McCallum nodded proudly, his chin and neck converging into one. “We won state last year. So they were forced to move a few football trophies to make room in the display case.”

The case was full of trophies, the largest a wide silver bowl with the name of the school and the year engraved in fancy calligraphy. “I really loved Knowledge Bowl,” she said quietly.

“You quit the team,” McCallum pointed out.

Susan swallowed a ball of sorrow in her throat. “I had a lot going on.”

“It’s difficult to lose a parent so young.”

She laid her hand flat on the glass. The trophies were polished to a shine and her distorted reflection stared back at her a dozen times. When she lifted her hand, a faint greasy palm print marked where it had been. “Yeah.”

“That’s harsh,” the kid said.

McCallum looked at the kid and raised a finger to his lips. “Not a word,” he said.

The physics teacher spun back to Susan and jabbed a thumb at a brown door across the hall. “This is us,” he said. He held out a thick, hairy hand. Susan took it. “Ms. Ward,” he said. “I wish you the best in your future endeavors.”

“Thanks, Mr. McCallum,” Susan said.

McCallum walked the kid over to the door and opened it for him. The kid waved limply at Susan as he was led inside.

“Sorry about bailing on Knowledge Bowl,” she called after them, but the door had already shut.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Susan stood with her hands on her hips, examining her old Saab. It had been booted. The metal device was firmly affixed to her left front wheel. She squeezed her eyes shut and emitted a low growl. She had parked in a reserved teacher spot, sure. But it was after school. And she’d been fifteen minutes. She shuffled around for a few minutes, collecting herself.

“Booted, huh?”

Startled, Susan looked up to see a kid leaning against the hood of a boxy orange BMW parked a few spaces behind her. The kid was nice-looking: a mop of longish hair, clear skin, tall. But the car was beautiful, one of those old 2002 models from the 1970s. It was shiny tangerine, unmarred; the chrome details twinkled elegantly. The vanity plate read JAY2.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he said. “From my dad. To make up for leaving my mom for the real estate lady.”

“Did it help?”

“It helped him.” He nodded at her car. “You have to go inside to the admin office. Pay a fine. Then they’ll call one of the custodians to unboot your car for you. You better hurry. There’s a basketball game, so the office is closing early.” He pushed away from the car and took a few steps toward her. Looked at the ground. Then up at her again. Squinted. “Listen. You wanna buy some weed?”

Susan took a small step back and glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. There were cops everywhere. Two patrol cars were parked on either side of the school. Plus, Susan had noticed a man sitting in a sedan in front of the school, not thirty feet from where she now stood. Was he a cop? A dad waiting to pick up a kid? This was exactly how innocent reporters got themselves arrested. “I’m a grown-up,” she whispered loudly.

His eyes traveled up to her pink hair, then down at her Pixies T-shirt, the cowboy boots, the beat-up car behind her. “You sure? It’s from B.C.”

“Yeah,” Susan said. Then, more definitively: “Yes.” She looked back at the boot on her car. Why did these things always have to happen to her? “The admin office?” she said.

The kid nodded.

“Thanks.” She turned and marched toward the building, passing the man in the sedan, who had produced a Herald and was suddenly studying it. Definitely a cop, Susan decided. She climbed the wide front stairs, pushed open one of the front doors, turned down the hall, and found the admin office. But the door was locked. “Seriously?” she demanded aloud. “Seriously?” She slammed the door with the flat of her hand. The impact made a dull, loud thwap. Susan cried out and pulled her stinging hand to her chest.

“Can I help you?”

She spun around to face a custodian who was wheeling an enormous green plastic garbage bin through the hall.

“You can take the fucking boot off my car,” she said. The custodian had slick dark hair, a goatee, and what they used to call a “matinee idol” profile. The Cleveland custodians hadn’t looked like that when Susan had gone there. In fact, he was almost handsome enough to distract Susan from her frustration. Almost.

His dark eyes widened. “That’s your Saab in the teachers’ parking lot?”

“Yeah,” Susan said.

“Sorry,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “I assumed that it belonged to a student.”

“Because it’s crappy.”

He grinned. “That, and the Blink 182 bumper sticker.”

Susan looked at the floor. “That was on there when I bought it.” “Anyway, we have a zero-tolerance policy on the teachers’ spaces. Otherwise, the students would all park there.” He was still grinning at her. “But I guess I can cut you loose.” He pulled out the biggest ring of keys that Susan had ever seen. “Come on,” he said, and he started down the hall toward the front door of the building, leaving the garbage bin pushed against the wall. He stopped in front of the Knowledge Bowl trophy case and pulled a white rag out of his pocket and rubbed it on the glass. She caught a glimpse of a colorful tattoo on his arm: the Virgin Mary. He smiled at her and shook his head. “Handprint. It’s like cleaning up after toddlers sometimes.”

Susan busied her hand in her hair, on the off chance that he might be able to match her palm to the greasy print, and then hurried to catch up with him. “So, do you like being a custodian?” she asked, wincing even as the question left her mouth.

“I love it,” he deadpanned. “Though it’s just something to do while I work my way through my doctorate in French literature.”

“Really?” Susan said brightly.

He opened the front door and let her pass through. “No.”

A cold wind was picking up, and Susan struggled to jam her hands into the tiny pockets of her velvet blazer. “Did you know Lee Robinson?”

He seemed to bristle. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I’m doing a story for the Herald. Did you know her?”

“I cleaned her vomit up once in the nurse’s office.”

“Seriously?” Susan asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “And once she brought me a Hallmark card on National Janitor Appreciation Day.”

“Really?”

They’d reached the parking lot. The kid and the orange Beemer were gone. The guy in the sedan was gone, too.

The hot janitor knelt down next to her car. “No.”

“You’re funny.”

“Thanks.” He bent over the boot, unlocked it, and in a swift, almost violent motion pulled it off the front wheel. Then he stood, holding the heavy boot under one arm, and waited.

Susan fidgeted self-consciously with her purse. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his eyes turning cold. “I’ll let you off free and clear if you agree not to exploit a dead kid for a newspaper story.”

Susan felt like she’d been slapped in the face. She was speechless. He just stood there looking handsome in his coveralls. “It’s not really exploitation,” she stammered. She wanted to defend herself. To explain the importance of what she was doing. The public right to know. The beauty of shared humanity. The role of the witness. But suddenly, she had to admit that it all seemed pretty lame.

He pulled a ticket out of one of his many pockets and held it out to her. She took it and flipped the ticket over in her hand. Fifty dollars! And it would probably go to the fucking football team or something.

She wanted to say something clever. Something that would make her feel less like a bottom-feeder. But before she could, she heard the distant music of Kiss. She stopped and listened. It was the Kiss song “Calling Dr. Love.” She saw a flash of embarrassment cross the janitor’s face as he fumbled in his pants pocket. It was his cell phone ring.