Whisper Down the Lane Clay Chapman (i read a book txt) 📖

upon collapse, came crashing down around her. Miss Crenshaw—Susan, a single mom—had let this happen to her own son.

How? It was a strange way to phrase the question, she realized later. Mainly because when she asked it, it could have meant so many things. Could be interpreted so many ways.

How could it happen? How did he hurt you? How did I let it happen? How can I stop it? How could the school let this happen? How can I protect my son? How? How? HOW?

Sean decoded the question the best way a five-year-old could. He told her the first thing that popped into his mind, a blend of both fib and truth.

Mr. Woodhouse had taught them how to play horsey.

December 2, 1982

Dear Parent:

As some of you may already know, the Chesterfield County Police Department is currently conducting a potential criminal investigation involving an employee of our school. This undoubtedly raises some concern and serious questions regarding the safety and well-being of your children.

In respect of the police department, and those involved in this investigation, the school administration has agreed to allow the authorities to proceed with their inquiry with our complete support.

Our school records indicate that your child has been or is currently enrolled as a student at Greenfield. If you believe you have any information regarding this investigation that you would like to offer, please contact our office.

If you believe your child may have witnessed any wrongdoing relating to their teachers or on-campus activities, please contact our office as soon as possible. We only ask that you please keep any information regarding this investigation under the strictest confidence. Please do not discuss the details or any potentially incriminating aspects of this investigation with anyone else other than your immediate family.

Please bear in mind that there is no evidence to indicate that any other employee at our school is under investigation.

Your cooperation in these matters is greatly appreciated. If you have any further questions or concerns, please contact our office.

With regards,

Jim Cunningham

Principal

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

Forty blank eyes stare back at me. Glassy things, like marbles, empty of emotion. They could have been dolls. Stuffed animals. Puppets, quietly waiting for me to say something.

“Who’s ready to get messy?”

I never wanted to be a teacher. Never imagined I’d be standing in front of a group of kids—my kids—all of them waiting expectantly for me to begin our lesson for the day.

What is my plan, exactly?

What am I doing here? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself more and more lately.

The plan is to make papier-mâché piñatas, apparently. With a little flour and water, I mixed up some homemade glue—totally nontoxic—to dip our strips of newspaper into.

This particular project is a perfect distraction for when the other teachers crank up their assessments. My kids need to blow off a little steam and clobber the shit out of something.

Condrey decided today is the perfect opportunity to survey my class. “Don’t mind me,” she says, as if she were merely passing by. Completely impromptu. I can’t help but feel like I am under her microscope, being examined. It’s becoming difficult to hide my unease around her.

We have high hopes for you here, I remember her saying during my interview, taking my hand and squeezing. We want you to feel like you’re a part of our family here at Danvers…

I never thought I stood a chance at landing this job—what with my complete lack of teaching credentials. Yet, lo and behold…Now Condrey won’t stop observing me. Always popping in for an unannounced visit. Sure seems to me like she never does this for any of her other teachers. Does Dunstan get this type of treatment? Am I the only one being studied?

“Just pretend I’m not here,” she says over my shoulder, to the class, for my students’ sake—even though I’m the one being observed, not them. “What are we making today?”

“Piñatas!”

“Sounds like fun.” It doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s fun. “Just don’t hit anyone, okay?”

At the very beginning of the school year, when Mrs. Condrey took to the intercom for morning announcements and welcomed everyone back from the summer, she introduced herself to the new students by saying, I am Sylvia Condrey, your principal. The best way to remember how to spell “principal” is to remember I am your prince-ee-PAL. Friends till the end.

I couldn’t help but wonder…end of what?

My kids gather around the table as I stretch out a balloon, letting it snap against my fingers. “Whose got some strong lungs?”

Several hands shoot into the air. Not Eli’s. He keeps pretty quiet in my class, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that we’re now tethered together. I give him plenty of space, as per Tamara’s request. He stands in the back, behind everyone else. Right next to Sandy. I’ve noticed the two of them hanging out a lot more lately. Wherever Sandy is, Eli’s not far behind.

“Give this a go.” I hand the rubber intestine off to Arvind. “Now for the messy part…”

Condrey steps back. Her smile remains in place, but her masked pleasantness slips a bit.

“Stick your gluey newspaper all over the balloon, like you’re making a mummy.” My kids squeal as I drape a slimy tendril of newspaper over the balloon. “This is the main body of your piñata. Once you’re done, we can make arms and legs to create whatever you’d like. Maybe a pet? Who’s got a pet at home?”

I thought about using Weegee as an inspiration, but the last thing Eli needs is to batter his own tabby. I made a horse instead. I glance over at Condrey, feeling her eyes press down on me. I have to steer my kids clear of the notion of whacking animals with a broomstick. That’ll get me in a heap of shit with our princiPAL.

“Once the papier-mâché is dry, we cut through the hardened shell…”

I hold up the piñata I made the night before at home.

“And we pop the balloon!” I demonstrate by