Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Bryan Black's voice invaded Shane's morning. "God help me, I can't, just let me start over again."

"Shut up," Shane whispered, scowling, his eyes remaining closed as he slid his palm over the top of the alarm, silencing it. He burrowed more deeply into the covers, intending to bask in the morning quiet, but the plaintive wail kept replaying in his mind, this time in his own voice.

Julianna backed up, snuggling into him. He smiled, wrapped his arm around her, and made his mind sing "And I Love You So." That had been their wedding song three months before.

The cry came again. God help me, I can't, just let me start over again.

When he'd written that song, he'd thought life was about as bad as it could get. Now twenty, he was six years older but not much wiser. He still didn't understand how it was that everything he ever thought would make him happy, once obtained, ended up turning to shit.

He tightened his hold on Julianna, burrowing his face into her jasmine-scented hair, and summoned the mental image of her smiling down at him on their wedding day, her eyes twin kaleidoscopes of hope and promise. He longed to see them shine that way again. Marriage wasn't at all the way he'd dreamed it would be. We'll make it right, he told himself.

Julianna made a little sound of annoyance and inched away. He let her go and she rolled across the bed, settling on her side with a contented sigh.

God help me, I can't, just let me start over again.

He turned onto his back, looking up into the pre-dawn darkness. There was no starting over, no going back. There was only going forward and he didn't like where he and Julianna seemed to be going. He told himself daily they would make it right, but that didn't make it true.

He rolled from the bed, careful not to wake Julianna, took his cell phone from the nightstand, and made his way out of the room. Though there was a bathroom right off the bedroom, he took his morning showers in the bathroom down the hall so he wouldn't disturb her.

The soft pile carpet tickled his bare feet as he made his way down the hall. Like the rest of the house, it was new. They'd only been living there six weeks. It felt like a lot longer.

He brushed and flossed his teeth, then shaved. It never took him long to shave; he didn't grow much facial hair. Getting rid of it with depilatory cream, the way he did for all his body hair, would have been a more convenient alternative, but he thought the appearance of razor stubble, however sparse, helped people designate him as male. He set the shower water hot and stepped in. Though he happily would have done without most of the luxury touches in the opulent house Julianna had chosen, he did appreciate the massaging showers and whirlpool tubs. He imagined the water washing away the morning's melancholy, leaving him fresh to start the day--a day he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to face--his first day at Hilldale High School.

He'd long before accepted the introvert's reality that meeting new people drained him, and that was especially true when he was the new person meeting a group of people who already knew each other. He hated to be the center of attention. At least he wouldn't be the only one. Mary Greene and Dan Jackson, whom he'd met at the county's new teachers' orientation the previous week, also were bound for Hilldale. They would meet the administrative and support staff that day, then have two days to get settled and learn their way around before the other teachers reported on Wednesday.

He had one ally at the school already. He'd known Sadie Plankett, who worked in the office, since he was eleven. Her son, Michael Cook, was one of his closest friends, and Sadie had been mothering him for years. She'd been thrilled when he told her he planned to teach at Hilldale. She loved the school and had already been there for several years back when his father arrived as a freshman. Shane had never been a student at Hilldale or any other high school. All he knew of high school, he'd learned from other people's stories, books, movies, and a stint as a teaching assistant the previous spring.

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and pulled on the white T-shirt, gray boxers and black socks he'd set on the linen closet shelf before he went to bed. A white cotton shirt and black pants hung on the outside of the door, where he'd put them at the same time, but he wouldn't be ready for them until after he dried his hair. Before anything else, though, he wanted coffee. The night before, he'd set the pot to brew at six, and the scent now was too appealing to deny.

As he made the turn on the stairs, he saw Julianna on the couch in her pink satin robe, her knees drawn to her chest. Her face once again wore the haunted look with which he was becoming so familiar--huge, sky-blue eyes staring at things only she could see.

He gave her a gentle smile. "You're up early."

Her mouth pouted. "I had a bad dream."

His tongue travelled the inside of his cheek while he decided whether to indulge that potentially explosive theme. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"No," she said, slumping so her chin rested on her knees.

He was glad of that answer. He didn't particularly like the part of himself that generated that feeling but, being married to Julianna, he was getting to know it well.

"Okay," he said. He went into the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the cabinet, and fixed coffee, black for him and cream and sugar for her. He liked the taste better with cream and sugar, but not in the morning.

He carried the mugs into the living room, intending to set hers on the coffee table before he made his way back upstairs. The tears on her cheeks caused a change in plan. He couldn't just go upstairs as if he didn't notice or care. He set the mugs on coasters and then settled onto the coffee table in front of her. He waited.

She raised her head and regarded him with accusing eyes. "I dreamed you were a woman," she said. "And you were trying to kill me."

He swallowed. "Jul," he said quietly, "we need counseling."

"I told you," she said, "I'm not going to any stupid counseling."

"You'd rather keep having dreams like that?"

"No!" she said, kicking her feet outward.

He let them slam onto his thighs in hopes that the mini-violence of the act would help her feel better.

"I want you," she said, her teeth clenched as she ground her heels into his thighs, "to fix the things that make me have dreams like that."

"Well, then, we have a problem," he said, lifting her perfectly pedicured feet into his hands, "because I don't know what the hell would've made you dream I was trying to kill you."

"You suffocated me," she said. "With a pillow."

"And you feel like there's some meaning there," he said. Julianna wasn't a particularly self-aware individual but she loved reading astrology and dream-interpretation texts.

"Of course I do!" she said. "People don't just dream things for no reason."

"Why don't you tell me what you think it means?"

"I shouldn't have to tell you!"

He sighed, fighting off frustration. "Well, if I had to venture a guess about what you think it means, I suppose it could be that you feel stifled by our marriage. Is that how you want me to interpret it?"

"Maybe."

Only a few months before, she'd complained that they never had enough time together. He'd taken the summer off to give them time. Then she said she needed more 'me-time' and so he'd spent a lot of time in his own areas of the new house, his upstairs office and his basement recording studio and computer lab. She seemed to spend most of that time on her phone and laptop, talking to God-only-knew whom. "It'll be better," he said. "I'm working now. You'll start school next week." She was in law school but had taken the summer away from classes. "We won't be in each other's way all the time."

"You're saying I'm in your way?"

It felt that way sometimes--like when he needed to get ready for his first day at a new job and was waylaid by one of her mini-crises. She had either terrible or impeccable timing. He'd begun to suspect the latter. She sprang her moments at the worst possible times for him, which seemed to indicate some degree of intent. What he didn't know was how much of it she did on purpose and how much might be attributable to subconscious motives having their way with her--and him, by extension. He'd come to suspect she felt insecure about anything he might enjoy in life that wasn't her. All he knew for certain was that she really was miserable and she really did blame him for all of it.

"Maybe that's why I dreamed you were trying to kill me," she said. "Because you feel stifled by our marriage and maybe want to get rid of me sometimes."

No, you dreamed I was trying to kill you because you're a wacko. Unless, of course, you're just making this up because you're a bitch. That wasn't something he thought he should say to his new wife. Much better to gently suggest counseling.

It would be understandable if she needed some help to try to come to terms with their reality. Shane kept in touch with both a psychiatrist and a psychologist. He mostly did it only as a safeguard in case his grandfather decided to try again to have him committed but, now and then, they provided him a bit of advice he could use. Julianna had no one. She steadfastly refused counseling. Her mother, who'd recently witnessed one of her outbursts, had since told Shane that it had been the same throughout her adolescence and teen years, when she still lived at home. She professed a disdain for the mental health profession, but Shane suspected part of her reluctance was based on fear that if a professional began digging, he'd find out there was a great deal more wrong with her than she ever wanted to admit. Whatever the reason, she'd come into the marriage with problems that should have been addressed a long time before. How he could have lived with her for almost two years and not known how unstable she was, he could not fathom. Evidently, he'd met her at a time when she had managed to glue herself together pretty well, but the things she discovered about him in the context of their engagement and marriage had been more than she could take.

He hoped she could put herself back together, as she evidently had in the past, but thought she'd have an easier time of it--and maybe do a better job--if she had some help. He could only do so much because she was suspicious of nearly everything that came out of his mouth. She'd decided he was a very good liar, which was true. She'd also decided he cared more about giving himself what he wanted than giving her what she wanted, which wasn't true.

"Maybe a counselor could help us make sense of what's going on here, Julianna."

"I know what's going on here, Shane," she said, snatching her feet back. She rolled to a standing position and glared down at him. "What I don't know is why you won't fix it."

He lifted his mug and took a long drink. He set it down and spoke slowly. "So once again, all our problems come down to my phallus."

"Yes."

"And what does that have to do with your dreaming I wanted to kill you?"

"I told you!" she said. "I dreamed you were a woman!"

"And you think you wouldn't have dreams like that if I got another surgery on my dick?"

"I wouldn't if it worked this time."

"It worked last night, didn't it?" he said. "For about two hours, best I recall?"

"That doesn't mean it will ever work again, does it?"

He closed his eyes and bit his lip, wondering if he would ever get through to her. He pushed up from the coffee table and stood looking into her accusing eyes. In his sock-clad feet and her bare ones, they were almost exactly the same height--5'2". "Jul," he said, "you dreamed I was a woman. Not that I was a man with a messed-up dick or even a man with no dick at all. You dreamed I was a woman, which is a very different thing. Even if I got the surgery and they could make that part of me perfect, which they can't, it wouldn't erase the other things about me that made you dream I was a woman." He took her hand in his smaller one. "I'm really, really sorry," he said. "I wish I could fix this for you, but I can't. I have to live with what I am. You're the only one who can decide whether you want to live with what I am."

"It would be a lot easier if you had a fully functional body."

"Maybe it would," he said. "But I cannot get one of those, Julianna. There is no doctor on Earth who can give me that."

"Well, they could do better than what you've got."

"Maybe and maybe not," he said. "I'm sorry, Jul. I told you. I can't take that chance. Not again. Not now."

Julianna had a valid complaint. The implant the doctors had put into him in the last surgery was a lemon. It worked only when it wanted to. If it were a small appliance meant to go on a shelf, he'd have taken it back to the store for a replacement. In this case, though, replacement meant more trips to the doctors, more time in the hospital, more degradation, more pain, and more scars, all to potentially end up worse off than he was now.

A second implant might not work any better than the first, once it was in him. He had no doubt that if he agreed to that surgery, Julianna would want more. He could hear her now. "Since they're going to be working on it anyway, could they make it look a little better, too?" There was no guarantee the end result would be any more pleasing to Julianna than what he had now. She might hate it even more. Besides, there were only so many places from which they could graft. The insides of both forearms and one thigh bore the telltale scars and he hated them. Though he wasn't a huge fan of body art, he'd gotten katanas inked onto his arms to help mask them.
His male parts were far from ideal but at least they were mostly real, live human tissue. Still, he'd lost more sensation with every surgery and there was precious little left. If the doctors killed it, he'd be left with no option but to get some serious hardware down there, and he wasn't impressed with the current state of the art.

At the very least, he thought the safest thing would be to wait a few years until doctors knew a little more about what they were doing and had better products to offer. Julianna initially had agreed with that plan but had since changed her mind. She wanted him fixed and she wanted it now.

He wasn't ready to have yet more of himself sacrificed in the failed pursuit of penile excellence.

"You would do it if you loved me," she said, snatching her hand from his.

"And if you loved me, you'd let the subject go," he said. He drew a deep breath and exhaled. "Now. I need to go to work. Why don't you tell me what you think you need right now in order to feel less stifled or less like I'm feeling so stifled that I'm a threat to you? Which, I feel the need to tell you, is a ridiculous notion."

"Maybe I just need, you know, to get out sometimes," she said. "I haven't been out with my friends since you quit the band."

They'd been out with friends of hers several times over the past few months but that was a different crowd. The ones she wanted were the ones with whom she'd spent her Friday and Saturday nights while he was working. When he'd played with Painted Ghost, she'd always complained about having to find ways to keep herself entertained on the weekends. Though she could have gone to the shows, she didn't want to. It was boring hearing the same music over and over, she said, and she didn't like having to stand by and watch women paw him. She'd always said things would be perfect if he quit the band and spent all his weekends with her. Two months before, he'd quit the band. Now that he had, she evidently didn't like being with him every weekend, after all.

"Go, then," he said. "Have fun."

"It might be good for us," she said, nodding. "Married people aren't supposed to be together twenty-four-seven, right? So if I go out with them like one night a week, on Fridays, we'll appreciate our time together more."

A night a week? It was worse than he'd realized. "Fine," he said, "go."

He picked up his mug and headed for the stairs. Her voice came from behind him.

"Don't you care?"

Frankly, my dear harlot, I don't give a fuck. But the problem was, he did. "I care, Jul. But I want you to be happy. If that makes you happy, then go." But please don't go home with anybody. He started up the stairs.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"I'll find something."

"You won't go to Briar's, will you?"

"No," he said.

Briar's was a sex club in D.C. They had memberships under the names Daye Stark and Ashleigh Preston. She liked going there a great deal more than he did.

He didn't have much time to get ready. He slapped concealer over the scars at his hairline and beneath his jaw, camouflaging the evidence of the surgeries that had masculinized his face, then turned his attention to his hair. It had almost dried. He ran through it with a wet comb, added gel, and picked up the blow dryer and his brush. He bent at the waist, blowing his hair outward to give it body.

Vanity was said to be the deadliest of the seven sins. He hoped that rule didn't apply when it came to hair. He loved his hair, all eighteen golden inches of it. He knew it looked about twenty years out of date, being layered Eighties hair-band hair, but it was his style and he planned to keep it. He'd always loved long hair. He'd had it his whole childhood, until he was ten and his grandparents shaved it off. He'd revelled in growing it back once he was too smart and too fast for them to catch him. He'd loved that his grandfather hated his hair, which was probably about the same way his father had felt when he had a similar look back when it actually was in style. Shane further liked that the style helped hide the scars at the edges of his face. It also meant he could occasionally go shirtless, as society said men were supposed to, without feeling too naked, so nobody was left wondering why he never did. At the same time, it provided natural cover for the mastectomy scars.

Julianna lay on the couch, watching a movie, when he made his way back through the living room in a white, cotton shirt and black pants. She sat up, pausing the DVD player and patting the couch beside her. "Come here."

He wished she'd stop patting the couch. She didn't used to do that. He ignored the place she'd specified for him and knelt beside the couch.

Her eyes looked deeply into his. "You do know I love you," she said. "Right?"

He started to answer but the sound caught in his throat. He swallowed and nodded. She did love him, in her way. It just sucked that doing it made her so unhappy. She'd liked loving him, before. She'd been good at it. He leaned and put a kiss on her forehead. "Love you, too," he whispered, his lips against her skin. He smiled as he drew away. "Gonna wish me luck?"

"Good luck on your first official day of throwing your life away," she said--but at least she was almost smiling. For the moment, she seemed to be taking his grandmother's advice and indulging him in hopes he would come to his senses. She'd decided after they got married that becoming a high school teacher was beneath him. He blamed it on her having spent too much time listening to his grandfather.

He put a kiss on her lips, took from the refrigerator the lunch he'd packed the night before, and left for his day.

His feet felt heavier with every step toward the black Jeep. He'd put the hard-top on it the day before and packed boxes containing things he wanted to take to the school. He'd felt no misgivings then and had taken that as a good sign, an indication that, despite all his initial worries related to the prospect of the new job, he'd made the right decision.

He realized now the worries hadn't really gone away. They'd just lain in wait.

He reached the Jeep but couldn't bring himself to get in. He leaned against the door, eyes closed.

There was a possibility that, in becoming a teacher, he really would end up ruining his life, though not in the way Julianna meant. What if he ruined someone else's life? That would be incalculably worse than ruining his own. A lot of responsibility came with teaching kids. What if he couldn't handle it but didn't realize he was in over his head?

Would the kids even give a damn what he had to say to them? A lot of the students would be only two years younger than he was. More than a few would have seen a great deal more of the world than he had. And almost all of them would be bigger than he was.

What if some of them did put faith in him? And then his secrets got revealed? What would that do to them?

What about the other teachers? What right did he have making friends when so much of what he showed of himself would only be more lies? There were times he saw his life as a mountain of lies and it just kept getting bigger.

What the hell had made him think he wanted or needed to be a teacher?

He had no answer. It had just always been where he was going. Once upon a time, he'd gone to seminary, but even that had been because he wanted to teach.

Knowing this was what he wanted, why the hell hadn't he lived his life more appropriately? More importantly, why couldn't he at least now bring himself to give up the aspects of his life that were inconsistent with being a teacher? The only answer he had was that he enjoyed them and they paid well. What kind of monster did that make him?

Which mattered most? The means or the ends? He generally thought the ends but other people invariably got all caught up in the means.

He really wanted a joint. A valium or two would be good.

He pushed the drug thoughts away. He pushed all the thoughts away. He drew and exhaled several deep breaths.

"Am I supposed to take this job?" he whispered.

The answer came inside him, sure and without hesitation. It wasn't so much a word as the feeling of 'yes.' It rolled through him, gentle waves caressing him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and everything was better. He'd always believed that was the voice of God. He realized a great many people, if they knew about it, would attribute it to some part of his admittedly warped psyche, and he had no evidence to refute that. Even in his weakest moments, though, he never doubted the voice. Whatever it was, whether the direct voice of God or a gift from God in the form of his own greater self, experience had proven it smarter than the rest of him, and so he listened when it spoke. At the times when he felt it, he was certain God was there.

Of course, just because he was supposed to take the job didn't mean it was going to be a pleasant thing in his life. God sometimes accomplished His goals in ways Shane didn't understand. It remained possible this really was the first official day of ruining his life but, if so, then that was God's plan. He considered asking that question but changed his mind. Either way, he would take the job because it was what he needed to do. Taking it, knowing it would only bring pain, would be borrowing trouble from the future. He had enough troubles already.

Still, there was another question he felt obligated to ask, though he wasn't sure he wanted it answered. This wasn't the first time he'd asked. "Do I need to stop being Daye Stark?"

No answer came. He always interpreted a non-answer as a 'no'.

"That works," he said. He pushed away from the Jeep, opened the door, threw his lunch onto the passenger seat, and jumped inside.

It might be the first official day of ruining his life, but it was time to get on with it.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The radio roared to life with the Jeep, Trent Reznor wanting sex, and Shane smiled. Reznor was pretty hot. That was a much better way to start a Monday morning than listening to Bryan sing about how fucked-up life was.

When the song ended, he turned off the radio and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, pushing buttons. Ordinarily, he didn't do much talking in the Jeep because he drove it with no top or the soft top and it was loud that way. The hard top helped muffle the sound.

After two rings, a woman answered with the call letters of the station.

"This is Just N. Thyme," he said, giving the name under which he'd played drums for Bryan's band, Painted Ghost, before the others took off for California in pursuit of fame, fortune and lots of women. "I wanna talk to Keith."

She giggled. "Hold on," she said. "I'll put you through."

Seconds later, the D.J. picked up. "Yo, Baby Bro," he said.

Bryan and the other members of Painted Ghost had called him that on stage because they were all several years older than he was. Over time, others had picked it up, until that was used to refer to him more often than the stage name. It was widely rumored that he hated the name. Then again, he professed to hate the other band members, the audience and the media as well.

"You're on the air," Keith said. "What can I do for you?"

"You could maybe start with slittin' your wrists," Shane said.

"Whoooooa," Keith said. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the crib this morning."

"You pissed me off," Shane said. "What the hell you doing, playing that depressing 'Let Me Start Over' crap at five-forty-five in the morning? Especially on a Monday? And furthermore, on a Monday morning at five-forty-five when I was up past three, doin' the nasty? I am warning you. Don't let it happen again."

"Yeah," Keith said. "I must've been out of my head. You willing to let it go?"

Shane remained silent.

Keith cleared his throat. "Alrighty, then," he said. "Now that we got that straight, is there anything you wanted to say to our listeners?"

"Yeah," Shane said. "I just got one thing to say to them." He paused a moment, giving the engineer time to get ready for the bleeps. "They're nothing but a bunch of fucking asshole Bryan Black wannabes and he's a lying, pussy-chasing sack of shit, and every one of them can lick my dingleberry-encrusted cornhole."

"Well, little man," Keith said, snickering.

"Don't you fucking call me that!"

"Don't hold back."

"I will come up there and rip out your goddamned windpipe and shove it up your over-used ass."

"Tell us how you really feel."

"I feel like shit, man," Shane said. "I need some beer."

"You're not getting it from me. You're under-age."

"I don't need it from you," Shane said. "I'm on my way to your house. Your old lady said she'd gimme some if I fuck her. I just wanted to call and make sure you were still at the station, so I'd know how much time we had. It's cool you're there. I prob'ly got time to do her mouth, her pussy and her ass before you get there and I have to hurt you." He disconnected.

He made several turns and then followed a deserted, tree-lined, two lane road. The school slowly came into view beyond the edge of the trees. Once he could see the whole of it, he stopped and looked. Hilldale High School was a behemoth of brick and mortar. The original building, constructed in the sixties, was a straight shot, three stories high. New wings had been added as they were needed and the overall structure now was a square.

He'd seen it a few times over the years and it had meant something to him, being his father's school. Now it was different. It was his school, too.

He put the Jeep back into gear and headed for the parking lot. As he pulled into one of the many empty spaces in the faculty parking area, his phone played "Please Come to Boston." He smiled and took Bryan's call.

"Hey."

"Hey, Ghost," Bryan said. "Just wanted to call and say I'm thinkin' of you today."

"Thank you," Shane said. It wasn't surprising Bryan remembered that was his first day at the school. That was the way Bryan was. The things that mattered to Shane always mattered to him. Still, it was about four in the morning, where Bryan was.

"But... you know... if you hate it, and I know I shouldn't say this but I hope you do, then get your little ass out here, baby."

"After the way you ditched me?" Shane said, laughing. "Fuck you, man!"

Bryan's response was an evil laugh. His tongue-in-cheek version of Painted Ghost's departure from Maryland had the band members sneaking away in the middle of the night, leaving behind the obnoxious and troublesome Baby Bro so they could make a new start. In reality, Shane had helped negotiate the recording contract, bought the touring bus in which they'd departed, and hugged them all goodbye. Watching them drive away had been among the hardest things he'd ever done. They had dreams, though, and he wanted them all to come true. He just didn't have the same dreams they did.

He didn't want to tour. He didn't want to deal with the crowds or the scrutiny that would come with fame. He'd wanted to stay in Maryland with Julianna, to keep building on the foundation he'd begun. His dream was something he hadn't known since he was six years old--a normal family life. He'd wanted the wife, the children, and the little, white house with the picket fence. He had the wife now. The huge, brick house wasn't at all what he'd envisioned, but he could live with it since Julianna liked it. The children--he hoped someday he and Julianna could adopt. First, though, they had some issues to resolve.

"You ought to see what you're missing," Bryan said, and began describing the hotel. Label head and producer Gary Kilgorne had put a lot of effort into the band's meet-and-greet schedule. Every time Shane and Bryan talked, lately, Bryan described the digs-du-jour, which invariably were part of a five-star hotel or somebody's mansion.

Shane couldn't have cared less about the hotels and mansions. He knew what he was missing--Bryan Black and the other members of Painted Ghost. He missed them almost desperately at times. They'd been a daily presence in his life, co-workers and pseudo-family, since he was fourteen years old. Now they were gone and their departure had left a huge hole in his life. Shane had never been much for socializing but spending time with people he loved, making music, had become his way of life. Now it was gone.

Julianna had complained about the time he spent with the band but, in the time since Bryan and the others left, she'd shown little interest in spending time with him.

He didn't have to be lonely. There were friends he could call, people he could see if he wanted to, but they all had their own interests and their own lives to live. What he missed most about Bryan and the others was living a life together. He'd never actually moved into the band's house--there was always too much noise and bustle there, and he'd needed his quiet time--but it had still felt like the home of his family, a place where he was welcome anytime and always felt like he belonged, a place where a person had the option of laying his problem on a table for everybody there to help fix.

He'd known he would miss Painted Ghost. He just hadn't known quite how much.

A blue Ford pulled into a nearby space and Mary exited. She saw Shane and waved. He lifted his hand. Mary looked toward the building but didn't go there. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking ill-at-ease, and returned her eyes to Shane. They needed to go in. It was almost seven.

"You been to bed yet?" Shane asked when Bryan paused for breath.

"No," Bryan said. "Stayed up. Was scared I wouldn't wake up to call you if I went to bed."

Shane smiled. "I'm glad you called."

"But you need to go."

"Kinda'," Shane said.

"All right, baby," Bryan said, then laughed. "Guess it would kinda' suck if I made you late for your first day after I called to give you luck for your first day. So, you have a good day."

"'Night, Bryan."

Shane disconnected and put his phone into his pocket as he exited the car. "We ready?" he said as he walked to Mary's car.

"As ready as we're going to get, I guess," she said, squaring her shoulders. An English teacher, she had the look of a small-town librarian, from the brown bob to the chain on her horn-rimmed glasses. She was cute, in a bookish sort of way, but a little on the sour side.

They walked together toward the building.

"How much do you want to bet Dan's already in there, ingratiating himself?" she said.

Shane laughed. He probably was. What else would an ass-kisser be doing in those circumstances? During the superintendent's visit to the orientation, Dan had monopolized the man's time, asking all kinds of intelligent-sounding, stupid questions, many of them related to advancement potential. The man hadn't worked a day yet and already wanted a promotion.

The doors were locked. Shane pushed the bell and, when the buzzer sounded, opened the door. Mary's footsteps echoed in the wide, empty, beige corridor as they made their way toward the office.

Shane opened the office door and followed Mary inside. The first thing he saw was Sadie Plankett's smiling face. Since she was only about his height, only her old-lady-blue-haired head and shoulders showed over the high counter. "May I help you?" she said, her green eyes twinkling.

"It's our first day," Shane answered, playing the game.

"I'm sorry, young man," she said. "I can understand your eagerness to get started here at high school. But students don't start until next week."

He gave her the finger.

"No," Mary said, unaware of Shane's nonverbal response. "We're teachers."

A red head along with an upper torso appeared as a second woman behind Sadie's counter stood. "This must be Miss Greene and Dr. Fetters."

Mary turned to Shane with wide eyes. "You've got a PhD?"

"Bought it on eBay," Shane said.

The middle-aged redhead continued, "I hope Sadie hasn't offended you with her presumptuousness, Dr. Fetters."

"Naw, I'm good," Shane said. "But I'd rather go by 'mister.'"

"As you wish," she said, though her tone made it seem as if he'd offended her by stating his preference in titles. "I'm Geraldine Restern, executive secretary. This is Sadie Plankett, my assistant. Sadie will show you to the conference room. Mr. Hallock will join you shortly."

Sadie led Shane and Mary down the corridor and opened the door to the conference room.

Dan shot to his feet when the door opened but, after realizing who was entering, settled back into his chair.

"Morning," Shane said.

Dan gave both of them nods of acknowledgement. Shane couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. It must be a terrible thing to be that desperate to succeed. Since learning that they'd both be teaching math at the same school, Dan had wanted to play the one-up game.

"There's coffee and doughnuts," Sadie said, gesturing to the side table. "Help yourselves."

"Thank you," Shane said, heading to the table.

"They're from Jimson's," she said, naming his favorite doughnut shop.

He remembered, as he chose an apple fritter, that it was a very good feeling to be loved.

He settled himself at the table with his coffee and doughnut. Sadie had gone and the three teachers-to-be sat in silence for several minutes.

"Can I ask you something?" Mary asked, fixing her eyes on Shane.

"What?"

"Exactly how old are you?"

"Twenty."

"And you've got a PhD?"

"What?" Dan said.

"The woman in the office called him 'doctor'," Mary said.

"You've got a PhD?" Dan demanded.

"Yeah."

"At twenty?"

"Yeah."

"In what?"

"Applied math."

"And you didn't see fit to tell us this?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It just didn't seem like something we needed to talk about."

"How much are they paying you?"

The doorknob clicked. Dan shot to his feet. Shane and Mary rose more slowly as the principal, George Hallock, entered the room. Shane had met Mr. Hallock during an interview as part of the hiring process. He came across as a no-nonsense kind of man, which Shane supposed might be the right kind of persona for a high-school principal. Still, he had the sense Mr. Hallock was playing the part and that there was a great deal more to his personality than he readily showed. Mr. Hallock shook Mary's hand and then Shane's before turning his attention to Dan, then they settled into their chairs.

The principal talked for close to two hours, giving a quick overview of the school's forty-year history and talking in-depth about the current situation. The student body that year would number about twenty-seven hundred. There were fifty-nine teachers, twelve of them in the Math Department. Eventually, he entertained questions. Mary asked a couple and Dan asked a few. The principal fixed his eyes on Shane. "Do you have any questions, Mr. Fetters?"

Shane shook his head. There was a lot he didn't yet know about how the school worked, but he'd prefer to learn as he went. It had been his experience in life that, the fewer the things that were explicitly stated as rules, the more things one could get away with doing.

The principal took them on a tour of the school, introducing them to others as they went. They found the guidance counselors in a meeting and met all nine of them at once. They were cordial and welcoming but, when it came to Shane, it was all false. Their smiles were too rigid, their welcomes too hearty. Their eyes betrayed them with hints of emotion ranging from derision to something closer to fear. Shane felt the tension in their handshakes and in the air around them.

When he was young, he hadn't known how to read people. Hard experience had taught him that they often looked and sounded on the outside very different from how they were on the inside and that they didn't always say what they really thought. He'd spent a year of intensive focus developing his interpersonal skills and had since continued working to expand and refine them. It had all gotten easier once he understood about the more subtle verbal and aural cues and made the connections between them and the feelings of the energy waves in the air. He'd come to realize that the energies, which he'd always sensed but hadn't known how to interpret, were more reliable indicators than the ones people could better control. He knew he still wasn't an expert on reading people, but sometimes he did seem to pick up on things other people didn't. He thought that was probably because he paid more attention--because he had to.

He thought it likely one or more of the guidance counselors had been brought in at some point when the county was deciding whether to hire him. The decision-makers might have wanted counselors' perspectives about whether he would be an appropriate hire for the classroom. He didn't have to wonder what they would have answered. The only one who didn't try to hide behind a mask of friendliness was Faith Rush. She met his eyes with a look that was almost challenging and a half-smile that said she'd be watching him. A tallish woman with dark hair and eyes--maybe a Spanish or Caribbean influence, he thought--she portrayed the graceful balance between professionalism and genuineness. He felt more comfortable with her honest dislike than with the pasted-on cheerfulness of the others.

"If there's anything I can do to help you get settled, please let me know," she said to the newcomers.
She seemed to really mean it. Even better, she seemed intelligent enough to actually be a potential help to a person in need.

"You'll be working closely with Fawn Martin, Faith's sister," the principal told Mary. "She's one of our English teachers."

They continued their tour. On the second floor, the principal led them into the classroom that would be Shane's. As Shane stood surveying his new domain, the reality sank in. He was a teacher. He'd have been content to stay there the rest of the day, but the principal led them on until they'd covered all three floors. Finally, he took them back to the office.

"If you have no further questions," he said, "I leave you to get settled."

Shane was glad to hear those words. He was eager for a little quiet time in his own new space. He turned for the door.

"Mr. Fetters," the principal said, "I'd like you to remain for a few minutes."

Shane went still, wondering what the principal might want with him. It could be so many things.

Evidently, there'd already been a major blow-up among Board of Education members over the issue of hiring him. After learning about his history with Painted Ghost, some of the members had felt pretty strongly that someone with his past shouldn't be allowed to teach in one of their high schools. They'd wanted him, but only if they could put him in an administrative role where the superintendent could keep a watch on him and where he'd be separated from the students. He'd turned down that offer. He wanted to be a teacher, not a bureaucrat. Eventually, the decision had been reached to let him be a teacher, but there remained some dissenters. Maybe they'd managed to swing the rest of the board to their view. Or maybe they'd all found out about the phone- and internet-sex company he ran. He didn't think they had. He thought he'd buried that reality under sufficient layers of subterfuge that it would be hard for anyone but a highly trained and exceedingly motivated investigator to discover. There also was little chance they knew about Daye Stark and his involvement in the local BDSM scene, which was a good thing for him. No doubt they wouldn't want their daughters learning calculus from a man who gave cunnilingus lessons on the weekends.

He followed the principal into the inner office and watched as he closed the door, wondering if that was a bad sign.

The principal gestured him to a chair and then took his place behind the desk.

"I understand you have a black belt and teach karate," the principal said.

Shane nodded, suspecting where the man was going.

"And you also teach self-defense classes with the county?"

Shane nodded. The focus of those classes was to help women protect themselves from rape.

"So you clearly would know how to restrain someone without hurting him."

"Yeah."

"Well, as you can imagine, we occasionally have incidents, altercations between students. There are a few teachers I call on to help get those situations under control without hurting our students. I wondered if you might be willing to help."

Shane was quiet for a moment, trying to decide how to answer.

"It would require a training video and signing a few papers," the principal said. "I'll understand if it's not something that interests you, but we could really use the help."

Shane finally spoke. "I won't go in restrooms or locker rooms when students are there."

The principal studied him, clearly wanting to ask why, but uncertain whether that would be overstepping his bounds. Curiosity won. "May I ask why?"

"I'm not comfortable around nudity." The answer wasn't nearly that simple, but that should suffice. It was true that among the last places he'd ever want to be was in a room full of testosterone-pumped, naked males. Just as importantly, though, he didn't want to take a chance on the school or county ever being held accountable for letting Daye Stark lay eyes or hands on vulnerable youths' bare bodies.

The principal was quiet for a moment, evidently hoping for an expanded explanation, but then spoke. "All right," he said. "You're off the hook for restrooms and locker rooms. Will you do it?"

Shane nodded. "I can do it."

"Good," the principal said, nodding in satisfaction.

"We done?"

"There were a few other matters I wanted to discuss," the principal said. "We're going to need to appoint a new lead for the Math Department."

"What happened to Mr. Garrett?" Shane asked. He'd been head of the Math Department and had interviewed Shane along with Mr. Hallock. He was a kindly old man with rheumy eyes and unsteady hands.

"He retired," Mr. Hallock said. It was a straightforward enough answer, but he didn't quite meet Shane's eyes as he said it, and he shifted a little in his seat.

"Unexpectedly?" Shane asked.

"It wasn't a complete surprise," Mr. Hallock said. "But rather suddenly."

"Is that why Dan got hired?" Shane asked. When he'd interviewed, he'd understood that there was only one math opening at Hilldale.

"It is," Mr. Hallock said. "We were one short after Mr. Garrett left. Anyway, we need a new department lead. And I hoped you would agree to do that."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I do not know the first thing about teaching high school math," Shane said. "And I certainly do not know how to lead a high school math department."

"You have the degrees."

"Education is a poor substitute for experience."

"I know," Mr. Hallock said on a sigh. "I know. I didn't want it to be this way. I thought... you could be here, learn for a time, and then take the position. But Mr. Garrett left and now I have no department lead."

"But you've got how many returning teachers to choose from?" Shane said. "Ten?"

"None of them is right for this job."

"So you can't get any of them to take it?"

"That's not what I said."

"Okay, fine," Shane said, "maybe they're not ideal. But they'd be a hell of a lot better in the job than I would."

The principal sighed and leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling. "That might be true for the first few months, while you're finding your way," he said. "But what this job requires is an innovator." He lowered his head and fixed his eyes on Shane. "If I put someone else into that job, I would need grounds to remove them in order to put you into it. I don't want to deal with that. Because we hired you for that job, Shane."

"That is not the job for which I applied, George."

"Nonetheless, it is the job I had in mind when I fought to get you here."

"Did Garrett know that?" Shane asked. "Is that why he left?"

Mr. Hallock sighed. "He needed to retire."

"Were you actually going to push him out of the job to put me in it?" Shane said. "Look for grounds to remove him?"

"Well, I hoped it wouldn't come to that," the principal said. "But I wouldn't have had to look. He was not performing satisfactorily. He should have been replaced years ago."

Shane pushed up from the chair, pacing. He didn't at all like the idea that the old man had ended his career that way. He told himself it wasn't his fault, and it wasn't--at least, not directly. But it might not have happened if he hadn't applied. He'd barely met the man and he'd ruined his life.

The air in the office felt stifling. He moved to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be back," Shane said.

He walked for a time on the school grounds and then moved into the woods. He sat with his back against a tree, working to regain his sense of peace with the world. He didn't want education to be a cutthroat profession. He wanted it to be noble and true.

Why hadn't Sadie told him there were issues? Surely she knew. If only he'd known, he could have told Hallock early on he didn't want the job, and everything would be all right now.

He needed to know the old man was all right. His hands shook as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He prayed he would do no harm in calling.

The call was answered in his voice--his latest computing masterpiece, Ziggy. "What?"

"Call connect."

"Specify parameters."

"Name, Roger Garrett. Employer, former, Dane County. Employment location, former, Hilldale High School. End parameters."

The ringing came immediately and Shane smiled. Ziggy was getting faster at analyzing connections to draw conclusions. His upper body rocked while he waited for the answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi," he said. "Mr. Garrett?"

"Speaking."

"This is Shane Fetters."

He heard something like a smile in the old man's voice. "Well, hello, Dr. Fetters. How are you?"

"I'm doin' okay," Shane answered. "How are you?"

"Doing quite well, thank you," Mr. Garrett said. "I was hoping you'd call. Otherwise, I intended to track you down in the next week or two."

"What for?"

"To see how you were doing."

Shane bit his lip. "Not so good," he confessed, amending his previous answer.

"I'm listening."

"It's my first day at the school."

"And Mrs. Restern was a witch?"

Shane laughed. That was just how Sadie had described her and he thought, from the few moments he'd spent in the woman's company, it probably was true.

Mr. Garrett spoke again. "And George wants you to lead the Math Department?"

"And I have no desire to do such a thing and no idea how I'd go about it, even if I did."

"You don't like being in charge?"

"No."

"Willing to step up when needed?"

"Most times."

"Then I suggest you do that now," Mr. Garrett said. "Because if you don't, you'll soon find yourself part of a group led by someone less intelligent, less qualified and less dedicated. And I don't think you'd be very happy that way."

Shane spun a twig between his fingers, watching the blurs it made. "Why aren't you here to save me from that?"

Mr. Garrett laughed. "I'm not there largely because I don't want to be that," he said. "And I don't want to think of someone else moving into that job and destroying what I've accomplished there. I have faith that you will be wise enough to know what's worth keeping. Now. Take the job. Do so with the certainty that, given what I know based on your documentation, phone calls to references, and the interview, I am convinced you are the right person for that job. And come see me on your way home today."

"Thank you, Mr. Garrett."

"I look forward to your visit," the old man said, then gave the address. "So I'll see you this afternoon?"

"I'll be there."

"See you then."

Mr. Garrett disconnected.

Shane thought Mr. Garrett probably would have made a damned fine professor.

He pressed the buttons to dial Julianna.

"Hello, there, sexy," she answered.

He smiled. "Hello, beautiful."

"You having a good day?"

"It's goin' okay," he said. "The principal asked me to do something and I figured I'd talk to you first."

"Tell me."

"He asked me if I would head the Math Department."

"You're kidding."

"No."

"So what does this mean for us?"

"Well, it might mean a few extra hours on work now and then," he said. "Not a whole lot, I don't think, but I didn't want to do it without checking with you."

"Any more money?"

"He didn't mention any," Shane said. "So I think this kinda' just falls into the 'other duties as assigned' category."

"You should ask for more money."

"So it's okay if I do it?"

"Of course it is," she said, and giggled. "My husband's not just a teacher. He's head of the Math Department."

"Okay, then," he said. "Guess I'll go tell him."

"Shane?"

"Huh?"

"You won't fuck this up, will you?"

He closed his eyes, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Hope not." He'd fucked up in a lot of ways in his life, but he'd never failed in academic or professional pursuits. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time-frame when Julianna started thinking of him as an all-around fuck-up, but he was pretty sure it happened right around the time they got married.

He'd failed at one stupid thing, the sex, and it seemed like she thought he couldn't do anything right anymore.

"I'm proud of you," she said.

He smiled. "That means a lot to me."

"So what time will you be home?"

"Not sure," he said. "It'll be late for a school day, though. Sometime after seven, I guess."

"Why so late?"

"I gotta do stuff in the class. Then I got an appointment to talk about the department stuff."

"Okay, then," she said. "But I miss you."

"Miss you, too, Jul."

"'Bye," they said at the same time, and he disconnected.

He hoped he could keep Julianna proud of him. If he could be an acceptable husband in some ways, it might help compensate for the areas where he was lacking.

His heart felt a ton lighter on the way back into the building than it had when he left. He still had no overwhelming desire to be in charge, but Mr. Garrett had pegged him right. He'd do it if it meant saving the Math Department from someone who'd only piss him off or get in his way. He had a little problem with incompetent authority figures.

He gave Sadie and Geraldine a smile as he made his way back into the main office, moving toward the principal's door.

"What are you doing?" Geraldine demanded.

"I told him I'd be back," Shane said. "I'm back." He knocked.

"Come in!" the principal called.

"He doesn't like to be disturbed," Geraldine said as Shane opened the door and moved through it. "When you want to see him, you are supposed to tell me so I can buzz him and tell him you are here."

Would he be any less disturbed if Geraldine were the one doing the disturbing? And would he really prefer an obnoxious buzz over a quiet knock, especially at a time when Shane had told him he'd return? Shane didn't think so. He thought it more likely she enjoyed being the gatekeeper.

A loud, harsh, buzzing sound came from the principal's desk, Geraldine's exclamation point.

"It's best not to make her angry," Mr. Hallock said as Shane closed the door, but he was laughing. "She's in the payroll chain."

Shane laughed, but the whole situation made him a little sad. Sadie had once been executive secretary. She'd stepped aside when she realized she was slowing down. She'd been eager to pass the job to someone with more verve and happy to do so early enough that there'd be a few years of overlap so she could teach her replacement the things she'd learned in her long history at Hilldale. Then her replacement arrived and, almost from the start, treated her like a half-wit. Now Sadie felt she couldn't retire. She didn't have the heart to abandon the school under Geraldine's reign. Shane hoped Mr. Garrett hadn't left because he feared ending up in a position like Sadie's.

He leaned his back against the door. "I'll take the job."

"Excellent," Mr. Hallock said, opening a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a four-inch binder and slid it across his desk. "Mr. Garrett left this."

Shane reverently lifted the book and skimmed the pages, knowing he held Mr. Garrett's four-inch summation of a long career--or at least the parts he'd deemed appropriate to put in writing. Some of the pages were computer printouts. Others were hand-written, the ones with early dates much more legible than the later ones. Still others were yellowed relics from the days when typewriters ruled the desk. It would take a long time to digest all that Mr. Garrett had compiled. "Thank you," Shane said, closing the book. He almost hugged it to his chest but then realized he was doing it and diverted the book, holding it down by his thigh as a man would. "I imagine there are some people who aren't gonna be happy to hear about this."

The principal nodded. "Now that I have your answer, I plan to call the members of your department to let them know. That will give them some time to get accustomed to the idea before they arrive," he said. "The curriculum for this year was finalized in the spring. I know you've already received a copy. Like you, the others were instructed to spend some time over the summer thinking about ways to implement it. Once they arrive, all of you will need to discuss the potential implementation plans and submit a proposal for my approval. By Thursday afternoon."

Two days, Shane thought. That gave them only two days.

"That's how we'll begin," Mr. Hallock said. "Of course, I'll submit our plan to the superintendent's office. They may come back with adjustments." His gray eyes shone as he smiled. "If you have any questions, have Geraldine buzz me."

"I'll do that," Shane said. "Are we done?"

"I need to ask something else." He lifted his pen, tapping the point against the blotter on his desk. "Would you consider cutting your hair?"

"No, Sir."

The principal nodded resignedly. Shane was pretty sure he'd expected that answer.

"Would you pull it back?"

"No."

"We're concerned it could prove a little distracting to the students."

Shane laughed. With all the the things kids had going on in their lives to distract them, he couldn't see his hair ranking high on the list. He wanted his hair the way it was. He didn't want people seeing his scars. Besides that, in an ironic way, he looked more feminine when his hair was pulled back than he did when he had it for camouflage. The way he wore it helped draw attention from his eyes and accentuated the squareness of his surgeon-designed jaw. Beyond that, it pressed the material of his loose, cotton shirts flat, making it readily apparent there were no female breasts there. Over the years, he'd seen countless people on the streets conducting visual scans on him, so he was well familiar with the eye trajectories. He always liked it better when they stopped at the face or chest rather than traveling lower to make the assessment. He was pretty sure he'd be a much greater distraction to the kids if they were trying to figure out what the hell he was.

Shane had personal reasons for keeping his hair the way he wanted it but he had equally personal reasons for not wanting anyone to know that. "You make all the women with long hair pull it back so they won't distract anybody?"

"No," the principal said, bristling at the implication of disparate treatment. "We do not."

"Well, I guess that covers that subject, then."

"I suppose it does."

"Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

"All right," Shane said. "Guess I'll go check out my classroom."

"About that," the principal said. "If I were you, I wouldn't spend much time decorating."

Shane laughed. "You saying I'm not gonna last long here?"

"You might not, if you keep telling me 'no'," the principal said through his smile. "But that's not why I said that."

"Why, then?"

The principal adjusted his glasses, lifted a paper from his desk, and began reading. "You'll see."

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Shane heard the hum of conversations as he passed the teachers' break room. Lunchtime. He knew the sociable thing to do would be grab his lunch from the Jeep, join the others in the break room, and look for a friendly face. Sometimes he made himself do the sociable thing. That day, though, he just wasn't willing to make the effort.

He stood in the door of his classroom, imagining how it would look, full of students. Things were a lot different here from how they were at Center, where he'd been a teaching assistant in the spring. Though the building was old, it was well-maintained. The desks weren't new, but they weren't covered with pock marks and years' worth of carvings by bored kids. None of the chairs displayed the kinds of cracks and splinters that would pinch and impale hapless students. One of the four blackboards had a chip in a corner and another showed a patch of old adhesive that someone had clearly tried to scrape away but, aside from those minor flaws, they looked good. He wished they were whiteboards, though. He liked full, vibrant colors on white much more than white and sickly-looking pastels on green-black. Besides, he hated chalk. He hated the way it smelled, like something long-dead. Dry-erase markers, by contrast, had an intoxicating scent, almost as potent as the smell of permanent markers. He also hated chalk for the way it dropped little pieces of itself everywhere. Chalk was a depressing thing in its visible, constant dwindling toward nothingness. He shuddered at just the thought of its residue on his hands. He thought maybe he'd bring some whiteboards.

Shane tried sitting behind the massive desk but it felt artificial. It also was way too high for him, even after he raised the chair to its highest setting and his feet couldn't reach the floor. He'd need to replace the chair or sit on a phone book to comfortably write there. It was a minor thing; he didn't expect to spend much time there, anyway. He'd likely spend a lot of time at the boards and moving among the students. He got up, rounded the desk, and sat on top of it, his feet dangling. He felt much more comfortable there than he had in the chair. Besides, from up there, he could see everything going on in the classroom. Still, would the kid in the last chair of the middle row be able to see everything that went on in the classroom? He didn't think so.

He went to the seat and lowered himself into it, then imagined all the chairs around him filled with students of equal or greater size. He could only see the top halves of the boards that way, and even then, only if he leaned. Not good. He supposed he could put the little ones in front and the larger ones in back, but a lot of short kids already felt self-conscious. Besides, that wouldn't work if there were big guys who had vision or hearing problems and needed places up front. He left the chair and began rearranging.

He put the desks into an arrangement reminiscent of a pie wedge, with fewer desks in front and more in the back. He staggered them so each had a decent range of vision. He sat on his desk again and looked out at the students' chairs. Much better, he decided.

The classroom had several empty bookshelves he couldn't wait to fill. There also were two huge, cream-colored locking cabinets. The key was in the handle of the one on the left. The cabinet was empty. He stood back, examining its shelves, and calculating how much of his stuff it would hold. The second cabinet had no key, but the key from the first one fit.

That cabinet was full, mostly with green-and-blue textbooks, the student versions of the teachers' copies he'd received over the summer. He'd be teaching geometry, algebra and calculus. Some of the books were brand new, since they'd been updated for the new year, and some had clearly passed hands a few times already. He ran his hand over the spines, touching each one, sending his best wishes to the students about to become their caretakers and wondering about the students who'd come and gone.

Shane loved books. Fancy bindings or cheap paperbacks, fiction or non, he loved them for what they represented. In some of his earliest memories, the little girl he'd once been and her father were reading together. Later, books had taken her all kinds of amazing places, allowing her mental and emotional escape from the dismal commune where her mother had seen fit to raise her after her father died. Later, after she'd been sent to live with her grandparents in a place that was much more refined but equally soul-sucking, the power of books had extended into physical reality. It was what he'd learned from them that had enabled him to escape his grandfather's house at the age of seventeen without fear that he'd end up having to live on the streets. He loved computers; there was no denying that. Books, though, would always be the heroes of his youth. He loved the way they felt in his hands and the way they looked, crisp text arranged in an orderly fashion on rectangles of paper, and he loved the sounds pages made when he turned them. He loved the smell of them, the mingled scent of paper and printer's ink, each varied production process rendering its own aroma. He loved the way they tasted, too, the fulfillment of the scents' promises, as diverse as the bouquets of wine. He never felt he fully possessed a book until he pressed his tongue to the sheaf of pages. He never tasted library books--no telling where they'd been, and he didn't think future borrowers should be subjected to pages he'd tongued--but he did taste the rare books that became his own, and they were even better than new ones. He'd been collecting them since he was sixteen and now had twenty, one for each year of his life, most of them written by philosophers and mathematicians. Despite the huge house he and Julianna had bought that summer, he hadn't brought the rare books home. They resided in a climate-controlled storage unit along with other personal treasures that he didn't think belonged in his life with Julianna.

Nobody knew he put his tongue to books. He'd never confess it and most certainly wouldn't let himself be caught doing it. That was, like many other aspects of his personality, a private matter, just another obsessive compulsion in a long list of them, and among the relatively harmless ones. He had an oral fixation. So what?

A question of the ages was whether crazy people knew they were crazy. He knew at least one of them did. No doubt about it, he was more than a little off.

The mind was a very strange and complicated thing, he thought, one with evidently abundant capacity, and yet it proved itself oddly self-limiting. For every bounty it bestowed upon its bearer in one realm, it seemed to draw payment from another. He didn't know why it was that the intellect so often drew from the well of sanity--one that, given his mother's odd behaviors, probably wasn't all that deep in him, to start with.

The world, of course, loved its crazy geniuses, but mostly only after they were dead and it didn't have to put up with them anymore.

The top shelf held papers and other things. He stood on his tiptoes but still couldn't get a good view of what was up there. He considered climbing the shelves but, after assessing the topple-potential factors, decided against it. Just wouldn't do to squish himself that way on his first day on the job. He pulled the rolling chair from beneath his desk, set it in front of the cabinet, and climbed up.

He found stacks of blank paper and graph paper. There also were boxes of pencils as well as a box that contained compasses, protractors, and other implements, evidently for the benefit of students who either didn't have any or forgot theirs on particular days. He'd brought a few implements of his own for the same reasons, along with some notebooks and other supplies. Even in the county, not all kids' families could afford to buy every item on the back-to-school list, especially when there were several kids in the family. He planned to play games with the kids throughout the year and let them choose prizes. For the start-of-year prizes, he'd gone heavy on the basics.

He jumped to the floor, pushed the chair out of the way, and closed the cabinet, putting the books back to bed for a few more days. They deserved the rest in preparation for whatever the kids might do to them once they came out of the cabinet.

He'd ignored the growing gnaw of hunger in his mid-section for close to an hour while he checked out the classroom, but now it had become downright annoying. He made his way out of the building, down the walk, and into the parking lot. Mary approached with a large box, clearly struggling under its weight.

He was never quite sure whether to offer assistance to women he didn't know well in circumstances such as that. Some women took offense. It especially seemed to bother them when males who were a great deal shorter than they were offered assistance. He didn't blame them, really. It bugged him sometimes when bigger guys offered to do things for him, though there were times offers of assistance were a godsend.

He was still working out the politics of the situation when a corner slipped from her fingers and the box began to tilt. Mary's cry of dismay was the deciding factor. Nobody would want to drop a box of her things if there was a convenient alternative. He hurried to close the distance between them and dropped to a knee, catching the box before it hit the pavement.

"You're quick," Mary said as he regained his feet.

He smiled. It was true. He was quick. It wasn't much compensation for being a runt, but it helped.

"Thank you," she said. "My husband packed the car for me. I didn't realize quite how heavy it was until I got here."

He nodded. He thought the box probably weighed about eighty pounds. A lot of men didn't realize how heavy eighty pounds could be to a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound woman like Mary. The box was also big and bulky, suitable for long arms but not so much for short ones. Because Shane's arms wouldn't reach to ideal locations for stability on the sides, he leaned back a little to better balance the weight. Years of the constant packing and unpacking of playing in a band had served him well. He carried the box to Mary's classroom, asked her where she wanted it, and then slid it down his body until it rested on his feet and the floor. He tilted it with his hands to get his feet loose. "Any more?"

"No," she said, "that was the last one. I'd kept putting it off."

"All right, then," he said. "See ya later."

He carried his boxes to the classroom, set up his CD player, and put in Mozart. He sat cross-legged on top of his desk, eating his ham sandwich and chips, drinking his Coke, and deciding where to put his things. The classroom had clearly been well-cleaned at some point over the summer, but some surfaces showed layers of dust. When he finished eating, he pulled out his cleaning supplies and put on his rubber gloves. He filled the bucket in the restroom and went to work, dumping, cleaning and refilling the bucket several times.

A knock came as he was wiping down a desk. He'd heard people passing by several times but hadn't heard this one coming. He raised his head and made out the silhouette through the frosted glass panel in the door. A short person with fuzzy hair. Might be Sadie. That would explain why he hadn't heard her coming. Her geriatric shoes, with their rubber soles, enabled her to operate in stealth mode, a fact that sometimes irritated the hell out of Cookie. About the only person who ever called Michael Cook by his first name was his mother. He'd never moved out of the house in which she'd raised him. She hadn't been a young woman when she adopted him and so, by the time he was old enough to think about getting out on his own, she was getting old enough that he'd have worried about her if he left. Now twenty-seven, he remained at the house, and he'd even moved his longtime lover, Evan, in, too. His mother treated them both like teenagers and complained about Cookie's coming and going at all hours. He didn't have much choice in that. He was a bounty hunter by trade, and a lot of criminals were easier to catch at night. That was one of the reasons Evan was there, so Sadie wouldn't be alone at night. She was always after Cookie to get a real job. Cookie complained sometimes that he'd 'walk out on the old biddy' except that she made damned good cookies. He was full of shit. Michael Cook had a lot of rough edges but he loved his mama. So did Shane.

"Come in!"

The door opened and Sadie appeared. "Getting settled all right?" she asked.

"I'm good."

She pointed at the desks he'd rearranged. "The cleaning crew's not going to like that."

He gave a half-shrug. The desk array would be harder to navigate than the original configuration, but how well were they really cleaning if they did so with the goal of conveniently moving around the places the kids spent the most time? It wasn't really their fault, he thought. School systems didn't have enough money to pay people to fully clean their huge buildings. Given that, it was no wonder schools were breeding grounds for germs. Within his arsenal were numerous cans of Lysol. He planned to kill all the little bastards he could.

"I heard you were going to take Mr. Garrett's place," she said. "I'm glad."

"Well," he said, using a steel-wool pad to rub some gummy substance from a chair leg, "that makes one of us."

"You'll be fine, Shane," she said. "You'll do a good job for the kids."

"Any other potential land mines you should've warned me about, but didn't?"

"Can't think of any," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Anyway, I best get back before Geraldine starts counting the clock. Just wanted to stop by."

He smiled, looking up at her. "Thanks."

"You know, you'd probably get more visitors if your door wasn't shut."

That was an extrovert's way of thinking. Sadie was still waiting for him to 'come out of the shell.'

"Yeah," he said. "Thanks. Maybe I'll open it a little later."

She nodded and leaned over him, whispering. "You don't want them to think you're strange on the first day."

"No," he said as a slow smile claimed his lips. "Can't have that."

She headed for the door, opening it and then turning. "By the way," she said, "you might not want to go overboard on the decorating."

"Why?"

She giggled and left.

Given the two warnings, he considered leaving the room almost bare. He could only guess that there were some at the school who got their kicks trashing new teachers' newly decorated classrooms. He supposed he should take it as a good sign that, even after the hair thing, the principal liked him enough to warn him. Still, he didn't have the heart to deprive any would-be troublemakers of their kicks. He'd decorate as he'd intended and trust that no real harm would be done. Whoever the would-be culprits might be, he didn't think the principal and Sadie would smile about it if it was something really bad. Nonetheless, he wouldn't be human if he didn't want to know what the hell happened to his shit.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Cookie.

"Hey, Kitten," Cookie answered.

"Hey, Sweetheart!" Evan's voice said from a little further away. A rustling sound came. "Talk dirty to us!"

Shane laughed. "Isn't he supposed to be at the karate school?" In addition to teaching there, Evan handled the administrative crap.

"Yeah," Cookie said, and his breath caught. "He called out sick."

"He all right?"

"Yeah, just one of them end-of-summer cold things."

"I might die!" Evan called. "I want white roses!"

"Don't mind him," Cookie growled. Shane heard a cry. Evan's voice. "He's drunk on NyQuil."

"Are you two fucking?"

"Uh-huh," Cookie said. "Start talkin'."

Shane laughed. He'd talked dirty to them a few times, fun between friends, and they'd gotten up to quite a few other things together. That was before he got engaged to Julianna. Either way, he couldn't imagine he ever would have done it from within the school.

A mental image tried to form in his mind. Both Cookie and Evan were attractive men. He pushed the vision away and got back to business. "Could you do me a favor and drop a couple crumbs at the Jeep?" That was what Cookie called their tiny recorders. Shane had bought most of the electronic equipment Cookie used; Cookie was paying it back as he could.

"Will do," Cookie said. "How's the first day goin'?"

"S'all right," Shane answered. "Ma brought Jimson's."

"That bitch," Cookie said. "She brought him Jimson's!"

"She always liked him better than us," Evan said.

"She better bring us some when she comes home or we ain't lettin' her in," Cookie said.

From the sounds of their voices, Shane thought orgasm couldn't be far away. He was a married man with a wife. He didn't think he ought to stick around for that.

"Oh, god," Evan breathed.

Shane's bottom trembled. "Catch ya'll later."

He disconnected, put the phone away, and returned to his cleaning. Bedroom thoughts tried to form. He focused his mind on doing math calculations.

He heard footsteps in the hall. They slowed outside his door and he saw a woman's silhouette. From the shape of the hair, thick and pulled back at the nape of her neck, he thought it might be Faith Rush. She continued on, probably wondering what kind of strange new teacher kept his door closed on the first day when he ought to be playing the getting-to-know-you-all game.

He felt a twinge of guilt for depriving people of the opportunity to stop by and be kind or obnoxious to him, as they saw fit, but left the door closed.

For all Sadie's good intentions, the others at the school probably would figure out he was strange before too long, anyway. He was pretty sure most people did.

A few times in his life, he'd resolved to do better. He'd focused on projecting a normal persona. It wore him out and, within days, made him feel like a true basket case. He thought people could maintain only so much falsehood in their projections without exploding into shards.

He needed to focus on projecting as male and quasi-mature. Adding all the other crap on top was just too much effort to maintain over time, and increased the chances that he'd screw up on something that really mattered.

At least coming across as male wasn't as hard as it had been in the beginning. Years of execution had made it easier. Beyond that, in the beginning, he'd gone for the ultra-male presentation, one that was nearly impossible to maintain. He'd since come to realize he didn't have to be mega-male. Most real men weren't. Everyone fell somewhere on the broad range of human gender, and life was a great deal more pleasant for him after he stopped trying to show himself at a point far M of center. He knew now he only needed to end up a little past center. The hardest part of knowing someone was in the beginning. He couldn't make even little mistakes then. There could be no chinks in the male armor, no hints that would make people suspicious. Once he'd known people for a time and they'd accepted him for what he was supposed to be, he didn't have to try quite so hard.

At times like the current week, though, when life required meeting large batches of new people, he had to work especially hard on the I'm-a-guy thing. He wished he didn't have to do it. He wished he could just be himself. Unfortunately, he had to go on the assumption that every new person he met knew someone who already knew him. Within his wide net of personal relationships, the only people who knew what he was were his grandparents, because they'd made him that way, and Julianna, because he'd told her before he asked her to marry him. Even knowing the truth, she'd wanted to marry him. He'd feared at the time it was too good to be true--and it was. Bryan, Cookie and Evan had more or less figured out at least some of it, he thought, though he'd never talked about it with them. Nobody else knew. Even at sex clubs, the only places where he ever allowed the woman inside him to show a little of herself, people just regarded Daye Stark as a man who sometimes liked to play dress-up.

He felt like a fraud.

There were times it was tempting to leave it all behind, to go to a completely new place where no one knew him and start all over again. Just be what he was. Much of his reason for being in Maryland was gone now, with the departure of Bryan and the others. By the time they made their plans to leave, though, he'd already loved Julianna. Even if he hadn't fallen for Julianna, he still might have stayed. He had dozens of friends in Maryland, people he'd come to know and love over the years. He didn't want to face the rest of his life without those friendships. Maintaining them would require some contact, which would entail projecting the him they'd come to know, and he'd be more likely to mess that up if it occurred within the context of a very different kind of life.

Among the greatest potential disasters would be slipping into his real voice or forgetting to walk like a man in front of someone.

His secret hope was that he could somehow... someday... slowly let down the pretenses and be himself with the people who loved him. He knew it would take a miracle. There were people who'd hate him if they discovered the truth and others who would be so disgusted they wouldn't want to know him.

He was living the consequences of his confession to Julianna now and might continue to do so for the remainder of his life. Of course, that was an extreme circumstance, because of the intimate aspects of their relationship. She had it worse than anyone, being in love with him. She didn't want to be disgusted. He knew that. She'd thought it wouldn't matter, but it did. Worse, it seemed to matter more as time went by than it did in the beginning.

Julianna at least had a right to care about the nature and structure of his privates and internal organs. Other people would let it matter when they had no real justification for doing so. People seriously freaked over the concept of people like Shane. They had an easier time with transgendered people because, whether or not they accepted the concept of gender reassignment, they still were able to personally classify transgenders. Someone like Shane didn't fit into people's schemas.

A redneck scene played in his mind sometimes, drunk men sorting the sexes.

"Hey, Jim-Bob, what're we gonna with this one?"

"What's it got?"

"Well, it's got a pole. Ain't much of a pole, but it's a pole."

"All right, then, put it in the M bucket."

"'Cept, see, the doctors made the pole. 'Cause it weren't there. And we didn't put them other ones with fake poles in the M so I don't know we should put this one there."

"What'd it have to start with?"

"Didn't have neither one, Jim-Bob, that's what I'm tryin' to tell ya. Had somethin' like I ain't never seen before. Here. Look at the picture."

Jim-Bob looked and his lip curled in disgust. "Well, hell." Jim-Bob always scratched his head at that point.

"And get this. Says right here on the paper, it had one nut and one of them woman-things on the inside."

"You're shittin' me."

"I shit you not."

Jim-Bob shivered. "I tell ya what to do with that one. Go throw it in Lemon and Henry's bucket when they ain't lookin'. Let them figure out what to do with it. And if anybody asks, we never seen it."

"You're a smart man, Jim-Bob."

Beyond the prospects for hatred and disgust, there were people who'd feel sorry for him. Shane wanted to avoid the pity even more than the hatred and disgust.

He didn't know how he'd avoid any of it without the miracle.

Making it all more difficult was the fact that the required magnitude of that someday miracle grew with every new friendship he made.

Still, it was not beyond God's power to make that miracle happen. He was the one who'd made Shane as he was in the first place, neither male nor female, but right in the middle. The doctors called it a disorder of sexual development, an accident of birth, but Shane couldn't help but feel God must have had a reason for making him that way.

He worried sometimes that he might have displeased God with the whole male act but didn't know what else he was supposed to do, living in a world that insisted a person be one or the other. The law made it so. A person had to be clearly marked as male or female to have a status as human. Shane would have preferred the female classification but his grandparents had made the decision and, by the time he was old enough to do anything about it, he'd already come to treasure friendships that were built on the lies.
There was no easy way out. Whatever wisdom he would need, to cause the minimal damage while sorting it out, he knew he did not yet possess--but he prayed for it every night.

God had answered a great many of his prayers over the years. On questions related to gender, though, He remained strangely silent. Evidently, Shane thought, this was something God wanted him to work out on his own.

Shane would have preferred the miracle.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

After Shane finished sponge-mopping the windows, cabinets, shelves, desks, chairs, ceiling, walls and floor, he threw the sponge and gloves into the garbage can, washed his hands, and began setting out his things, pulling them from the plastic bags in which he'd stored them in the boxes. Julianna's picture went onto his desk. Mozart's bust went on the top of one bookshelf and Shakespeare's went on the other. He filled the shelves with books--ones he hadn't licked, since he hoped he might actually inspire a student or two to read some of them.

He wanted to hang his favorite dust jackets from the ceiling and had put strings on them for that purpose, with loops on the ends for masking tape, but the ceiling was higher than he'd expected. He studied it for a moment, wondering whether it was worth bothering anyone to help him get a ladder. Surely there were some. He decided maybe he could get by without the ladder. He rolled his chair back to his desk, moved the picture of Julianna to the bookshelf, and lifted the chair to the top of the desk. He tore two pieces of masking tape from the roll, formed an X, and stuck it to the end of his nose. He put the middle of the dust jacket's string into his mouth, unable to resist the urge to run his tongue over it. He knew that might cut him and it would hurt, but that was always an interesting feeling. It didn't cut him. He ran his tongue in a circle, wrapping the string around it as he climbed onto the desk and then the chair. His fingers brushed the ceiling. He was almost tall enough. He rose to his tiptoes and managed to press his palm flat. That would do it.

He pulled the string from his mouth without unwinding it, liking the almost-pain as it scraped the surface of his tongue. He put the tape through the loop and raised it in his hand, his eyes scanning as he tried to judge the spot that would be exact center over the desk. He knew he only had to run a finger over the masking tape to get it to stick, but that wouldn't feel right. The job wouldn't be done until he'd pressed it hard. Things went well until he pushed. The chair rolled and he jerked a little, surfing-like, to maintain his balance. He jumped, dragging the chair with his feet, skateboarding-like, and got it back where he wanted it. This time he made sure he was directly beneath the target point and the tape went up without a hitch. He pushed until his arm hurt. There. It was done.

He dragged the chair-topped desk around the room, hanging dust jackets.

He was on tiptoes in the chair in the middle of the room when footsteps stopped outside his door. A quiet knock came.

"Just a minute!"

He put the tape onto the ceiling, pressed it hard, and climbed down, putting the chair on the floor, and opened the door.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Faith said.

"You're fine."

"May I come in?"

He backed up, opening the door more widely, and she moved into the room.

"I like what you're doing there," she said, her eyes on the dust jackets. She bit her lip. "It's possible you might get more ideas for arranging things after the kids arrive," she said, lowering her head to look at him. "Maybe just put out a few things for now."

There was that warning again. "Thanks," he said.

She wandered a little and then checked out his bookshelf, looking much like a browser at a library. Her eyes fell on the photograph. She smiled. "Your wife?"

"Uh-huh."

"How long have you been married?"

"Since May."

Her smile grew. "Newlyweds," she said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"She's lovely."

Shane nodded. Julianna was among the prettiest women he'd ever encountered. He loved her delicate features. She looked like a fancy doll, brought to life. "You're married, too, right?" She wore a ring.

"Ten years," she said, grinning. Her eyes were so dark, they were almost black, and he liked the way the lights danced in them.

"How long have you worked here?"

"This is only my second year. I have two children. My youngest started kindergarten last year. So here I am."

"Like it?"

"Most days," she answered. "It's not easy sometimes. When the kids have problems I can't fix."

He nodded. "That would be hard." Teaching them Math was easy by comparison.

Though she worked to be subtle, she was assessing him, judging him in the manner of a new acquaintance. With her, though, it went deeper. Counselors made it their business to read between the lines.

"So what made you decide to be a teacher?"

"I just wanted to teach."

"But this represents quite a change for someone like you."

There went her graceful balance. Co-worker-counselor no more, she was Mother Hen assessing the fox.

"Well, yeah, you know, but I heard all the stories of the extravagant pay and fancy meals and five-star accommodations that teaching offered, and I wanted in."

"If that's what you wanted, it seems you took a wrong turn on your way to California." She canted her head, studying him. "I went to one of your shows this summer. I guess I came here because I really just... I think I need to reassure myself that you're not as bad as I imagined."

"Actually, in a lot of ways, I probably am," he said. "In fact, I'm likely a lot worse."

"I'm not sure that's possible."

"Well, then, you have either a very small or a very wicked mind, Faith Rush."

Her face went red.

"You don't want me here. And I think that's because you know you and the other counselors don't know these kids well enough to protect them from me. I assure you, I did not come here to fuck up any kids' lives. I'm thinking maybe you ought to quit worrying about me and put a little more thought into the underlying problem. Figure out how you can strengthen that relationship with the kids. Because, believe it or not, there's a lot of things out there in the real world they live in that are even scarier than I am."

She crossed her arms over her chest and paced. "And I thought Fawn was bad," she breathed.

Shane laughed, deciding Fawn Martin was one teacher he looked forward to meeting. She and a couple other teachers from the school played in a bar band called Random Chaos. He'd never caught their act. Cover bands didn't much interest him because it was the creative aspect of music that turned him on, but Random Chaos was supposed to be pretty good for what it was. He knew the drummer, Ethan Darridge. Twice, over the years, Ethan had landed spots as drummer for local bands trying to make names for themselves, but both times, he'd been let go and ended up back with cover bands. He was a decent drummer and could replicate other people's work passably well, but lacked the creativity to pull his weight in a band making original music. Ethan was on the short list of musicians Bryan and the others were considering adding to the Painted Ghost lineup. Rico had been Painted Ghost's original drummer but he'd switched to bass when Shane joined the band. With Shane's departure, Rico had gone back to drums, but he couldn't handle all the songs Shane had written under the name Shiloh Wells since he became drummer. Multiple tracks and session drummers could get them through recording, but the band had decided the best thing to do for touring was to add a second drummer so he and Rico could split the work. Ethan's lack of creativity wouldn't be a major problem because the band had Rico. Ethan would just need to learn when to play what, and he was pretty good at that.

Faith stopped in front of him, looking down at his face, her eyes searching. "Please," she said, "tell me why you are here, teaching Math, in this school."

"I wanna help all the kids learn to count, measure and tell time real well," he said. "That way, they won't get ripped off when I send 'em out to sell drugs and their bodies and shit, so I won't hafta kill 'em."

A snorting sound came as she tried to hold in her laugh. She turned away, fanning her face. "I should not be laughing at that," she said. "I think I hate you."

Shane put the chair back onto the desk, slid the desk, and climbed up with another dust jacket. By the time he got down, she'd readied another one for him. He resisted the urge to fix her lopsided X. They worked in companionable silence for a time.

"I don't have anything against your band's music," she said. "In fact, I rather like some of it. A few of the songs are brilliant. We used a couple of them last year to prompt discussion at group sessions. But then, there are others that seem to glorify things that could be dangerous to kids. Of course, I suppose that could be said of the music of a lot of bands. And perhaps wouldn't be so troubling if not for the fact that... well... I just didn't like the way you acted on stage."

Bryan and the others would be toning things down a bit now that they were going mainstream. It wouldn't require much change, really. They'd always run clean versions of their shows at venues where minors might be present. Besides, Shane's stage personality had been the extreme one. They'd originally brought him into the band in the role of a would-be delinquent they were trying to salvage. He'd done some crazy shit. Still, high schoolers were smart enough to recognize the difference between fact and fiction. There were some pretty graphic pictures but those, like the most objectionable songs, resided on a 21-and-over site that required age verification. He ran the site off one of his own servers and did what he could to keep kids from getting in there.

"So, anyway, what is the meaning of 'Drink the Dream'?" she asked.

"I think it's an ode to Pepto-Bismol."

"I'm serious!"

"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "People always asked us that question. None of us had the same answer. We used to sit around and argue about it when we got drunk."

"You don't know the songwriter so you could ask him?"

"Uh-uh," Shane said. "Only Bryan knows him. And he's the one told us the songwriter said it was about Pepto-Bismol."

It was true, in a way. The song had started out as a joke, when Shane was fourteen and crawling down the hall of the band's house, hunting cures for his hangover symptoms. Like so many other songs, it turned itself into something beyond what he initially had in mind for it. A lot of the letters that reached Shiloh Wells through the music publishing company asked about that song. Though Shane always responded to letters--or at least had Ziggy do it for him--he never revealed much about what the songs meant. He liked that people found their own meanings and saw their own lives in the songs. Of all his songs, "Drink the Dream" was among the most vitriolic. Some people thought it referred to alcohol or other drugs. Others thought it referred to poison. Some thought it just meant embracing life for all it was worth. To Shane, it was all those things, plus a rejection of all the medications doctors had recommended to try to make him more normal. Still, it had started as an ode to Pepto-Bismol--and a loud and whiny one, at that. There'd been none in the house and so he got louder and whinier, and Bryan said it sucked that Shane hadn't gotten a headache along with the rest of it so he wouldn't be inclined to make noises like that. Finally, to shut him up, Bryan went to the store and got him some Pepto-Bismol.

When Bryan subsequently gave the band a new Shiloh Wells song that contained some of the lines that other members of the band had heard Shane compose as he languished in the hall, Shane threatened to sue both Bryan and Shiloh Wells for intellectual property theft, but let the matter go after Bryan bought him a case of beer and two more bottles of Pepto-Bismol.

Faith spoke again. "Do you miss the music?"

No, he missed the musicians. "I still play." He had a room full of instruments in the basement. He'd filled in for a couple bands recently when their drummers couldn't make gigs. He'd gone into the studio a few times over the summer when producers he knew found themselves in need. Painted Ghost producer Gary Kilgorne, a man he'd never met, had found out about a couple of those and called to bitch at him because he never went to the studio for him. Shane had laughed at him. He couldn't help but enjoy the cat-and-mouse game with Gary. One of the first few times they ever talked on the phone, Gary had asked how it was that they kept failing to meet, given all their mutual acquaintances, and he'd jokingly accused Shane of avoiding him on purpose. After that, Shane did avoid him. Gary was a man he needed to avoid. Judging from his pictures, he was sexy as hell. He was brilliant and a perfectionist, when it came to his music. He was rich and powerful. He was straight but, for whatever reasons he might have had, inclined to flirt with Shane. He had a tantalizing sadistic streak and the kind of voice that could turn a person's insides to honey. He also had a serious cocaine habit.

"I thought it was interesting the way you stood up when you played, instead of having a stool," she said. "I never saw a drummer do that."

Shane knew of a few others who did it that way. He hadn't when he started doing it, though.

She spoke again. "I thought it was a good show," she said as Shane pressed another X to the ceiling. "For adults."

He sighed and dropped from the chair. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking at her. "Look, I hate to explain myself and I really don't think I owe it to you, but I realize your intentions are good and I respect you for having the courage to defend your principles as well as your students. This awkward thing you're doing is starting to get on my nerves. So you win. I'll talk. Let's just get this over with. There are various aspects of my life that would not be appropriate to reveal to the kids here. I have no intention of bringing any of that to school and I can only hope no one else does. I want to teach because that is what I have always wanted to do. If I had to explain it further, I'd say it's because I want to help kids gain the knowledge and skills that they need to build good lives for themselves and their future kids, but I wanted to be a teacher long before I could fully articulate that goal. I want to teach math specifically because it is among my strongest areas of focus and because I believe the keys to many of the problems humanity faces can be found therein. I want to teach high school specifically because I saw how frustrated some of the kids at university were when they ended up in classes there for which high school had not prepared them. I would like to help the students prepare here so they do not fail there, where it really matters. Further--and here's the deep, dark, personal, psychological kernel for which I know you're digging--I admit it. High school looked like fun to me. As you've likely gathered from my records, I never went to school. I went straight from home tutors to university at fourteen. I wanted to come to high school. Now, before you get all worried, let me assure you, I know the difference between adults and kids. I also know the difference between right and wrong. I am well aware that I am a teacher here and not a student. It is the teacher's experience and not the student's that I want. I should no more be suspect for that than should someone who did go to high school and remembers it fondly and decides to return and teach. I simply wanted to be in this environment. I wish I could guarantee I'll be a good teacher. But I can't. As a matter of fact, I'm scared shitless. I don't want to fuck up. But I feel like I'm supposed to be here. And so I'm here."

Her eyes shone. "I think you'll be fine," she said. "But you may want to avoid words like 'shit' and 'fuck' in front of the kids."

"See?" he said. "I knew you could help me with this shit. Faith, you are a fuckin' awesome counselor."

"Well, thank you," she said, preening. "I do try."

"Uneasy truce?" he said.

She smiled and nodded. "Be careful," she said. "Especially with the girls. You could confuse them, simply by being who you are."

"I'll keep that in mind." Her words were true in many more ways than she suspected.

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

For a few minutes after Faith departed, Shane lay on top of his desk, mentally and emotionally exhausted.

The day was far from over.

He rolled to his feet and went outside. Beneath the Jeep's passenger seat, he found the briefcase Cookie had left. He carried it inside, set it on the desk, and opened the combination latch. The case sprang open, revealing a laptop. Inside the pocket were small cases holding the tiny units, each no bigger than a fly. They didn't actually record, themselves; they merely relayed to the computer. The range was decent. As long as he left the laptop in the car and didn't drive too far away, it would faithfully record all the video and sound that the little bugs transmitted.

He put the desk-and-chair combination to work once more, using tiny, adhesive circles to affix the bugs to the dark-metal screw heads in the hanging light fixtures in opposite corners of the room. He moved around the room, making sure they weren't too visible, and decided a person would pretty much have to be looking for them to notice them. He checked the feeds on the computer and was satisfied they gave an acceptable view of the room.

"That should do it," he said, and watched the indicator move with the sound of his voice.

He closed the laptop and then sat on the desk, reading Mr. Garrett's book.

It was well past four-thirty when Geraldine appeared at the door.

"We're locking up," she said.

He nodded, grabbed the briefcase, turned off the lights, and followed her out, book in hand. He hoped he wouldn't have to leave every day at four-thirty. He wondered how long he should wait before asking if he could have a key. He went by the office and signed out, as he'd been instructed to do. He left at the same time as Mr. Hallock and Geraldine.

"How was the day?" Mr. Hallock asked.

"It was good, thanks."

He drove to Mr. Garrett's house. He felt awkward waiting for the door to open, but the sight of Mr. Garrett's smiling face eased his discomfort.

"Come in," Mr. Garrett said, gesturing him inside.

They shared a long talk that evening. Mr. Garrett told him the things he hadn't put in the book.

"It's a hard balance to try to find," he said in conclusion, "between teaching the children what they need to know to pass the tests and teaching them what they need to know to succeed later."

Shane nodded. He'd long known that the focus on specific points for the test left holes in other areas.

"They want to get the test scores up," Mr. Garrett said. "They need to. But George and I didn't agree on the best way to go about that, without jeopardizing the overall learning. George is a smart man but he's not a mathematician. He doesn't fully comprehend the interdependencies. I'm not going to tell you how to solve the problem. You're smart enough to figure that out for yourself. I believe you'll come to a path similar to mine. That's why I needed to leave when I did. Because, if I'd stayed and we'd overlapped, then people might have thought you were just giving the same answers I'd given to you. This way you get a fresh start, no stigma. Make it right, son."

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Garrett."

"My pleasure," Mr. Garrett said.

They got to their feet.

"I remember you as a little thing, you know," Mr. Garrett said. "Didn't think Shane was the name, though, but I don't remember as well as I used to."

Shane's name had been 'Shiloh' until he was ten and his grandparents changed it to 'Albert', an offense he'd rectified as soon as he was old enough. By then, though, the name Shiloh was firmly a part of his past and hadn't felt right for the present. He'd settled on Shane because it was close but not too close. Besides, he'd loved the book by that name.

"I taught your father," Mr. Garrett said. "He was a smart young man, too." He smiled. "Little bit of a cut-up now and then. Don't know that he ever yanked down his trousers in front of an audience, though."

Shane felt color in his cheeks. Evidently the old man had seen some Painted Ghost pictures. Shane had mooned audiences on a fairly regular basis. Somehow, it was a lot worse to think of Mr. Garrett seeing him that way than Faith.

"That wasn't the first time I saw you unfit for company," Mr. Garrett said. "My wife and I went to have dinner with your parents one night. I believe you were about two at the time. There was some commotion from upstairs when your father let us in. Next thing I knew, you came running down the stairs, naked as a jaybird, and threw yourself in your father's arms, crying."

The story hit Shane with the force of a gut-kick. He worked not to let it show.

Mr. Garrett laughed. "Your mother was a little put out. Your father, he just laughed and carried you back up the stairs. Told us he was sorry, but he believed they were raising a streaker." His eyes shone. "I trust you know now when to keep your clothes on."

"Yeah," Shane said. "I got a pretty good handle on that." He swallowed. "Did you want me to take this job because you liked my father?"

"No," Mr. Garrett said. "I didn't connect you with your father at first. You don't look like him. You look more like your mother and I only saw her a couple times. But then, after we made the decision about you, George told me you were Jason's boy, and I was a little surprised I hadn't realized it. The more time I spend with you, the more like him you seem. But even if I'd known, that wouldn't have affected my decision. I've had some students who meant the world to me. But as an educator, you always need to think most about the ones of now and, right after them, the ones of next year. No matter how much I thought of your father, I wouldn't have wanted you if I didn't believe in my heart you were right. Because that wouldn't be fair to the others." He put his hand on Shane's shoulder. "I believe in you, son," he said. "It's all right that you're worried. A little humility's a good thing. But don't you start doubting yourself. Those kids need you to be strong and sure and true."

Shane needed more time to process the day than the drive home would have allowed. He stopped at the park and lay on his favorite picnic table, watching evening clouds go by.

He couldn't get Mr. Garrett's story out of his mind. It was a silly little vignette that, on the surface, fell into the garden-variety naked-bratty-baby story, but it woke the guilt Shane didn't know how to kill.

Shane had long before come to accept he was a middle kind of person. It wasn't just his body that was a little of both genders but functional as neither. His mind was affected, too. His psychological and emotional aspects largely fell into the spectrum generally associated with females while his cognitive functioning was more typically male. He was neither male nor female but, at the same time, he was both.

He'd been born with what his parents thought was a minor birth defect. The doctors corrected the hypospadias as well as they could, making a new urethral opening in the place where they thought it should be, but evidently didn't look too closely into his physiology. It was only much later that anyone investigated closely enough to realize he had mixed chromosomes, an ovary in addition to a testis, and a womb.

His parents took their new son home and commenced raising him.

The whole thing about the clothes had taken them some time to figure out. They didn't understand, at first, that it wasn't clothes to which he objected, but the specific clothes in which they dressed him. In his mind, he had a concept for girl, and he was one, and he had a concept for stupid, ugly, boy clothes, and he didn't want them. Shiloh couldn't tell her parents. The concepts were fairly well developed but there were no words attached.

In the early years, she had no words. It wasn't just that she couldn't speak them; she didn't understand them, either. They were just sounds, like cars running and cats meowing and doors opening and closing.

She fought against being put into clothes she hated and, after losing those battles, would take advantage of the first opportunity to take them off.

Eventually, her parents began to suspect their son might be a daughter. They saw she liked things little boys typically didn't. It had to have been confusing for them, though, because she also liked a lot of things typically associated with boys. She loved to play with cars and trucks. Evidently her parents decided the safest thing would be to take a middle-of-the-road approach. They bought her gender-neutral toys as well as clothes and, for the most part, Shiloh wore the clothes. They weren't pretty and pink and shiny but at least they weren't stupid, ugly, boy clothes.

Finally, Shiloh got words when she made the connection between the concepts in her mind and the sounds that came out of people's mouths. She understood things that were said long before she managed to get her mouth to make words of its own. Words didn't come easily for her and so she talked when only her mother or father was present, nobody else. Her mother tried to get her to talk in front of other people but she couldn't. Her mother didn't understand.

Shiloh made a great many discoveries in her early days as a listener and among the most significant was the bewildering realization that her parents thought she was a boy. They called her 'he'. How could they not know she was a girl? It made no sense. Maybe they were just playing. Shiloh didn't like that game.

Shane still remembered the day when four-year-old Shiloh told her father, "Shiloh am girl."

Daddy smiled. "Did you hear that, Valerie?" he said, turning his head. "Shiloh's a girl."

Mommy smiled. "Of course she is."

They went to the mall. He remembered the way it felt to be Shiloh in her car seat, riding home and wearing her first pink dress. It had ruffles and so did the butt of the tights. She loved the sound the shiny, white buckle shoes made when she tapped them together.

Her parents' ready acceptance hadn't surprised her at the time. She was just glad they finally got it straightened out. Much later, Shane came to appreciate the decisions they'd made. He knew they'd probably lain awake many nights contemplating Shiloh's future. Long before she made her proclamation, they'd evidently agreed to let her be what she was.

He knew Shiloh had to have encountered Herb and Helen, his father's parents, before that. He didn't remember them, though. People besides her parents had never particularly interested her; they were just colors and sounds. Whenever they got too close or too many of them got together, it made her head hurt, and so she didn't pay any attention to them.

Shane's first memory of Herb was an angry voice, roaring over the quieter sound of his father's. Shiloh lay with her ear against the vent, hearing only snatches at times, but knowing they were mad and they were talking about her.

"Laughingstock" was a word his grandfather used more than once. So was 'freak'. Shiloh didn't know those words but she remembered them, and eventually found out what they meant. Jason said he didn't care what anybody else thought. It only mattered how Shiloh felt. Herb said they were going to get it resolved once and for all. That sounded scary but Shiloh wasn't afraid. Daddy wouldn't let anything bad happen to her.

Shane only remembered his father raising his voice once that night. The words had stayed with him through the years. "God makes no mistakes."

From what Shane had been able to piece together later, Herb and Helen had decided to try to get custody of Shiloh to correct what they described as Jason and Valerie's 'dangerously permissive' style of parenting.

Though Shiloh's gender was a primary issue, it wasn't the only one. Herb and Helen had long before realized Shiloh wasn't like other children, and they blamed it on Valerie. Shiloh had unwittingly left behind sufficient evidence for a case to be made against her parents--or at least her mother. Valerie had been overwhelmed by the reality of child-rearing, and Shiloh had gotten up to some things when her father was at work. She'd drawn on the walls and she'd thrown so many things in the toilet once that the plumber had to take it out. She'd tried out a teenager's skateboard and broken her arm. She'd pulled over a store mannequin once and ended up in the emergency room, getting stitches in her head. It was mostly the kinds of incidents to which any parent could fall victim in a careless moment. A few of the incidents were different but they never would have happened if Shiloh hadn't been a special-needs child in the first place and, after every one of them, her parents tried to put safeguards in place to ensure they didn't happen again. They just had no way of predicting what Shiloh might do next. She set off for the store once with a dollar, only to be picked up by a passing police car a half-mile from home; it was even worse because she was naked and it was October. Her parents put locks on the doors and she couldn't get out of the house alone again. Another time, she took off the wristband on her toddler leash and left the grocery store while her mother was ordering a cake at the bakery and got into a stranger's car. Her parents bought a vest-leash. She jumped into a pool during an outdoor party at someone's house. Couldn't swim. Her father dove in after her and fished her out and, after that, they always put the vest-leash on her near water.

Jason and Valerie had realized there was something not quite right, beyond the gender confusion, and they'd begun seeking help. The diagnosis of autism hadn't yet been made and so Herb also had on his side Shiloh's lack of interpersonal skills. No one besides Valerie and Jason had ever heard her talk and there was no proof she could. And even if she could, Herb said, the fact that she wouldn't do it in front of people was a clear indication there was something wrong in the way she was being raised.

Valerie and Jason had believed there was an underlying cause for Shiloh's behavior and that it wasn't all their fault. They knew if Herb got her, he'd try to force her back onto the male track. He'd regard her less-than-pleasing traits as behavioral problems. He'd try to bend her to his will using the same methods of discipline he'd used on his sons--belittlement and the belt.

Jason and Valerie had just been starting out in life. They didn't have the resources to fight Herb, not with the millions he had at his disposal. They were afraid they'd lose. So they ran.

What Shane remembered next after the argument was hurried packing. It might have been that night or another, he didn't know. He thought it likely it was another time because Shiloh never made the connection between the argument and the packing. Shane made that connection years later.

What he remembered was a long ride in the car. Then a new house with a pink bedroom. He remembered shopping. He knew now what the stores were, consignment shops, and soon Shiloh had a closet full of dresses.

Shane remembered the time that followed as a happy one. Shiloh's father taught her to read. She went to kindergarten. She made her first real friend, a girl named Heather. She got a Barbie and a Barbie Townhouse for Christmas.

The only thing she didn't like was all the time she had to spend around grown-ups--especially the doctors who kept wanting to see her naked. Shane understood now what they were doing. He'd realized it by the time he was ten, but it was only confirmed once he was an adult and could lay hands on the documentation. Shiloh's parents had taken her to specialists. Those doctors agreed she was more girl than boy but, like her parents, thought it would be a mistake to try to alter her body. They thought it was possible she might later feel more male than female and so they didn't want to do anything to bind her to either gender. They helped her parents obtain a second birth certificate, one for a female, with the understanding that Shiloh eventually would use whichever felt right for the adult she became.

Her parents also took her sometimes to talk to people in offices and they always had interesting toys. She didn't like the people much because they wanted her to talk and she wanted to play with the toys. A lot of times the people watched her play and she wished they'd go away--but the toys were fun. The blocks there stuck to each other and didn't fall over like other ones. She made a stack of blocks that went all the way to the ceiling, red-blue-yellow, red-blue-yellow. She didn't like the green ones and didn't put them in. She liked the puzzles, too. She didn't like the doll house. It was missing its door and the top had a crack. Besides, the dolls weren't pretty like Barbie.

The only thing prettier than Barbie was Mommy.

Shiloh loved her mother but her father was her favorite thing in the whole, wide world.

Then came the night her mother cried and didn't stop. Daddy was gone. He wasn't coming back.

Shiloh got confused and forgot how to talk.

Even at the funeral, Shiloh hadn't fully accepted the new reality. Shane remembered being Shiloh, scanning the scene at the cemetery, praying for a glimpse of her father. She needed him to come and tell everybody it had all been a mistake. He never came.

Valerie's descent had been rapid. She'd always been a little flighty; his father had always been her strength. In her depression, she lost God but found drugs. She treated Shiloh more like a pet than a human. Shiloh hoped that would get better once she remembered how to talk, but it didn't.

Before long, the two of them ended up living on an ancient farm with several dozen other people and all the drugs and sex Valerie could want. Shiloh got a lot more of both than she wanted. After several years and some twists and turns, Valerie put Shiloh on a bus and sent her to Herb and Helen. Shiloh didn't know them and didn't at first make the connection between Herb and the angry man. Herb and Helen didn't waste any time in executing their plan to reclaim their long-lost grandson. They adopted him, named him Albert, and said they were his parents. Helen remained bitter to the present over his refusal to refer to them as his parents. It was as if they wanted to erase his parents, make it like they'd never been there. But others, people like Mr. Garrett, they knew they had been.

Shane knew a lot of kids wanted their own way. It was the nature of the human. Still, that didn't change the fact that his father would never have been in New Mexico, in the path of the truck that killed him, if Shiloh had just put on the stupid, ugly, boy clothes.

The only comfort he had, the only salve for the guilt, was the memory of his father's voice, strong, sure and true. God makes no mistakes.

Smells of dinner greeted Shane at the door. He smiled. Julianna didn't cook often. He took care of most of the meals. It was nice when she did.

"You're late," Julianna said, looking up from her laptop when he moved through the door.

"Sorry." It was well past eight. He crossed the room and leaned to kiss her on the head. "Good to be home."

"How was it?" she asked, setting the laptop onto the coffee table.

"It was pretty good," he said, settling onto the couch. He put his arm around her and she curled into his side. He rested his cheek on her head. "Draining."

"My poor little introvert," she said, patting his thigh. "Were they at least nice?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad," she said.

He closed his eyes. It was good to hold her that way. As roommates and friends, they'd spent many hours just being close to each other. It had been enough then.

"I made roast," she said.

"Smells good."

"I'm still deciding if you deserve any, after you came home so late."

"Told you I'd be late."

"I know," she said in her bedroom voice. "And I thought I could handle it."

Disappointment flooded Shane at that tone. It would have been so good just to be with her, to share the same space for a time. Still, it beat the sound of her bitching, which was what would come if he didn't play along.

"But then I spent the evening here all by myself, lonely and missing you, and I think maybe you need to suffer for that."

He smiled and put a tiny bite on her bottom lip, then traced it with his tongue. "Do you really want to make me suffer?" he growled.

Her breath came in panting gasps. "Sometimes," she said in a tiny voice.

He wished she'd do something about it. He couldn't help it, his nature was to like a little pain with his pleasure. He thought it might be good for both of them if she'd take out some of her aggression in the bedroom rather than carrying it into every other part of their lives. She was a repressed would-be dom more comfortable in the role of submissive. She flirted with the idea of sexual sadism but couldn't bring herself to commit.

"Well, you're shit outta' luck tonight," he said, wrapping her hair in his fist and propelling her off the couch. "Go get my food."

Her eyes, lit by desire and the prospect of degradation to come, remained on him while she backed toward the kitchen.

After she went through the door, Shane allowed his head to slump back onto the couch. It was going to be another long night.

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Tuesday morning, Shane found his classroom just as he'd left it.

Now that he felt a little more comfortable at the school, he set the door to stay open. He still wasn't keen on the idea of visitors, but any people whose small talk he suffered that day would be down-payments against the horde to arrive the next.

He unpacked his last box, put Julianna's picture back on the desk, and then settled into the chair with Mr. Garrett's book and the printout of the notes he'd made that summer when he reviewed the curriculum and text. Mary and several others came and went.

Dan appeared at the door. "So," he said, "what are you up to?"

"Just goin' over some stuff for tomorrow," Shane answered. As scheduled over the summer, the Math Department teachers would convene at nine the following morning, after the principal's start-of-the-year address.

"Why?"

"It's part of the job."

Dan snorted. "Don't waste your time," he said. "You think anybody there is really going to care what the new guys have to say?"

Dan had probably spent weeks crafting his input. It wouldn't surprise Shane if Dan showed up with a full-fledged presentation with glossy-paper audience copies collated and bound. The important thing for Dan would be that it looked good. Substance would only get in the way.

"You know what?" Shane said, closing Mr. Garrett's book. "You're right. I'm just gonna wing it."

"Good for you."

Shane nodded. "Yeah, 'cause, I mean, seriously, how much meaningful discussion can you have in two days anyway?" He leaned back in his chair, fighting the urge to send Dan on a wild-goose chase. No matter how much fun it might be, he just couldn't let himself waste the school system's money that way. "They pretty much decided what they were gonna do before last year even ended. I mean, take that whole Magellan proposal. You know that's how they wanna go."

"Yeah," Dan said, clearly working to hide his discomfiture.

"But if we're not careful, we're gonna end up worse than Easton on the applied calc. Right?"

Dan nodded. "That's what I was thinking."

It was understandable he was a little confused. 'Magellan' hadn't appeared anywhere in the documentation sent by the school. Still, it wasn't a fabrication. One of the plans provided with the curriculum outline had been so similar to a pilot program in New York, the Magellan Project, that Shane had no doubt Mr. Garrett and the others had pored over the Magellan documentation while crafting it. Magellan had proven a major success in some areas but a dismal failure in others. Those involved, as well as other educators, were trying to sort it all out in follow-up projects. If Dan planned to help craft high school math curricula, he really needed to educate himself about what others were doing.

"That would be a shame, wouldn't it?" Dan said and headed for the door.

"Hey, since we're done with this shit early, you wanna do lunch?" Shane said. "We could hit the Japanese place."

"No," Dan said. "There's some other things I need to take care of."

"All right, then," Shane said. "Catch ya later."

He managed not to snicker until Dan was gone.

If Dan's intent was to impress the head of the Math Department, he hadn't gotten off to a very good start.

Shane had just put the book and his newly annotated notes away when Faith arrived.

"Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

He would have liked to say he had but a clearly undisturbed lunch bag sat on his desk. "Uh-uh."

"Great," she said, grinning and slipping through his door, bagged lunch in hand.

"You really don't have to babysit me," he said as she settled into the front and center student desk. "I'm fine."

"My friends don't get here until tomorrow," she said, pulling chips from her bag. "If I sit with anyone else now, they'll feel like I used them when I go back to my friends. Besides, if I'm sitting there with them, that deprives them of the opportunity to talk about all of us."

"They do that?" he asked, grinning.

"All the time," she said, setting her sandwich onto the desk. "Every school's got to have the weirdos. We're the weirdos."

"I thought that was just... like... umm... a kids' thing."

She shook her head.

"I see." He touched his tongue to the corner of his lip. She'd questioned him. It was his turn now. "Is it a good thing for a weirdo to be a school counselor?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Weird kids, they have a lot of issues. And not just anyone could understand those." She opened her soda can. "So tell me about your childhood."

Shane laughed. He had no intention of talking about his childhood--not honestly, anyway--but he didn't have the heart to rebuke her.

"You know what, Faith?" he said. "Most people, they kinda' just let conversation happen. See where it goes, you know?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "Once all those teachers get here, they're not going to leave you much time for me. I'm taking you while I can get you. So... how's your relationship with your parents?"

Shane sang his answer--the first line of "Rehab."

She laughed, then arched a brow. "For real?"

He answered with the first line of the refrain from "The Joker."

She set her jaw in a tight line. "What's your favorite book?"

"For fiction, I will always love The Stand," he said. "I love the exploration of human nature in there. What's yours?"

They continued exchanging questions and answers, getting acquainted. Whenever he thought she asked inappropriate questions, he responded with lyrics and she tried again.

She told him about her family life, her husband, son and daughter. They were pretty much her whole world, when she wasn't at school, and Shane thought that was the way it was supposed to be.

They talked for close to two hours, exchanging little pieces of their lives--mostly hers.

"Thanks for indulging me," she said.

He smiled. "It was good."

She nodded. "As you've gathered by now, I don't get out much. I don't get to meet too many interesting people." She moved to the door and almost left. Then she turned and looked at him. "So did you ever make it to rehab?"

He grinned. "There and back again."

She smiled. "I'm glad you made it to here."

Then she was gone.

The implant wouldn't engage that night. Shane sat on the bed, his eyes tracing the green leaf patterns on the comforter, while Julianna paced, stomped and yelled. He wished she wouldn't get quite so loud. He didn't think the neighbors needed to know.

Finally she stood at the foot of the bed, her hands on her hips while she glared at him. Her eyes weren't on his face, though. They were fully focused on the object of her dissatisfaction. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Sorry, Julianna," Shane said. "I think he's a little too scared of you to have much to say, directly. But I'm sure he wants you to know that you're not helping things by acting like a five-year-old."

"I act like a five-year-old?" she said. "I--you--" She picked up the porcelain pitcher from the antique washstand and hurled it at him.

He caught it just before it slammed into his crotch.

"You're the goddamned five-year-old here!" she screamed. She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The framed copy of their wedding announcement fell from its place on the wall.

Shane looked down at his errant member. "You better straighten up and act right," he said. "Next time, I might let her hit you."

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Wednesday's arrival was nothing like the previous days'. The staff and faculty lot was half-full and filling quickly when Shane arrived just before seven. There were kids, too. A group of boys threw a football in the grassy area beside the school. A mixed group sat on the front steps. He thought they might be teachers' kids, student assistants, or members of a club waiting to start their meeting. It was possible that, taken by end-of-summer boredom, they'd simply convened there to see what they could see, but the early hour made the other possibilities more likely.

The boys stopped throwing the football and studied him. The ones on the steps watched his approach with a great deal of interest. He felt supremely self-conscious as he made his way onto the first step, with a girl sitting on one side and a boy on the other. "Good morning," he said.

"You're Shane Fetters," said a boy.

Shane raised his eyes and took in the boy's features. He smiled. "And you're Jeff."

Jeff's eyes went wide. "You remember me?"

"Yeah," Shane said. "We had a good talk." Jeff had shown up for an autograph at one of Painted Ghost's tame shows the year before. He was a diver. "Saw you came in first at County. I was like, 'I know him!'."

Jeff blushed, laughing with the others. "We thought they were full of sh-- crap when they said you were coming here."

Shane arched a brow. "Is it that bad?"

"That and then some." Jeff pointed to the boy on his right. "This is Vince." He pointed again. Clearly he intended to introduce them all, and the football players were arriving. Shane had a few minutes to spare before the meeting started, and he didn't have the heart to disappoint them. He felt self-conscious standing when they were sitting. He moved to the top step, where he could see them all, pulled his book bag from his shoulder, and sat down.

Other teachers arrived while they talked, traveling the four-foot-wide path they'd left open.

"So you're gonna teach math, right?" Jeff asked when the introductions were done.

Shane nodded.

"How do we get in your class?" Vince asked.

"I think they already made all the lists," Shane answered. He knew Jeff was in his Algebra class. There was a Vince in there, too, but he had no intention of admitting it there. Then others would want to know if they were on his list, too.

"You a tough teacher?" asked a boy named Bud.

"I'd say that depends on the students," Shane said.

"Asshole alert," a quiet voice said. The kids scanned and generally seemed to focus on the same place before pretending they hadn't. A couple of them groaned.

Shane surreptitiously looked and saw a huge man with close-cropped black hair, medium-dark skin, and hawk-like features approaching. He recognized him from a picture of Random Chaos in the newspaper. Rod Jenkins, six-foot-seven. That was one fine specimen of manhood and he moved with a grace ordinarily denied to big men. With that face, he could have played the hero in any Bronte novel. He looked more like Heathcliff than any of those actors Hollywood ever tried to pass off as a Heathcliff. Gypsy? Probably not. More likely a caucasion with Black blood a couple generations back. A beautiful mix.

"So why didn't you go to California?" Jeff asked.

Shane made his eyes big. "I woke up. They were gone."

The kids laughed.

"Bryan always said they were gonna dump you," a girl said.

"Seriously," Jeff said. "Why didn't you go?"

"I wanted to teach. And I didn't want to tour."

"Who wouldn't want to tour?" Vince said.

"Who would want to teach?" a girl said.

"Me," Shane said.

"I read in the paper you were some kind of genius," a boy said. "Are you?"

"I'm smart enough to get by, I guess," Shane said.

"Can't be too smart or you wouldn't be here," a boy said, and they all laughed.

The laughter died off as Rod Jenkins set himself at the bottom of the steps, sweeping his black eyes over them. The kids' tension was palpable. Shane felt a tremor in his abdomen as the laser traversed his face. A half-second later, it was back, as if the brain had decided it needed another look to process what it had seen. The eyes flicked downward, almost imperceptibly, to Shane's chest and back to his face before they continued on, burning each student in turn. The voice, when it came, was quieter and more pleasant than Shane expected. "Scatter."

The kids exchanged looks and began to move. Shane got to his feet, holding his book bag by the shoulder strap, when they did. It became clear to him pretty quickly that they were moving but not scattering, obeying the spirit of the law but not the letter. They moved together into a huge clump of bodies. He had to take steps back to avoid being caught up in the human cluster. The large, un-scattered mass made its way off the steps, passing within six inches of Rod Jenkins, and clumsily tromped down the sidewalk. Rod finished rolling his eyes and fixed them on Shane.

"You. Go."

"No, let's try it again, big guy," Shane said. He pointed at his chest. "Me... Shane." He pointed at Rod. "You... asshole."

He turned and went inside, his book bag dragging behind him.

"Get back here!" Rod Jenkins said.

Shane turned, backing away from him. "Make up your mind, man," he said. "Should I stay or should I go?" He snickered. "Hey, that'd make pretty good lyrics, don't ya think?"

They passed the principal's office. Rod pointed toward the door, his face set in hard lines.

"Good idea," Shane said. "Lemme get some coffee first."

He turned and moved toward the teachers' break room, wondering how long it would take Rod to catch on. He opened the door and moved through it.

"And then I said--"

A beautiful blond woman went silent as her huge, blue eyes locked on his face. The cup she held slipped from her hand. Shane knelt and reached, hoping to catch it before it hit the floor and sprayed her with its hot content. He never got there. A huge hand wrapped into the collar of his shirt and yanked him backwards. The cup hit even as the woman jumped back, hoping to save herself. The coffee splattered.

"Owwwwww!" the beautiful woman said.

"Are you all right?" asked Rod from above him.

She nodded while the sexy black-haired woman with her--Fawn Martin, had to be--grabbed a handful of napkins.

"What about my coffee?" Shane said as Rod pulled him out the door.

He let his feet drag as the corridor went by in reverse. Students and teachers watched, some of the former laughing, as he passed.

Into the office Rod dragged him.

"Mr. Jenkins," Geraldine said. "What are you doing?"

He slung Shane into a chair. Sadie giggled.

"Stay there," Rod said, pointing at Shane.

The principal was there, too. "Please explain," he said, looking from Rod to Shane and back again.

"I want him in detention," Rod said as the door opened again.

"I was just tryin' to get coffee," Shane said.

Fawn and the blonde, along with Faith and a big, burly, bouncer-looking guy, appeared in the doorway.

The principal laughed. "Mr. Rod Jenkins," he said. "Head of the Science Department. Allow me to introduce Dr. Shane Fetters. Head of the Math Department."

The four people in the door collapsed onto each other, laughing.

Shane got to his feet and looked up at Rod, extending his hand as Rod's face went through a fascinating range of colors. "A pleasure to meet you."

Shane wasn't surprised when the man's handshake nearly crushed his bones.

The principal gestured toward his door. "Why don't you two go in my office and get acquainted?"

Fawn Martin appeared in front of Shane, making a pouty face. "That big, bad man wouldn't let you get any coffee, cutie?" she said. "You just stay right here. I'll go get you some." She laughed again as she moved past Rod.

Shane went into the office and Rod followed.

"Sit down," the principal said from the doorway. "Make yourselves comfortable." He closed the door.
Shane had no intention of sitting in one of the low chairs while huge-ass Rod Jenkins towered over him. He took a seat on top of the two-foot filing cabinet.

Rod lowered himself into a chair and glared at him for a long moment. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't like your attitude, Sasquatch."

"You made me look like an idiot."

"Naw, man, you get all the credit," Shane said. "Really."

Rod, elbow on the chair arm, rested his forehead in his palm. Shane felt a little guilty then--but not much. It was a matter of principle. It bugged the hell out of him that big guys always thought they could act first and ask questions later. Just because they could haul people down hallways by their collars didn't mean they ought to.

Fawn returned. She handed Shane a styrofoam cup with sugar packets, creamers, and a stirrer on top. She also gave him a napkin.

"Your friend's okay, right?" Shane said as he set aside the extras and raised the cup to his mouth. He couldn't help but feel responsible. If he hadn't moved through the door so quickly, he wouldn't have startled her.

"Oh, yeah, she's fine," Fawn chirped. "Trust me. The woman puts up with being married to Rod. There's not much that can faze her."

"Fu--" Rod changed his mind about speaking. He narrowed his eyes at her before turning his attention to perusal of the ceiling.

If not for Rod's heightened tension and almost-retort, Shane would have interpreted Fawn's words as teasing between friends.

"Why don't you go somewhere, Fawn?" Rod said.

"I'm somewhere," Fawn said. "I'm here." She put on a bright smile, one clearly meant to be interpreted as exaggerated, and thrust her hand toward Shane. "I'm Fawn Martin. English."

"Shane Fetters," he said, shaking her hand.

She took a step back and stood studying him, her head cocked to the side. He'd seen that same look on Faith. "They told us we were getting a math whiz kid," she said, then grinned. "We just didn't expect you to really be a kid. How old are you?"

"Twenty," he said. "You?"

"Twenty-five," she answered.

"So we're not that far apart," he said. She was the same age as Julianna.

"Yeah, golden boy," she said, "see if you still feel that way when you're twenty-five, looking back on twenty." Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "Weirdest thing," she said. "I feel like I know you from somewhere. Your name even sounds familiar. But I think I'd remember if we'd met. And yet..." She cocked her head again. "Have we?"

He shook his head. Evidently Faith hadn't told her about his history or the controversy it had raised. Discretion was a good sign in a guidance counselor.

The big man who'd arrived with Fawn and the others moved into the office and the blond woman--Rod's wife--followed. Faith brought up the rear, closing the door behind her.

Now that Shane had a chance to actually look at him, he recognized the man as Damon Patrick. He played guitar for Random Chaos. He was about six feet tall and barrel-chested. His coloring was a lot like Rod's. His eyes, though not piercing like Rod's, were of the same vague shape. It made sense they looked a little alike. The newspaper had said they were first cousins. Damon didn't hold his hand low to be shook. He raised it high to be clasped and Shane lifted his into it.

"Hey, man. Damon Patrick. I do history."

"Good to meet you."

Damon snickered as he let go. "Rod," he said, swiping a hand up the back of Rod's head, "I cannot believe you didn't know who this man was. This is Shane Fetters."

"I know that now."

"A.K.A. Just N. Thyme," Damon said.

Fawn's jaw dropped. "From Painted Ghost!" she said. "That's how I know you!"

"It is him!" the blond woman said, moving close. In her heels, she was Shane's height. She held out her hand. "I'm Chastity," she said. "Chastity Jenkins. I teach art."

"It's nice to meet you, Chastity," he said, shaking her hand. "Sorry about the coffee thing."

"It wasn't your fault," she said. "I get clumsy sometimes."

Rod was glaring at him again. "I always assumed that bratty thing was just a stage act."

"You do a lot of assuming, don't you?" Shane said, and the others laughed.

"No wonder they left him behind," Rod said.

"Rod!" Chastity said.

"Well, it's true," Rod said. "He's clearly a pain in the ass. I came up this morning, he was sitting with the kids. He made no attempt to tell me who he was."

"Well, did you ask?" Chastity said.

Rod rolled his eyes, the look of a man surrounded by idiots, while the others laughed. Chastity circled behind his chair and put her hands to his broad shoulders, massaging the muscles. Rod closed his eyes. The tension lines eased in his face.

Longing washed through Shane. That was such a simple thing--not something they ought to be doing at work, and they no doubt knew that--but such a natural thing between people who loved each other.

"How long you been married?" he asked.

"Six years," Chastity said. "But we've been together eight. You're married, too, right?"

He nodded, his thumb tracing the ring. "Since May."

"Still in the first year," Chastity said, her eyes shining. "Must be hard to drag yourself away, for work."

Shane nodded.

"What does your wife do?" Fawn asked.

"She's in law school."

"Cool," Damon said.

"So have you done any teaching before?" Chastity asked.

"Few classes at university," Shane answered. That was a whole different thing than teaching high school. "Did an assistant teaching thing at high school in the spring."

"So you've got some good experience for here," Fawn said.

He gave a half-shrug. "Didn't really get to do much. The teacher had his own way of doing things."

"Was it here in the county?" Fawn asked.

Shane shook his head. "City. I was at Center."

"Ouch," Fawn said.

Center ranked high on the list of the most violent schools in the nation. The teacher's response at the first sign of any trouble was to send Shane to take the kids to the office. Shane had spent more time in the office and corridors than he had in the classroom. Still, none of the kids had ever tried to hurt him.

"You didn't want to go back there?" Chastity asked, then hastened to add, "Not that I blame you."

Shane laughed. "No way I could go back there. I was lucky to last out the year."

"They say those kids are tough," Fawn said, nodding. "Knives, guns--"

"It's the drugs," Chastity said. "Kids can't think straight when they're high."

"It's not their fault," Damon said. "They've got fucked-up family lives."

"Gangs," Fawn said.

"No respect for authority," Rod said. "That's what's wrong there."

They might have gone on for hours, giving the perspectives of outsiders looking in through the filter of the news, but Shane didn't want them to. "The kids aren't bad."

"Then why'd you run?" Rod asked.

Chastity slapped his shoulder.

"I didn't run," Shane said. "And I didn't leave because of the kids. There were a lot of good ones there."

Rod snorted.

"There were," Shane said. He worried about all of them. "Yeah, there were some troublemakers. But most of those kids were dedicated, hard-working people."

Rod arched a brow. "Yet here you are, having evidently abandoned them to the troublemakers."

"Rod!" Chastity said. She shook her head, then looked at Shane. "Please forgive him," she said with a tiny smile. "We were up late last night and he clearly didn't get enough sleep."

Fawn snickered.

Chastity fixed her eyes on Rod. "It would be hard to see kids like that every day and not be able to fix things for them," she said. "I wouldn't want to live that way, either. And neither would you."

It had been hard, but never so hard that Shane wanted to give up on them. He didn't think he owed the strangers explanations. Still, Rod seemed like the type who'd go digging through records to make a point. Shane didn't want to be accused of lying by omission. He wasn't ashamed of the things he'd done at Center. "I didn't leave because of the kids," he said. "The principal and I had issues. The city wouldn't hire me for the schools there."

"Do Hallock and the county know about that?" Rod demanded.

"Of course," Shane said.

Rod's eyes shifted to Faith.

She nodded, her eyes shining. "His history of problems with authority figures is well-documented."

Rod's accusing eyes returned to Shane, making it clear just what he thought of him. "Great," he said. "So now we're stuck with the city's reject."

Shane responded with his proudest smile.

Chapter 7.1

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