Crystal Grader by Tag Cavello (dark books to read .txt) 📖

be succinct with her answer. “I believe we were about to discuss disciplinary action. Pertaining to me.”

“That’s right. Yes, I’m going to meet with each of your students in turn. Also their team managers. The time has come for…a full investigation of your conduct, in and out of the classroom. You’re late several times a month. Your absences are piling up.”

“I understand,” Crystal said. What else was there to say?

“Afterward we’ll decide whether or not anything needs to be done. By we I mean myself, the TMs, and probably the client.” Her hands folded on the desk. “In the meantime, you’re on probation.”

“Probation?”

“There will be another trainer present during all of your classes. Also, the QACs in your work area will be reporting to me daily on what you do with the time in between. What you do and where you go.”

A hot, harsh breath of air plumed from Crystal’s lungs. “What’s the matter, Robert?” She knew he hated to be called this. “Did somebody from IT find another way around the firewall so all us girls can go back to playing on social media during work hours?”

“This is why, Crystal,” Roberta explained, looking vindicated. “This is why I have to press my thumb down. You have a temper. You respond poorly to discipline. Just the other day I heard you swearing in the bathroom. Something about the coffee dispensers—“

“They’re disgusting, yes.”

“They’re also free. If you don’t like what we have here then go to Starbucks.”

Crystal’s lip twisted. A swish and a score from downtown for the account manager.

“You also swear quite a bit on the client’s personal chat service,” she continued. “That’s forbidden and you know it.”

“You’re asking me to change.”

“No. I’ve been asking you to change for the past three years, and that’s been all, because until recently our agents have always shown improvement after taking your classes. Now I’m done asking. Now I’m telling.”

Ultimatum given, Roberta stared over the desk. Crystal stared back, letting the silence draw out like a held breath. It took a long time, but eventually she needed some fresh air.

“All right,” she said.

“Good,” Roberta nodded. “So we’re done here. You may go.”

Crystal stood up. Anger and frustration swelled in her chest. Something needed to be said, some parting shot to fracture the ever-present, ever-frigid composure that seemed to glow like an aura around Roberta no matter what the circumstances. Yet she couldn’t think of a thing. Without lifting her eyes, she left the office. Several dozen agents stared at her as she passed—she could feel them all, rays of heat that they were.

The comfort rooms were at the end of a narrow corridor just outside the work area. Crystal went into the ladies’, sat down inside one of the stalls, and cried. It helped a little. The swelling in her chest faded. Her fists came unclenched.

It was just too bad there was a mirror in the comfort room as well—a rather large one that took up the entire wall. Crystal splashed her face at the sinks, and when she looked up, a forty year-old woman looked back at her. Too bad indeed. She was only twenty-five, after all. Her black hair, once vibrant (Peter Pan hair, her friends from school had sometimes called it), now looked tame. Sleepy. Her eyes, once a deep, rich blue, were tired as well, their shine cast over by the haze of some distant fire—a fire that burned eternal and was making its way ever closer to the hostess who could not keep herself from looking back.

“Are you all right?” DoDo ventured, after Crystal returned to her workstation.

“Yes I’m good,” she answered, faking a smile.

“Beth went home.”

Crystal shrugged. News always did travel fast in a call center. “She’ll survive.”

“Yeah but you might not. Everyone’s talking about you on the chat service.”

“I guess that’s reasonable considering,” Crystal said. “But don’t worry. Nobody here wants to kill me.”

DoDo gave a sardonic laugh. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah,” Crystal replied, adjusting her seat. “I mean I know how killing feels. I’ve done it before.”

3

 

The gymnasium filled up fast on the Tuesday after Halloween.

Tension in every classroom had been tight all morning, especially among the girls. It stood to reason. That day’s guest was a popular writer of romance novels, and while it was true many of them were considered too mature for the junior high reading clique, the school board had booked him under the confidence that any questions from the audience pertaining to heated story segments would be off limits.

Or so Crystal believed. In any case, Jarett Powell’s lecture promised to be a fascinating one. Most of her friends kept copies of his work hidden either at the top or bottom of their lockers, along with other contraband such as make-up kits, chewing gum, and even the occasional pack of cigarettes (Crystal usually favored Marlboro Lights).

He had no idea what he was getting himself into—of that much, at least, Crystal felt positive. An article in the previous day’s paper had him quoted as saying: “With the junior high students I’m expecting a lot of tentative questions about where I get my ideas, and how do I get inspired. Typical things that every young author wants to know about.”

The shortest skirt Crystal could get away with wearing ended about four inches above the knee. This certified a dangerous view for Powell when he noticed her sitting in the front row. It came with a pink belt that went splendidly with the sleeveless blouse she’d taken out of her closet that morning. In the bathroom before class, she’d surreptitiously applied a light sheen of make-up, including lip-stick and eye shadow.

Fully equipped, she went back to her desk. At just before 10AM grades six through eight were called into the gymnasium. Rows of folding chairs facing an empty podium had been set up on the basketball court where Crystal did her cheering on Friday nights. Yellow and black—the school’s colors—dominated the walls, mostly in the form of championship pennants dating back to her mother’s time beneath these glass backboards and nylon nets.

Blocking out the steady chatter from the other students as best she could, Crystal sat down directly in front of the still vacant podium. Two men and one woman—the principal, the vice-principal, and the sixth grade English teacher—stood nearby, chatting between oblivious smiles. Of Jarett Powell there was no sign.

“Waiting in the wings,” Lucy said into Crystal’s ear. “If he stood there in plain sight until ten o’clock everyone would just gawk.” Then, sounding a little worried: “Do you think he’ll remember us from the other night?”

“Oh hell yes,” Crystal said. “How could he forget?”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” A sigh escaped her lips. “This is one time I wish sixth graders had to sit in the back. He’ll probably make faces at us all through the lecture.”

Crystal crossed her legs and went back to searching the doorways. The most likely bet for an appearance rested on the far right, where the locker rooms were. Her eyes squinted to penetrate the lurking shadows in that area. In moments they picked out a tall, dark shape leaning against the wall.

“Gotcha,” she whispered. “Almost time for some candy, big boy.”

Or not. Her lip twisted as the school janitor, a sixty-something man whom everyone referred to (behind his back) as Shit-Shit because of the way he smelled, appeared in the corridor, scratching his balls.

“Goddammit, Shitty, what are you doing back there?”

“Huh?”

Crystal blinked over at Lucy. “Oh nothing. Just muttering my thoughts.” She started to turn away but did a double-take, reaching towards the other girl’s face. “Ah, Lucy, straighten your glasses before they fall right off your nose.”

“Thanks. Yeah, the bow is bent. Are you going to ask him any questions?”

“Who?”

A wicked snort followed this. “Who? Shit-Shit over there. Jarett Powell, that’s who.”

“Oh, him,” Crystal replied with an equally wicked smile. “Lucy, you know that I have…several questions I want to ask him.”

“Any of them fit for a public setting?”

Her eyebrows popped up for a moment. “Not especially.”

“Didn’t think so. Well you won’t be alone. Annette’s got a few wild ideas in her head. Kory and Brittney. Of course neither of them is sitting in the front row showing off their legs.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true, right?” Lucy simpered. “You look like a pack of bubble gum!”

“Shut up!”

“Know his favorite flavor yet? Is it strawberry or cherry?”

“If you don’t shut up I’m going to post pictures of your Ashlee Simpson poster all over MySpace.”

This made Lucy double over so hard laughing her glasses fell onto the floor. “You would do that!” she marveled. “You just would!”

“This guy doesn’t strike me as going for strawberries or cherries anyway,” Crystal replied more seriously.

“No?”

She shook her head. “Oh no. For Jarett I’m thinking more along the lines of pink lemonade.”

“Crystal,” Lucy said, sobering up, “you know you’re only eleven years old, right? And he’s what? Forty?”

But Crystal didn’t care about this. Ever since reading his first novel, Pursuit of the Dove, in the window seat of her bedroom a year ago, she never had.

“He’s mine,” she said, looking up at the empty podium. “Believe me when I tell you, Lucy. Believe me.”

***

Ten minutes later the liver-spotted, bald head of Principal Arthur Dodder was hovering over the podium microphone.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!” he honked through the gargantuan nose that took up most of his face. “As you all know, the school board has invited local author Jarett Powell to speak to you and answer questions regarding his craft.”

“Woo-hoo!” a female voice called from the back.

“It is an honor and a privilege,” Dodder grimaced, “to have him here with us. He has had several books published over the years, and is eager to discover more talent right here in his own home town. So without further ado!”

“Mine,” Crystal muttered again, as several cheers rose from the audience.

“I present to the class, Mister Jarett Powell!”

Screams now from the girls. Delirious squealing. Crystal stood up and clapped with everyone else. Her eyes raced from one corner of the gym to the other. But Powell, much to her irritation, was still playing ninja. The doorways were empty, the curtains, the bleachers. Over by the locker room Shit-Shit was still scratching his balls. So where did that leave her target?

“Oh my God oh my GOD!”

Wondering if a fire had suddenly broken out, Crystal whirled on her heel in the direction of the cry—

And stopped breathing.

Jarett Powell, dressed in blue jeans and a red dress shirt, was walking straight towards her. Idol that he was, he had decided on a sneak attack, making his approach to the group from behind. Only the maneuver seemed to have backfired. The girls were impeding his progress towards the podium, jumping up and down like groupies at a rock concert.

Their antics did not surprise Crystal in the least, and it irritated her even further to think that Powell could be so stupid. She stopped clapping as at last Jarett reached the podium. A smile—one half in pity for his failed coup—rose to her face, but then slumped when she realized the writer was not going to spare so much as a glance in her direction. Scowling, she watched him shake hands with Dodder. He hugged Miss Reingold, the English teacher—

At that moment Crystal could have cheerfully killed Miss Reingold, never mind the high marks she always gave her in class, nor the praise for writing skills she always heaped upon her mother. Miss Reingold was young and slender. She had long brown hair. And she was even now looking up at Jarett Powell in much the same, dreamy way all the other girls in the auditorium were. Miss Reingold really needed to have her head twisted around backwards until it popped off.

Crystal plopped down hard in her seat.

“Oh my,” Lucy let out, tying her hair back with a rubber band. “Did you feel like that the other night when we