“They make book on it in the boys’ bathroom. I believe it’s some sort of primitive rite of passage. I was worth ten dollars. The Furies, on the other hand, run into larger sums, thus far unclaimed.”

“I don’t intend to be a substitute for more than a few days. Miss Dort is searching for a certified teacher to replace me. I may take out an ad in the New York Times.” I sank back in the bilious plaid. “Tell me about the Furies, Evelyn. I can’t seem to keep them straight.”

“Only Bernice can do that. They are equally drab, tedious, and morally superior. They kept Paula in team for months, but she finally learned to stand up to them or simply ignore them.”

“Why are they so hard on her?”

“She has made two very serious breaches of conduct in the lounge. For one thing, she has committed the sin of being young and pretty. The girls all adore her, and the boys can barely breathe when she bends over someone’s typewriter in the classroom. Her second sin is to encourage Jerry to come in the lounge.”

“He’s a teacher, isn’t he? Why shouldn’t he come in the lounge with the rest of us?”

“He is also a coach. Coaches do not come into the lounge; they loiter in their offices or on the fields. It’s an unwritten law that coaches and principals avoid the lounge. Coaches are inclined to smell of physical exertion, and principals are the topic of many conversations. Weiss has been lurking in here since the beginning of the semester, mostly in order to glower at Jerry and Paula.”

“I thought Sherwood-”

“Herbert Weiss is a notorious lecher, despite a vague presence known as Mrs. Herbert Weiss. She materializes each year for fifteen minutes at the faculty Christmas party, where she smiles politely at everyone, and then vanishes until the following December. I doubt she has any effect on her husband or daughter.”

“Does every male in the building have his eye on Paula?” I asked. “It sounds ominously competitive.”

“As far as I know, Weiss and Sherwood are the primary contenders for the maiden’s hand. To their regret, it is not available for warm, suggestive squeezes.”

The door opened before I could elicit any more details of the idle, but nevertheless interesting, gossip. Sherwood Timmons had a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“I thought we might celebrate the arrival of blessed Friday,” he announced as he went into the kitchenette and put the bottle in the refrigerator. “What is this? Could Emily Parchester have been sneaking around the basement this very morning, brandied peach compote bulging in her purse?”

“She came by to see me,” I called. I did not elaborate, but it wasn’t necessary.

Sherwood stuck his head out the door with an impish grin. “I heard she was a bit non compos mentis, but her compote-sic itur ad astra… her pathway to the stars.”

“If Pius hasn’t been pawing in it,” Evelyn said. “I think we ought to use the lounge fund to buy a padlock for the refrigerator.”

“That would merely delay him,” Sherwood said. The refrigerator door closed, and water ran in the sink. “The man could pick it with his teeth if motivation were strong enough.”

While I pondered the wisdom of a diet, the door opened again. The Furies stalked in and took places on a sofa across from me. Miss Dort came in seconds later and continued into the ladies room. Mr. Weiss was next, followed by Jerry and Paula Hart.

Large, black clouds rolled in from the hallway. Lightning crackled invisibly, and thunder crashed soundlessly. The air was thick with odorless ozone. What air there was. I wondered if they really went through this every Friday, and for what reason. Fun, it clearly wasn’t.

Evelyn stood up. “Well, shall we eat?”

Herbert Weiss stared at Jerry, who returned the gaze with ill-disguised anger. Paula tugged at her coach’s hand and whispered something in his ear, but he brushed her aside. Sherwood smiled to himself. The Furies wiggled on the sofa and tried to look uninterested.

“Shall we eat?” Evelyn repeated, a hostess to the bitter end. “Claire, will you help me bring things to the table?”

I strolled into the kitchenette where I had to grab a drawer handle to keep myself upright. “Why are we doing this?” I hissed. “This is not my idea of a gala party.”

Evelyn shrugged and began to pull plastic bowls and boxes out of the refrigerator. She piled them in my arms, balanced a stack of napkins on top, and sent me into the lion’s den. She followed with paper plates, the champagne, and someone’s saltines.

With the high spirits of a funeral cortege, we assembled around the table. Jerry sat down next to Paula at one end; the Furies formed a row across one side, impenetrably grim. The rest of us scattered about to act as buffers. Plastic lids whooshed loudly in the silence.

Mrs. Platchett examined a tidy formation of deviled eggs. “I see no sign that Pitts has been foraging today. It is safe to eat.”

“Alcoholic beverages are not permitted on campus,” Weiss snarled, pointing at the offending bottle.

Sherwood gave him a disdainful smile. “Are we reduced to following petty rules, Mr. Weiss? I presumed we were all above such things, but if you wish to insist…

“Do whatever you want, Timmons. Perhaps we can have a discussion about your manuscript one of these days, if you’re not too busy doing research at the college library.”

“Ars longa, vita brevis,” Sherwood snapped. It was menacing, in an obscure way. He did not offer a translation, and for once Evelyn did not prompt him to do so.

Weiss disappeared into the kitchenette. The soda machine rattled briefly, followed by a popping sound as a bottle was decapitated. He then called, “Has Miss Parchester been in the building, Bernice? I told her quite firmly that she was not to come back until the auditors have completed their investigation.”

“I’ll telephone to remind her,” Miss Dort said. She picked up her clipboard and scribbled a note.

The Furies looked as though they were on the edge of a rebuttal. Mrs. Platchett eyed the doorway with a frown, and on both sides of her her cohorts flared their nostrils and tightened their lips. Tessa Zuckerman (I thought) actually opened her mouth for a fleeting moment, then closed it with an unhappy sigh. Her complexion seemed excessively gray, as though she were inflated with fog.

Weiss came to the doorway with the jar of compote in his hand. He took a fork to pull out a dripping piece of yellow fruit, and with a greedy look, plopped it in his mouth. “I suppose I’ll overlook her presence in the building this one time, since she did leave a little something for me. I may regret Miss Parchester’s absence in the future; her compote is remarkable. Is there any way we might persuade her to share the recipe, Bernice?”

“I shall inquire when I speak to her.” Miss Dort picked up the clipboard and scribbled yet another note.

“Exactly how much money is missing from the journalism account?” Sherwood asked, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Enough for riotous living in some singles’ condominium for silver-haired swingers?”

“The amount is hardly the issue, Timmons. The funds belong to the students, and the embezzlement is all the more serious because it threatens their trust,” Weiss said through a mouthful of yellow goop. “In any case, I am aware of the gossip this situation has generated, and I want the entire faculty to put a stop to it. It is an administrative concern.”

“I am confident Emily will be found innocent of any wrongdoing,” Mrs. Platchett said. “Then the school can return to its normal routine, and the journalism students can once again have valuable experience in preparation for their careers. Emily quite inspires them, as you well know.”

I sensed an aspersion on the substitute’s ability to inspire said students. “We’re working industriously on the yearbook,” I said, taking a deviled egg with a devil-may-care look. “We hope to complete the sophomore layout next week.” Whatever that was.