School of the Dead Page 3

  Against another wall was a long, low, and narrow wooden chest, its elaborately carved side toward me. I was sure it was empty. Fake again. Over the chest was a framed list: FORMER SCHOOL HEADS. The long list suggested heads didn’t stay on for long.

  On the wall behind the large desk was a photograph of joyful kids, probably models. Three empty chairs sat before the desk. Their emptiness was real. Behind the desk sat Ms. Foxton, the school head. As we walked in, she stood, smiled, came around, and held out a hand.

  I was surprised by how young she was, trim and healthy, with brown hair tied off behind her neck, ponytail fashion, and wearing a white blouse, a knee-length green skirt, and polished heels. Everything was in place, including her smile.

  “Hello, Tony,” she said, “I’m Gloria Foxton. Let me welcome you to the Penda School.”

  I shook her hand. Ms. Foxton didn’t just take my hand; she held it and looked into my eyes as if searching for something. I had no idea what she found in me—but what I saw in her eyes was fear.

  Startled, I tried to pull back, but she held on.

  “We’re so glad you’re joining us, Tony,” she said, though her eyes said something different.

  She let my hand go and went back behind her desk, saying, “Let’s sit and talk a moment.”

  Mom said, “We’re grateful you were able to find a place for Tony even though your term has already begun.”

  “An . . . unexpected student dropout,” said Ms. Foxton “A . . . sad story.” Her voice had become careful.

  I tried to read her eyes, but she kept her focus elsewhere. I followed her gaze. She was looking behind me, at that carved chest.

  “Here you are, Tony,” she said, and picked up a manila folder, as if to draw my attention to her. “Your application. It will join the files of hundreds of other Penda students.” She gestured toward the cabinets. “Since 1897, we’ve kept track of each and every student. Some quite illustrious. I gather you’re new to San Francisco. May I ask what brought you?”

  Mom said, “Job opportunities for my husband and me.”

  “Congratulations,” said Ms. Foxton. Even as I watched, her eyes shifted back to me, and her fear returned.

  Blinking to work it away, she continued on: “Before you go to class, there are a few things we should talk over.” On she chatted about school requirements, rules, and expectations. Not interested, I kept watching her as she shifted her eyes from my mother, to me, to that chest. I looked at it again. It made me think of Uncle Charlie’s casket. In fact, I liked to think of him sitting on the chest, eyes lively with delight. Whatever was making Ms. Foxton fearful, thinking of him was reassuring to me.

  “Well now, Tony,” said Ms. Foxton, “shall you and I go up to room seven? That’s Mr. Batalie’s room. He’s the seventh-grade homeroom and English teacher. I’ve printed up your class schedule.”

  I took it without looking at it.

  As Ms. Foxton led us through the outer office, I stopped in front of the boy’s portrait.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pointing. “Who’s that?”

  Mrs. Z, the secretary, looked up, but it was Ms. Foxton who said, “That’s Mrs. Penda’s son. We speak of him fondly as ‘the Penda Boy.’ It was his death that led his mother to create this school.”

  Gazing at the painting, I had two thoughts: Why was he so full of fear? And again, that puzzling notion that I’d seen him before.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Z, “over there, that’s Mrs. Penda, the school founder.”

  I turned. “How come she’s so angry?”

  Ms. Foxton said, “The portrait was painted right after her boy’s death.”

  To which Mrs. Z added, “Mrs. Penda had been a beautiful woman but—as you can see—she was devastated.”

  As Ms. Foxton gazed at the portrait, distress oozed back into her eyes. Catching me looking at her, she flipped on her smile and said, “We need to get you to class.”

  As we went out of the office, she leaned toward me so Mrs. Z couldn’t hear: “To be honest,” she whispered, “not a painting I would have placed there, but our board of trustees insists.”

  Which painting did she mean?

  In the reception hall, Mom shook hands with Ms. Foxton, then gave me a last look while mouthing the words tie and I love you. Noting her priorities, I watched her head out into the rain. Uncle Charlie, looking at me from a corner, offered a reassuring grin.

  “We need to go this way,” said Ms. Foxton. She led me up one of the main carpeted stairways, wide enough for us to go side by side. As we walked, I looked around. On the other steps, a boy was also coming up.

  For a half second, I thought he was the same boy whose portrait I had just seen in the school office. It was as if he was following me.

  Ms. Foxton touched my arm so that I looked around as she said, “Dreadful day, isn’t it? But the building is wonderfully snug and tight.”

  She was right. Penda was extremely quiet, no smells of food, sweat, or old books. And clean. Not a single scrap of paper, dropped jacket, or left backpack. As for that boy, the one on the other steps, he too was gone.

  “I gather,” said Ms. Foxton as we kept climbing, “your uncle died recently.”

  “My mom’s uncle,” I said, wondering how she knew about him.

  “Were you close?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She became quiet but then said, “Tell me, Tony, do you have a favorite sport?”

  “The slackline.”

  She flicked her fake smile and, ignoring what I said, went on, her voice full of fake energy: “We have the usual team sports here—lacrosse, field hockey, even Ping-Pong. We expect every student to play on one each term. We have clubs too. The Wednesday clubs meet last period. All created by students. You’ll get to pick the one you’d like. I’m the track coach and adviser for the International Club. Your teacher Mr. Batalie is the basketball coach and Book Club adviser. Tall as you are, I bet you play basketball.”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’m sure you can find something you enjoy. Just let Mrs. Z know which team you’d like. She coordinates that from the office. What about academic subjects? Have a favorite?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “What are you interested in?”

  “Not much.”

  That capped her chatter. I was glad. I hated fake-talking adults.

  We reached the second floor, which was as spotless as the first: Wide hallways, wooden walls and doors, thick carpeting. No lockers. A high ceiling with fancy lighting. No signs with paint-dripped letters reading Beat West, Fifth Grade Rules, or Miss B’s Brilliants.

  As if reading my mind, Ms. Foxton said, “It’s sometimes hard to think of this building as a school. Mrs. Penda’s will requires us to keep it as it was.

  “It did survive the 1906 earthquake. And the many earthquakes we have in San Francisco. One of your teachers, Mr. Bokor—you’ll have history with him—has written a book about the building. Fascinating.

  “For safety reasons, the towers are sealed off. In fact, we have a strict rule: no one is allowed into them. Serious consequences if you even try.”

  I recalled the kid I saw in the tower, but not wanting to get anyone in trouble, I said nothing.

  At the end of the hall, she halted before a door. Over it, a metal seven was attached. “This is your homeroom. Mr. Batalie’s. As I said, he’s your English teacher too. Now, let’s meet Friday. I like to be sure everything is working for new students.”

  Just as she was about to knock on the door, she hesitated. “Tony, there is something I need to tell you.” Her voice became guarded. “There’s . . . what shall I say . . . a school tradition of teasing new students about the school being haunted, particularly the towers.” Her fake smile turned back on. “A bit of out-of-season Halloween. And,” she added, “Halloween is very big here. Promise you won’t take the stories seriously.”

  “I won’t,” I said, trying to decide if she was teasing.

  She tapped on the door. Without waiting for an answer, she opened it, and we stepped into classroom seven.

  At the front of the class were a big SMART Board and a teacher’s desk. On the wall was a sign that read NO PHONE ZONE. Low bookshelves—stuffed with paperbacks—had been placed under the windows. The inside wall had a long corkboard with student work held up with multicolored pushpins. There was also a row of photo portraits.

  Scattered around the room were some twenty-five small tables, plus chairs, all occupied by students, at first glance as many girls as boys. As soon as I entered the room, they looked up. So did the teacher—Mr. Batalie, I assumed.

  He was an older man, slightly stooped, with a fringe of gray at the back of his bald head. His pale, wrinkled face with red-rimmed eyes reminded me of those goblins hiding under bridges in kids’ fairy-tale books.

  “Ah! Tony Gilbert, I presume,” he said in a voice somewhat rough like Uncle Charlie’s. Turning to the class, he said, “Seventh graders, let’s welcome Tony to the Penda School.”

  The students lumbered to their feet. They ranged from tall to short, some looking older, others younger, the usual odd-sized mix of seventh graders. They were diverse, but with the dress code they seemed much the same.

  The boys looked like me: tan pants, white shirt, and necktie. Tie colors varied a lot. Girls had white collared blouses, neck scarves—all colors—and pleated blue skirts. To my eyes, they were all like an L.L.Bean ad.

  “Welcome, Tony,” they called in ragged chorus. “We’re glad you’ve come to Penda.”

  Their grins and looks suggested they were curious about me.

  “Good job, Sevens,” said Ms. Foxton. “Thank you, Mr. Batalie. I’ll leave Tony in your hands.”

  “I appreciate that, Ms. Foxton. Class, be seated.”

  Ms. Foxton went. The students sat. Feeling as if I were standing outside a party to which I wasn’t certain I’d be invited, I peeked around.

  That’s when I noticed a boy with a mop of curly blond hair sitting between two kids in the far back row. He was staring at me. It took a second to realize he was the same boy I’d seen coming up the steps, the one who looked like the kid in the school office painting. He even had that fright in his eyes.

  Just as I was trying to figure out how the boy could have reached the classroom before me, there was a crack of lightning and the room lights went off.

  “Whoa!” cried someone.

  “Awesome,” said another.

  The lights flashed back on. “Quite a welcome,” said Mr. Batalie. “Okay, Tony, let’s find a desk for you today. Except for me, we don’t have permanent desks. That way people get to know one another. For starters, take that empty seat . . .” He searched about the room. “Let’s see. There’s an open one between Jessica Richards—Jessica, raise your hand, please—and Macauly Tarkington. Mac, hand up.”

  Two kids sitting in the back row did as asked. I looked. That blond, curly-haired kid, the one I thought I’d recognized, had been sitting between them—but he had vanished.

  Having no time to think it out, and with everyone’s eyes on me, I made my way to the now-empty seat.

  “Hi,” said the boy Batalie had called Macauly. “Just call me Mac.”

  On the chubby side, he had brown parted hair and a twitchy smile on a pale, bland face. His necktie was black. When he held out a dimpled pink hand with closely bitten nails, we shook. His grip was as flabby as a dead fish.

  From the other side, the girl named Jessica said, “Hi,” and looked up at me with big dark eyes. Her long black hair framed a pale, narrow face with high cheekbones and perfectly formed lipstick-red lips, matching the red of her fingernails. Her neck scarf was as black as her hair.

  “Jessica,” she said, offering a warm smile while shaking my hand firmly. Then, with a quick, flirty flick, she shoved strands of her black hair back behind her ear.

  Thinking how pretty she was, I sat down.

  Up front, Mr. Batalie said, “Okay. Tony, this is your English class. We’re reading The Old Man and the Sea. Indeed, I suspect the class is weary of hearing that it’s good for young people to know what it feels like to be ancient—like me.”

  Mac slid his book over. From the other side, Jessica reached across and pointed to a place in the text. Her right hand had a ring. On it were some small black stones. Seven of them. She was also wearing perfume that reminded me of that sweet, musty smell I’d noticed at Uncle Charlie’s funeral.

  As the class resumed its book discussion, I was glad to be in the back row. Sitting there, I kept trying to match people with names as they were called, trying to scope out who might be a friend. After a while I realized that the wall of photographs was of all the kids in the room. I did notice an open space, as if a picture had been removed.

  That made me think about the boy with the curly blond hair. I gazed about the room. He was absolutely not there. But Uncle Charlie was, standing in a corner, watching me. I told myself to stop thinking about him and focus on the class.

  But it was hard, because outside, rain continued to whip against the two large windows, as if trying to get in. Though it was blurry, I could make out that huge tree. I watched it dripping like a slowly melting candle.

  Batalie had been droning on for a while when a bell rang. Students leaped from their seats. The room became noisy with chatter.

  “That’s the midmorning recess bell, Tony,” Batalie called above the racket.

  I wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Since Tony is new,” Mr. Batalie said, “how about Mac and Jessica escort him to the cafeteria.”

  “Sure,” said Jessica, standing up. She was as tall as I was. “Come on.”

  “We’ve got twenty minutes,” Mac, much shorter, informed me.

  The three of us went into the hall, which was full of kids. I was sure a hundred eyes looked me over. I was distracted by Jessica’s hand on my arm.

  “Cafeteria is in the basement,” she said, pointing down the hall. As she walked, I noticed she had a slight limp.

  “Where you coming from?” she asked.

  “Connecticut.”

  “I’ve been to Boston,” she said. “That near where you lived?”

  “About a hundred miles west. Hartford area.”

  “I went to Salem, the Witch House. Ever been there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sort of lame,” she said. “Fake ghosts and all.”

  “Real is better,” said Mac, as we headed down steps. “And—”

  Jessica gave him a sharp look. He stopped talking and bit the side of a fingernail.

  Feeling I needed to say something, I said, “This a good school?”

  “Uptight,” said Jessica.

  “What way?”

  “Penda,” said Mac, “thinks a lot of itself.”

  “Everything is supposed to be perfect,” agreed Jessica. “So parents can brag.”

  “Yeah,” said Mac. “If anything, you know, bad happens, the rule is: hide it.”

  I felt obliged to say, “Does anything bad happen?”

  Jessica said, “Yeah, it does.”

  I wanted to ask more, but the press of kids around us increased and was too loud.

  We reached the lowest level, ripe with the smell of food.

  “Different lines,” Mac explained. “Drinks, cookies and muffins, yogurt. No soda.”

  Only then did I realize I had forgotten to bring money. It must have shown on my face because Jessica said, “Don’t worry. Parents are billed. Grab what you want.” She pointed. “We always sit over there.”

  Curious as to who we were and why they always sat in the same place, I got on line. That’s when I noticed Uncle Charlie standing next to the checkout lady, looking over the food I took. Since I hadn’t been thinking of him, I wondered why he was there.

  After helping myself to a thick-top chocolate-chip muffin and a carton of apple juice, I looked around, not sure where to go. For a second, I thought I noticed that blond boy again, his fearful eyes fixed on me. Simultaneously, I saw Jessica raise her hand across the room.

  I worked my way through the crowd and grabbed a chair from an empty table—no one was sitting at either of the ones nearby—and sat down. Aside from Mac and Jessica, there was another boy. Like Mac, he was wearing a black tie.

  Jessica gestured to him. “Barney, in our class, right? Tony, the new Seven.”

  Barney had untidy reddish hair, freckles, and stick-out ears. A pile of sunflower seeds lay in front of him. He would pop one into his mouth, make little nibbling motions with his lips, and then spit out the husks, like a chipmunk. All the while, he considered me with gray, watery eyes.

  “Hi,” I said, struck by how much older Jessica looked compared to these boys.

  There was an awkward silence until Barney leaned forward and whispered, “We’re the ones who can tell you what’s really happening around here.”

  Jessica snapped him a hard look. He slunk down. Whatever they were, she was in charge.

  No one spoke for a moment until Mac said, “Hey, Tony, how come you picked this school?”

  “Long story.”

  Jessica said, “Someone close to you died, right?”

  Startled, I said, “How’d you know?”

  She smiled. “I smell it on you.”

  Not sure what to say, I sucked up my juice.

  Barney broke the silence. “You play sports?”

  “Not much,” I said. “What’s the school good at?”

  The kids looked at one another, as if unsure how to answer. Jessica said, “Building your résumé.”

  Another pause.

  “What music do you like?” Mac asked me.

  “Not really into music.”

  Jessica said, “What are you into?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Cool,” said Jessica. “It’s what you don’t know that’s interesting.”

  “Like weird history,” said Barney.

  I said, “What’s . . . weird history?”

  Jessica said, “What you’d expect from a school that happened because a kid died.”

  I must have looked baffled, because Mac said, “You know. The Penda Boy.”

  I said, “Oh, right.”

  Jessica touched my arm with her ring hand. “Okay,” she said, as if she had just made a decision, “you might as well know: the three of us, we’re one of the Wednesday clubs. The Weird History Club.”