The Second Choice Den

Ironically, in vilifying her students, Ms Tucker had defined herself as well every time she crossed the threshold into their form room.

     “Are you sure she’s leaving?” Oliver, class junior at fifteen and ten months, who rarely spoke above a whisper, took bottle of plant food from his bag and decanted some in a watering can.

     “Yeh. They hired another temp.” Ellie, self-proclaimed computer nerd, had added a trigger to the school’s database to alert them of changes in employee files. “We’re not supposed to know, it’d unsettle us.”

     “Because we’re Special Needs.” Sarah wriggled a paperclip in the lock of Ms Tucker’s desk. With a dull click, the top drawer sprang open.

     “Here,” she handed Ellie a pair of scissors.

     “Thanks. Same as last time?” Ellie asked.

     “Whatever. ’s’long as it doesn’t give mizzz a reason to leave me behind.” Reticent, Ethan pulled out a chair and draped a plastic tablecloth over his shoulders.

     “What’s that, Alex?” Sarah asked, studying the sketch he’d pulled from his bag. Alex didn’t talk. She didn’t know if he couldn’t or just didn’t feel like talking, but who needed a physical voice if you could draw like that. The sketch showed Ms Tucker shepherding six teens in that waspish way of hers, from the school’s minivan to a boat – the Leanne, green, like the image on the website. It was them, two days from now, and…

     “Hey!” Sarah pointed out Ethan’s nonchalant but crisp trim. “Cut his hair like that, Ell—

    “Shush, someone’s coming,” she interrupted herself, inspecting an image on her phone. A blond-haired man in the corridor was walking towards them.

     Ellie stopped cutting. Oliver ducked under the window, cradling the geranium he’d been deadheading. Ethan glared and Alex gazed at the door. Nathan, unperturbed, continued to read an article on whales.

     It took longer than usual for the footsteps to arrive within earshot. When it did, the man’s pace was hushed and measured, stealthily. He stared straight into the camera, as if he knew…

     Gnawing at the skin around the nail of her thumb, Sarah frowned at her key. Had she—

     The door handle dipped; the door rattled.

     Yes, she had [locked it].

    The man put his ear to the door. Sarah held her breath, and when he stepped back, she breathed out, slowly, aware of every little sound she made.

   “Shit,” she mumbled, as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a key. He held it up to the camera, wiggling it between his fingers. Smirking.

     The doorhandle dipped.

     Eyes wide with fear, Alex slammed his hands over his mouth.

     The door rattled.

     He inserted his key in the lock.

     “Everything okay?” a woman called down the corridor.

     “Just checking.” The man removed his key and shuffled away down the hall.

    “The new janitor, I think,” Sarah whispered, keeping an eye on the back of the tall, blond man in threadbare, faded jeans. “He’s seen the camera.”

     As if he’d heard, the man stopped. He looked over his shoulder and grinned, eery, clownesque. He waved his key overhead. Then turned around completely. Arms slack beside his body, fingers of his right-hand snapping rhythmically, his cool-grey eyes stared lazily into the camera. He was sinewy, his skin tanned, darker than Sarah had expected. Spending most of his time indoors, the previous janitor had been sickly pale.

     “Can you build in facial recognition?” she suggested when he disappeared around the corner.

     “Could try. What do you think, Ethan?” As Ellie cut carefully around his ear, the tablecloth shifted, exposing a fist-shaped, knuckles visible, dark-purple and green bruise on Ethan’s right shoulder. Ellie clenched her jaw.

    Ethan yanked the sheet back up. “It’ll be more difficult than faking an email from the Ministry of Education. And we’ll need pictures.”

     “We’ll download those from the employee and student database. The password’s admin.” Ellie untied her soft, pink winter scarf and gently brushed the hairs from Ethan’s neck. “Done.”

     “Thanks.” Ethan pulled a hand through his hair. “Drinks anyone? My treat.”

At half past twelve, Sarah strolled home along the harbour, past the Leanne. She’d suggested this boat because it was green, her favourite colour. At home, her desk chair was green, her duvet too. As was her new sweater. Mum had drawn the line at painting her desk and the walls of her bedroom green as well, arguing, she’d never spot her green-clad child in an entirely green room.

     With long strides, a tall, dark-haired man and a woman with long hazel hair descended the Leanne’s gang plank. Was one of them the captain? They seemed too young, and neither looked like a captain. But, then again, Sarah scrunched up her mouth, people often told her she didn’t look autistic.