Beal, now have a seat. Good afternoon class, my name is Mr. Jackson, some call me Mr. J. I've been called worse. But that's another story. Any who, if we haven’t met, I am your CSF––Crime Sciences and Forensics teacher.” Beal sits down and Mr. J hops down from the desk and rubs his hands together, and consults his watch again.

“Welcome to the new Science Wing. Real nice building don’t you think?” He talks as he paces the floor, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolls up the sleeves in neat folds. He has an irregularity in his stride, almost unnoticeable, but it’s there. I wonder if he has Polio or Parkinson's Disease like Michael J Fox. When nobody says anything, he cups his hands to his mouth and shouts, “Ya'll awake out there? How about a shout out for Mr. Bill Gates?”

A few people clap their hands slowly, others make grunting noises.

“Man, you're a tough crowd compared to my Basic Science students. They're party animals.” He puts his hand on his hips. “Well maybe you'll like this one. Because of all the schedule changes, we’re not only getting a late start today, I also have to leave a little early for a staff meeting so sixth period will be cut short by about a half hour.”

A joyous “whoop” fills the air.

James yells, “Yeee-haw!”

Mr. Jackson laughs and waits for everyone to quiet down, before he continues.

“Oh-kay! That got your attention!” He holds up a flat hand and shouts, “Now listen up! If you didn’t get a hard copy of the assignments for this class, here they are.” He twists and points at the long list on the board. “Sorry, I ran out. But FYI, I hope to have more copies if Jilly gets back with them before the end of class. If you like, take the next few minuets to copy them off the board or simply glance over the list if you want to wait for a hard copy. Just keep in mind that I can't guarantee the office will let her make copies. The machine might be tied up. At any rate. Your choice.”

The room grows quiet and some of the people take out paper and copy the info off the chalkboard.

Mr. Jackson sits on the cabinet top down front, again, and keeps talking. “Well, eventually things will settle down. And over the next few days, I gonna do my best to find out who you all are, and moreover what you’re capable of learning from me. Or if you even care about what I have to say. But, since today is pretty much shot, I’m gonna let you know a little bit about me.” He touches his chest. “That way you’ll know the truth when the nasty rumors start floating around campus.” He pauses and flashes a white smile.

Almost everybody laughs at his last sentence.

Then Mr. Jackson drops his head and the classroom grows quiet. When he looks up again, the smile is gone and his tone is poignant. “Three years ago, while working a murder case, Detective Jackson was shot up pretty bad.”

He hops off the table and paces back and forth a couple of times. Everybody watches him like spectators at a tennis match. Beal snickers and I want to reach over and backhand him. Mr. Jackson stop in front of our table and looks at Beal.

Beal snickers again and I roll my eyes as if to say what a nut job!

Mr. J. just stares at Beal.

Beal drops his head on the tabletop with a thump and then drapes his gangly arms over his head.

Mr. J moves back to the center of the room and continues, “Some of you may find it amusing that I refer to myself in the third person. Well, there’s a reason for that. I refer to myself in the third person…because to me…” He pauses and bites his knuckle, and then pounds a fist on his chest. “To me, Detective Jackson existed in another life time.... And in many ways Detective Jackson is dead.” He lowers his eyes and holds up a finger. “Let me illuminate.”

You could hear a pin drop.

I sit up straighter. I have never heard anyone talk with such passion.

Beal is snoring softly.

I glance over and see a puddle of drool under his chin. God help me.

Mr. J continues, “I was shot five times, once in my hard head, but mostly in my lower torso and hips. My doctor said I should've died.” A smile plays at his mouth. “My wife said I was too stubborn to die! Over the next five years, I underwent several surgeries followed by months of intense physical therapy. I literally had to learn to walk and talk again. And even though I was officially "back on my feet", I was forced to take a desk job because of my limited abilities as an officer of the law.” He stops in the space between the row of tables, lifts his right pants leg above his sock, and shows us a bionic leg.

Wow, I meet two people in one day with artificial limbs. What are the odds?

Somebody behind me whispers, “Whoa, he has a fake leg!” Others murmur heartfelt comments like a church congregation talking to the minister.

Mr. J straightens his slacks by wiggling his legs and tugs on the waistband.

“Dude, hope they caught the guy who shot you!”

“I got him,” Mr. J says with assuredness. He glances around the room with a serious expression plastered on his face. “Don’t think for one second that I’m handicapped. This baby pops off easily and comes in handy as a weapon.”

Everybody laughs at this and Beal snorts in his sleep. He's so peculiar and unbelievable...how anybody can sleep through this class. Jimmy Beal may be considered a whiz kid by some, but I think he’s beyond socially challenged.

I prop an elbow on the table, resting my chin in my hand and focus on Mr. Jackson. I see why everyone likes him, he is awesome and hella funny!

Mr. J says, “Anyway, right before I was shot, my wife gave birth to our beautiful daughter. During that difficult time, she was forced to go back working long hours to keep us afloat. Even though I was still healing, I became a “Mr. Mom” in every way. After a couple of years of changing dirty diapers and having dish-pan hands, I decided to go for my teaching certificate. Because of time constraint, I will get to my point of this little show and tell. I'm telling you all this because I’ve heard the new students being referred to as “Katrina Kids”.” Mr. Jackson lifts his hands and puts finger quotations around Katrina Kids.

A boy I don’t recognize jabs his fist in the air and says, “Preach it man.” He mumbles s few choice words under his breath and a few of the other new students rumble and put in their two cents.

Mr. Jackson shouts, “Chill ya’ll! We're on your side!”

The room falls silent.

Mr. J pauses as if he’s collecting his thoughts. Then his eyes sweep the room and lock with mine for more than a few second then move on. It’s as if he’s tried to communicate something to me with a look. Or maybe I just imagined it. What did I do? I look down at what I scribbled in my notebook. I’m surprised to see that I’d written Josh’s name several ways. I quickly close my notebook. Weird, what was Mr. J trying to convey with that look? When I look up, Mr. J is on the other side of the classroom standing over with the boy who got everyone riled up. His voice is barely audible and I find myself straining to hear him. “Son, I'm sorry, but I won't tolerate outburst.”

Another boy, who looks whiter than black, stands up and says, “Sorry, but the day Katrina came through was the worst day of my damn life…” His voice trails off and he tilts his head back and blows out a long breath. “My Grandmother died in the storm because she refused to leave her stupid cat.” The boy sits down on his stool and Mr. J pats him on the back.

I hear Beal mumble and curl my eyes at him.

He twitches a couple of times. then he wakes up with a jerk and his pencil rolls off the table. He makes a lot of noise scooting his stool back. He crawls under the desk to retrieve it and I lean into the window and cram both legs against the window ledge, my left shin feels like it’s in a vice. Jimmy climbs back on his stool and rubs his eyes with his fists. The left side of his face is beet red. There is something seriously wrong with him.

“Whoa, did I fall asleep?” Beal looks around. “What’s going on?”

I put my finger to my lips, “Shhh!”

Mr. J. is saying, “...the plan was for my wife Whitney to pack a bag and evacuate with my half-sister Karren and our baby Kiera. I was called in to help with evacuation. As part of the police force, I had to stay and work round the clock. About six p.m., Karren calls me on her cell phone and tells me Whitney refused to leave town. Thinking they’d be safe, Whitney decided to pick up our daughter and take her to the hospital where she worked as a nurse. Karren said she did everything she could to convince Whitney to leave, but she had to go. She still had to pick up our aunt and an elderly neighbor couple and drive them to Houston, Texas.” Mr. J shakes his head and smiles sadly. “I don’t blame Karren. My wife was like me. She had a stubborn streak a mile wide.” He rubs his chin. “I hung up and immediately called the hospital. They told me Whitney never showed up for work. Then all of the telephone lines went dead.”

His story gives me goose bumps. I recall how closely the media covered Katina the week before it hit land. After the hurricane plowed through the gulf coast, the coverage was on the news for weeks. Who didn't see people on their roof waiting to be rescued by the helicopters. Aerial shots of the evacuation traffic looked mind-boggling, but thousands refused to leave because of a family pet or they simply didn’t believe how powerful the storm really was.

“Over the next twenty-four hours!” Mr. J shouts this and I jump. “I must’ve dialed the hospital's number a million times! I prayed, God, let them be okay!” He sounds and looks tortured. “On the news, they showed people and workers inside hospitals around New Orleans… I figured everybody in the hospitals made it through the storm and they would show up just fine.” He shakes his head sadly. “A week later, Whitney’s car was pulled out of Lake Pontchartrain. She and my baby Kiera were inside. The Captain said, they must’ve been swept away when the levees broke.”

I cover my mouth and blink back tears. Oh my Gosh. My stomach tightens in a knot the same way it did after Agent Werthoust came to our suit and told us, “We located her body.” My mind still refuses to process those four words.

A slender black girl with short hair stands up suddenly and runs out of the room leaving the door wide open. Mr. J motions to another black girl to go after her. She stands up, quickly grabs her stuff and the other girl’s things, and then dashes after her. Everybody in the classroom starts whispering. Mr. Jackson strolls over and closes the door. He hops back up on the lab cabinet in the front and the class immediately settles down.

“Again, my point to this is...Hurricane Katrina not only destroyed a lot of property it also killed hundreds. Families were disrupted. Some people lost everything. Bottom line, I’m hurting just like a lot of other Gulf coast folks who relocated to Washington, D.C. and around the country. I chose to move away from my roots to start a new life. Not an easy task, but I refuse to wallow any longer. So all I’m trying to say here is let’s all do or best to work together, and practice the Golden Rule. All right? That said––let me teach you something. I am the teacher!”

I turn my head and glance around at my fellow classmates. Most eyes are either averted elsewhere or looking straight ahead. Nobody says a word. This might take some time.

Mr. Jackson hops down again, and moves to the blackboard. He picks up a piece of chalk and underlines (Crime Sciences) C.S. Turning around, he asks, “Can anyone define Crime Sciences?” A couple of kids raise their hands. Mr. Jackson points. “Mr. O’Dell, so pleased you signed up for my class. How are your folks? Josh, please stand up so everyone can hear you.”

I turn sideways on my stool and watch Josh get off his stool and slide his hands in his front pockets. A smile plays at the corners of Josh’s mouth. They know each other. I look at Mr. J then back at Josh who appears unruffled by Mr. J’s sad story.

“They’re good,” Josh says. “Dad’s back from the Regional Missing Persons Training Conference in Clearwater, Florida.”

Mr. J. nods. “Ah, working on his suntan. Some of you may not know that Josh O'Dell’s father is one of DC’s finest. I was honored to have Officer O’Dell and his crew to help NOPD with the aftermath. It was all hands on deck sort of speak.”

Josh smiles broadly and says, “No doubt, sir. By the way, Dad said he’d be happy to speak to your classes anytime his schedule permits.” Josh’s voice takes on a serious tone. “In regards to your question about Crime Science…CS is basically the study of crime in order to find ways to prevent the crime in the first place.”

Mr. J says, “Uh-huh…and how would one go about doing that?”

“Well, for one, while walking a beat you can talk to people.” Josh takes his hands out of his pockets and counts on his fingers. “Number two...is to study the nature of crime by acknowledging crime patterns. The plan is to figure out how to prevent crimes. Or at least be psychologically equipped to catch the perp quickly after an offense occurs. What ever role you play in law enforcement you want to pull all of your sources together with those on the front line.”

Mr. J nods his head enthusiastically. “Exactly…law enforcement has a better chance to disrupt crime before it happens by understanding what makes people commit a crime in the first place.”

Wow, Josh already sounds like a cop. I guess it helps having a career cop as your father. Still, I blame my self for being such a slug all summer. However, I guess losing your mom is a good excuse. No more excuse.

Josh clears his throat. “Um, Mr. J, I just wanted to add that you can learn more about crime science by going to the Jill Dando Websites. She’s the British journalist that was murdered.”

“Thanks Josh. Class, the Internet is an infinite research tool––use it!”

Josh sits down, looks over at me and winks. I smile back then drop my eyes and turn back around to face the front. Is Josh flirting with me or just being a friend? I pick up my pencil and tap it on the paper. Hum. Good question. I jot down some notes on what Josh just said while they’re fresh on my mind. I don’t want to fail this class and look like a dumb ass. What was that lady’s name? Jill Dildo? That can’t be right. Oh well, close enough. I’ll ask Josh later—gives me something interesting to talk to him about. I turn my attention back to the teacher.

Mr. Jackson is speaking as he writes on the blackboard. “In this class you’ll learn about innovative approaches to preventing and detecting crime.” He pauses and taps the first item on the assignment list. “Your homework assignment for this weekend is to understand the art of evidence collection.” He sets the chalk in the tray and walks back to the center of the room rubbing his hands together. “Start by creating a crime scenario, and then decide what your role will be as part of the investigation team. For example, let’s say you’re a free lance Private Investigator. Were you hired by an entity or individual connected to the offense? Or are you on the official task force? You could work as a forensic lab scientist, a crime scene investigator or the District Attorney...and so on and so forth. Just understand that before you chose your position, you’ll need to understand what each person is held accountable for when collecting evidence connected to a crime. No matter what your role is, remember every branch of law enforcement must work as one force to solve any case. Understood?”

The class murmurs “yes sir” and Mr. J consults his watch.

“Okay, that’s it for today. Use the time we have left to do whatever you like.” He turns around and washes his hands in the stainless steel sink built into the lab table.

The classroom hums as people shuffle around talking to each other, rustling notebooks and paper, backpack zipper noise, stools scoot on the floor. Jimmy Beal starts talking out loud to himself. Then he starts making grunting noises. It’s disgusting...he sounds like a pig in heat.

I block Beal out and plan my strategy. Before talking to Coach Thompson, I plan to squeeze in about a hundred laps in the pool. I am so out of shape. Best get ready to haul. I take a minuet to run my eyes down Mr. Jackson’s Assignment List once more. I slide it into the inside pocket of my notebook and sense someone is look at me. I look up.

Mr. J is drying his hands on brown paper towels. He narrows his eyes at Beal, as if to say, “I can hear you so cut it out!”

Beal takes the hint and quiets down.

I think yeah, there is a God.

As soon as Mr. J moves away from our table, Jimmy says, “Cookie Blakely, spanks me, makes me and fakes me.”

Freak! I reposition my purse and backpack as a barrier wall between us. I close my folder stick it in my backpack and then stare at the Goo-Goo Dolls sticker on front. For some reason, I think about the phone call from Agent Warthouse. Oh right, he called on my birthday the same night Josh gave me the CD with this sticker...one thought leads to another, yadayada. We don’t hear anything for months. So why is Werthoust talking to me about Mom’s case now, nine months after? More to the point. Why was he picking my brain? I don’t know anything. The last time Pop spoke to Agent Werthoust, his exact words were, it’s an ongoing investigation. Hence, I’m not at liberty to discuss the case. I’m beginning to think ‘ongoing investigation’ means somebody needs more time to cover up something. Did they boggle Mom’s case somehow? Damn, I never researched the stuff I wrote on the grocery list. Uh, I am so not on the ball.

Beal is trying to get my attention by repeating my name over and over again. I tune him out and think, what is the big mystery surrounding Mom’s death? Everybody was lead to believe that she died of natural causes while on the job. The media reported it that way. My gut is telling me that there’s something weird going on with her investigation. I don’t know what it is or who to ask. Oh well, nothing I can do. Or is there? I turn my head and stare out the window. In my dreams about Mom, it’s as if she’s trying to tell me something. She calls my name repeatedly and sounds angry or upset. But I can’t make out what she’s saying. I wake up and it feels like she's in the room with me. It's strange, but in my gut, I think Mom is still alive. I need to talk to somebody who will understand the legal aspects of opening my own investigation on Mom. Someone other than Pop—he gets too upset. Josh. Maybe I can ask him what he thinks. Or would he think I was crazy? Wait a minute… Why can't I start my own investigation? I mean, who's going to stop me? The bell rings, and I practically jump off my stool. I grab my things and blink myself back to the classroom. I shove everything in my backpack and struggle with the zipper. My stomach is full of butterflies. I look at my watch. That’s right, there’s a teacher staff meeting so we're out of here a half-hour early.

“One more thing––” Mr. J yells over the chatter. Jilly comes back in the room with a huge stack of assignment papers. “Thank you so much! Raise your hand if you need an assignment paper!” He takes them from Jilly, and passes them out to the people with their hands in the air. “I want to see some serious resourcefulness out of you guys. Get on the CIA, the FBI, and the DC Metropolitan Police websites. Just be careful while surfing the net for crime related sites, don’t link into some weird, sadistic garbage. You might try visiting the Library of Congress for information too. You will find a wealth of information there!”

Wealth of information. Got it. Hearing this gives me goose bumps, but I’m not sure why. I just know that I can’t wait to get home and surf the net. I glance around and join the people filing out the door. Huh, Josh O'Dell is already gone, wonder why he left without a word.

Mr. J. is standing up front answering a few questions as he works his way out the door. Jimmy Beal is up there waiting to talk to him too. Mr. Jackson smiles at me. He has really nice teeth. I smile back then he turns to Jimmy. “Mr. Beal do you mind erasing the board? I will answer your questions when I have more time.”

Beal frowns and goes up to the chalkboard picking up two erasers.

“Excuse me, Cookie Blakely, can I bother you a moment?”

I stop and step over by Mr. Jackson. “Yes sir?”

“I just wanted to say welcome, and that I’m sorry for the chaos. My big plan was to speak to each of my students individually, to get to know each person.” He sounds really stressed. “In one day, I have fifteen new students transferred to my already crowed class.”

I shrug. “It’s okay, believe me, I understand.”

Beal keeps looking over his shoulder, watching us.

Mr. Jackson smacks his forehead. “Oh shoot, that reminds me…hold on.” Mr. Jackson cups his hand to his mouth and shouts, “Hey, yoh! New students…listen up! The person sitting to your left is your assigned lab buddy. The two of you will be partners for the entire semester.” He laughs and shakes his head and says, “Man, being a cop was way easier than being a teacher.” He quickly tidies up the desk and shoves the chair in the leg area.

I gasp. What? Jimmy Beal is my ‘lab buddy’?! Kill me now! I shoot Beal the evil eye and follow Mr. J to a locker next to the desk. Mr. Jackson, I want request that you move me to another seat, immediately. This is so not fair! Now if only I had the nerve to say this out loud. I watch Mr. Jackson open a locker and reach in grabbing his sports coat off a hook, drape it over his arm, and then take out a leather satchel by the handles and slam the locker door. “Let’s go Mr. Beal,” he says tartly. He glances at his wrist watch and curses under his breath as he dashes over and locks 507. Then waits at 508 while Beal puts down the erasers, coughs several times, and then unzips his grungy leather satchel and sticks his whole arm in it scrounges around. He take out an inhaler and opens his mouth real wide showing a mouthful of uneven yellowish teeth, spittle is strung between his rubbery lips.

I grimace and turn my head in disgust.

“Mr. Beal thank you.” Mr. J. motions for him to leave then looks at me as he locks the door. “Cookie, I do want to take a minute to let you know I’m familiar with your mother’s case.”

This catches me off guard. “Huh? What do mean by ‘familiar’?” I blink up at him. “Who isn’t familiar with her case, it was all over the news. Plus you're a cop and you know Josh's father. Do you know something?” I can see that he's taken back by my urgent tone.

“No. What I’m just trying to say is that I know what it’s like to be on the both sides of an investigation. So while you’re in this class, you can trust me to be compassionate regarding your feelings. We'll talk when I have more time.” He turns and walks away.

I don’t even know what that means. I stand outside the door mumbling to myself, trying to process Mr. J’s words. Forget all that just ask him to let you sit by Josh. Worse he can do is say no. I chase after him, scoot up to his side, and clear my throat. “Um, sir, I know you’re busy, but may I ask you something really quick?”

“Um, sure...” he says hesitantly. “You’ll have to walk with me or I'll be tardy for the staff meeting. I'm trying to make a good impression with Principal Bishop.”

I glance back and catch Beal tailing us.

Mr. J glances at over his should Beal then at me. “Does Mr. Beal normally hassle you?”

I blurt out, “Constantly. He’s been bugging me since third grade. However back then it felt harmless, now that we're older, it’s really creeping me out.” Char insists Beal has always had a crush on me, I’m like, whatev. Beal keeps it up for a few feet, and then changes his mind and heads in the opposite direction.

Mr. J stops to hold the door open for a fellow teacher. “Hi Bill, you headed to the staff meeting?”

Bill shakes his head despairingly. “No can do. Dolph do me a favor and tell Bishop that I have a Basic Science class to teach. If I don’t stay, the students will dismantle the classroom and or steal half of the equipment.”

“Will do, Bill,” Mr. Jackson says. They discuss a few more things and I feel like a groupie hanging with teachers. I wander over to the fountain and wait for Mr. Jackson. He rushes by me and I go after him.

He asks, “So, what's so urgent Cookie?”

“It’s about Jimmy Beal…I want to change seats.” I have to walk faster to keep up with his pace. Hard to believe he has an artificial leg.

“Tell you what… switch with who ever you like.”

I smile at him. “Really? Thank you. I want to sit next to Josh O’Dell. Is that okay?”

We pause on the walkway between buildings. “Done deal. Starting tomorrow, you sit next to O’Dell. Anything else I can help you with Miss. Blakely?”

“Not right now,” I say, feeling my face break out in a smile as bright as the sun above. I look into Mr. Jackson’s kind brown eyes. “Thank you so much Mr. J. I think you might be my favorite teacher ever.”

He laughs and opens the next set of doors and lets me enter first. I walk quickly down the long cool hallway toward the Performance Center still keeping up with Mr. Jackson’s long strides. “Actually, I have a lot of questions about the crime assignment thingy.” I pause. “But I need to get my thoughts straight,” I say, feeling heat rising on my face. “I mean, you know, figure out what role I want to play yadayada.”

We stop next to Performance Center entrance. Teachers glance our way as they enter the center.

“Get with Josh, sounds like you have some ideas,” Mr. Jackson says, and then taps the face of his watch. “Well, I better get to this meeting.”

I hesitate and stare at Mr. Jackson, hugging myself self-consciously. I’m so excited and happy about the seat switch I feel like dancing.

He raises his eyebrow at me. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

I look at my watch. “Ops, I sure do!” I take a step back. “Thanks again, Mr. Jackson.” Smiling broadly, I turn on my heel and float down the hall. I search for Josh on the way to the gym, but no luck. To warm up, I grab a basketball out of the equipment cage and shoot some hoops. The girls’ volleyball team is practicing at the other end of the courts. I change into my swimsuit and head out to the pool. When I get there, a note on the wall says Boy’s and Girl’s Swim Team Tryouts are rescheduled for a later day TBA this week.

To be announced. Fine, gives me more time to get into shape after a summer of goofing off. I get my laps in with a few of the others trying to improve their time.

Afterward, I change and wait in my hot Mustang for Sean. I dig my cell phone out of my purse and power it up. No messages. I punch in Sean’s number and it goes to message. I don’t leave one. Screw him! Let him wonder about me for a change. I’ll give Sean five more minuets, then I’m out of here.

I really want to call Josh and tell him the good news. But what if he thinks you're chasing him. Maybe I am. What if he already has a girlfriend? She might be with him when you call, and get all mad…

I think too much.

I dig out Officer O’Dells card and punch in his home number. It rings twice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. O’Dell?”

“No, this is the cleaning lady, Sylvia. May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I'm Josh O'Dell's friend and I was wondering if you have his cell number, I lost it and he needs to know about a school assignment thing-y.” I chew on my lip, hating that I lie so easily.

“Sure,” she says, and gives me the number.

I repeat the number back.

“That’s it sugar.”

“Thanks so much! Bye!” Reciting his number click off and add it to my contacts then push SEND.

It rings four times. “Hello, this is Josh O'Dell––”

“Josh, it’s me, Cookie Blakely. Hey, um, I was wondering––” I stop talking when I realize I’m talking to a machine.

“Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message and when you called, yadayada. Have a nice day.”

I hear the beep and just say, “Yo! Call Cookie Blakely ASAP!”

I click off thinking if he’s such a great detective he’ll figure out how to reach me. I drop my phone in my lap encase Josh or Sean or anybody calls me.

After a full thirty minuets of waiting in my hot car, I start the engine, crank up the AC, and leave. I’m so going to blow Sean off!