“It could have hurt somebody.”

LeBrun made a wry face, then winked. “Nah, a little prick, that’s all, a little cut on the tongue. Nothing serious. You hear the joke about the Canuck who studied five days to pass his urine test? Sounds like you a little, doesn’t it?”

Gaudette didn’t respond. “Why’re you hanging around that girl?”

“She’s friendly, I’m friendly, we chat.”

“I don’t want you talking to her.”

“I don’t mean any harm by it. Come on, man, don’t be so uptight.”

“If one more tack shows up, I’m going to Dr. Hawthorne. As for that girl, stay away from her.”

LeBrun pushed open the door. A cold breeze poured into the kitchen. “Hey, Larry, I’m just having a little fun. No more tacks, I swear.” He put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder but the other man pulled away. LeBrun turned and went out into the dark.

—

It was Chip Campbell’s habit to check the rest rooms after lunch to see if he could find anyone smoking. It was a pleasure not far removed from gambling or playing cards. And this Thursday he was especially eager because lunch had been terrible—the first of Hawthorne’s meatless Thursdays, meant to save the school thousands each year, money Chip felt sure would wind up in Hawthorne’s pocket. So they had all sat down to black beans and rice—peasant food. Chip would have complained but, having missed Tuesday’s faculty meeting, he was trying to avoid the headmaster. In fact, he planned to cut today’s meeting and all the meetings to come until Hawthorne forced him to attend or canceled them. He just didn’t have time for that dipshit psychobabble. And hadn’t Hawthorne nearly missed Tuesday’s meeting, getting his knees bandaged by the nurse after having been tripped up playing basketball? Chip laughed. Served him right, that was what Chip thought. He’d buy Bennett a beer for what he’d done. Not that he otherwise had much use for Bennett and he couldn’t stand the chaplain. It was like they had gotten their masculine and feminine roles fucked up and didn’t know who they were.

Chip had checked four boys’ rest rooms without success but now he was up on the third floor of Emerson heading toward the toilet at the far end of the hall and therefore the one where some boys felt safest. But Chip didn’t want to find just any boy; he wanted to find Scott McKinnon, who liked to cut up in history class. There was always the smell of cigarette smoke on the boy’s sweater, not regular smoke but some foreign tobacco that was particularly strong and that Chip found particularly insulting, since its very obviousness was a taunt. Clearly, Scott was ducking out someplace. Today there was a cold autumn rain, and Chip knew that Scott wouldn’t have made a run for the woods. And because Scott was lazy, he’d get caught.

It was ten minutes before one, the end of lunch hour. Soon the bell would ring and classes would resume. Maybe Scott had gone to another building for his cigarette, but Chip doubted he would take the trouble. If he caught him, well, smoking was against the rules and the law didn’t permit smoking on school grounds. Even the faculty and staff couldn’t smoke in the buildings, though some broke the law, like that fag Evings.

Chip stood by the door to the rest room and listened. He wore a brown tweed jacket over a blue school sweatshirt. The hall was empty and he heard a window rattling in the wind. Quietly, he pushed open the door and sniffed. He didn’t quite smile but one side of his mouth rose a little. The pungent smell of the foreign tobacco seemed to fill the bathroom. How stupid, thought Chip, to smoke something so obvious. It made him feel justified in despising the boy. Gathering himself, Chip slammed open the door and ran forward. Before he’d gone five feet, he heard the flushing of the toilet. None of the four stalls had doors. Scott sat in the last stall with his pants at his ankles, smiling.

“Hi, coach,” he said.

“You’re smoking.”

“Not me, coach, I’m just taking a dump.”

“I can smell it.”

“That’s my dump you’re smelling, coach. Pretty nasty, isn’t it?”

“You’re lying. And don’t call me coach.”

“Chip, is that what you want? Should I call you Chip, like ‘Chip off the old block’?”

Chip reached forward, grabbed the boy’s red sweater, yanked him up, and then let him go. Scott stumbled out of the stall with his pants around his ankles, trying to regain his balance, spinning around, then crashing against the sinks and falling to the tile floor.

“Where’re the cigarettes?”

“Not me, Chipper. I don’t smoke.” Scott lay on his back, pulling up his pants.

Chip reached down and jerked him to his feet. He could smell the smoke on the boy’s sweater. Quickly, he searched the boy’s pockets. He found a pack of matches but no cigarettes. Scott must have had just one that he flushed down the toilet. He let the boy go roughly so he fell back to the floor, knocking his head against the tiles.

Scott finished pulling up his pants. He looked frightened but it didn’t make him shut up. “You like feeling up boys in their underwear, Chipper?”

Chip grabbed hold of Scott’s arm and took a swing at him with his open hand. Scott twisted away. Chip grabbed him again and shoved him toward the door. Scott crashed against it with a booming noise and bounced off—after all, Chip outweighed the boy by a hundred pounds. Chip opened the door and pushed Scott into the hall. The boy tripped, stumbling against the far wall, then fell again. Chip rushed out after him—and stopped abruptly. Standing in the hall with surprised faces were Hawthorne and Ruth Standish, one of the mental health counselors. Hawthorne was using a cane because of his injury on Tuesday. He went to Scott and helped him to his feet.

“He was smoking,” said Chip, “and he was insulting me.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just shoot him,” said Hawthorne, holding the boy’s arm.

Scott laughed.

“Do you have a class now?” Hawthorne asked. “You better get to it.”

“Don’t you want to hear my side of the story?”

“Just go to class.” Hawthorne pushed his glasses up his nose.

Scott started to hurry down the hall, then he slowed down and began to walk with an exaggerated swagger. He glanced back over his shoulder and grinned.

“I’ve had trouble with him myself,” said Ruth Standish somewhat nervously. “He’s always talking back. He doesn’t care what he says.” She seemed undecided whether her allegiances lay with Hawthorne or Chip. She was a heavyset woman of about thirty-five, wearing a red checked dress that made her appear even heavier than she was.

“I want you to get your stuff and go home,” said Hawthorne to Chip, matter of factly. “Didn’t we talk about this? What in the world were you thinking of?”

“Are you firing me?” Chip stood with his fingers bunched into fists.

“I can only suspend you. But the board can fire you and I’m going to insist that they do. I don’t want you here anymore.”

“You’re doing this because I won’t come to those stupid faculty meetings.” Chip’s tone was scornful and defiant.

“I’m doing it because you don’t know how to treat these kids.”

“This is crazy. I’ve been here a dozen years.”

“Surely you can give him another chance,” said Ruth.

“He’s had another chance.” Hawthorne leaned on his cane and stared at the floor. Then he raised his voice. “How can I have a faculty member who physically abuses the students! Are you mad?” He caught hold of himself. “I’m sorry, but you make me angry. Get your stuff and go. I don’t want you on school property.”

“You son of a—” Chip clenched his jaw and stopped himself. He glanced furiously at Ruth, then walked down the hall, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking.

After a moment, Ruth said, “Can’t you make it a temporary suspension?”

“He abuses students. I’ve seen him do it twice and I’ve heard of him doing it other times. What signal would it send to the students if I didn’t dismiss him? They’d see everything I’ve told them as being a lie. I’d be just one more adult they couldn’t trust.”