Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (life books to read txt) 📗

about it. Should we step in there? His parents are ostracizing him. He’s miserable, far worse than getting hit, I think he’d say. Should we step into that situation? How about Kemper? He hates football but his father forces him to play. Did you know Kemper has a five-million-dollar trust fund waiting for him? But it’s contingent on him playing football all four years. Kemper’s tiny and he’s already suffered two broken bones. That’s bullying, right? Should we intervene?”

“There’s a difference between misguided parenting and hitting your children with phonebooks until they stop crying.”

“If it’s happening, and you only have hearsay. Let me play the devil’s advocate with hard facts. Benjamin’s father provides for him. Cares about him. Spends a fortune on his education. Conferences with his teachers. Attends all his football games. I think Mr. Lynch is very likely too tough on his children, but who is the arbiter on parental strictness? I don’t think it can be you, a man in his third month teaching, a man without children of his own. Especially when we wish other parents were as invested in their children as Mr. Lynch seems to be.”

Jennings felt his energy leaking away, losing power. He didn’t think Ms. Pierce was right but…had the woman said anything wrong? The rug was being pulled from under him. He felt brand new, suddenly.

“Your concern is laudable, Mr. Jennings. But we cannot inject ourselves into every parent-child relationship that we fear may not be perfect.”

Jennings found himself nodding, staring at the crystal paperweight on her desk.

She said, “I hope you haven’t spread accusations of child abuse around to other instructors?”

“I haven’t.”

“I’ll request a guidance counselor call Benjamin in for a chat. I think he has Mrs. Wagner. If she hears anything alarming, she’ll alert me. How’s that?”

“Good. Thank you.” Jennings stood. He refused to acknowledge feeling like a chastised boy. “I’ll keep my ears open too.”

“Do so very carefully, Mr. Jennings. Like I said, Mr. Lynch purchased some leeway in advance.”

“Maybe, but you don’t get to purchase the right to abuse your kids.” He held up his hand to stop her. “If he is.”

“Right. If you learn anything else, contact me. Have a good day, Mr. Jennings.”

The door closed and Ms. Pierce leaned forward in her chair. Rested her elbows on the table, and her chin in both hands. She wondered how long it would be before Mr. Jennings decided it was easier to pretend he didn’t see evil. Like most teachers did. Like she swore she’d never do.

She was still sitting in the same position ten minutes later, eyes closed.

Jennings was walking back to his room when Craig Lewis intercepted him. Lewis was the elder statesman of the instructors.

“Mr. Jennings. I spotted you in the office,” said Lewis.

“Principal offices never get less scary, do they.”

“Important matters with Ms. Pierce?”

Jennings did a half shrug. “I’m not sure yet.”

Lewis had retired from teaching at fifty-six, all thirty-two years of his career spent in Roanoke’s public schools, only to have the Academy beg him return for a few more. A kind, soft-spoken man whom Jennings admired, Lewis often extolled the virtue and necessity of routines to the new teachers. “Will anything come of it?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” Mr. Lewis held out a slip of paper.

“What’s this?”

“My contact info.” Lewis stepped closer and dropped his voice. “I won’t discuss it with you now. Or ever, on campus. But we should meet outside of school and talk.”

“Happy to. About what?”

“About Peter Lynch.”

The hairs on Jennings’ arms raised. “Yeah?”

“It’s bad, Mr. Jennings. Far worse than you realize.”

8

Jennings liked the Academy enough that if he was fired from teaching he might apply to be a groundskeeper. He was that charmed. The fortune spent manifested itself in the carpet of bright Kentucky bluegrass and thick mulch, the health of the azaleas, the stately bronze plaques, the gurgling fountain, the brilliant columns.

Jennings attended football practice again. He sat at the base of the hill, near the field, and thought about Mr. Lewis.

It’s far worse than you realize.

How had Mr. Lewis known? Maybe Coach Murray told him Jennings was spooked. Or Daisy Hathaway mentioned Jennings was asking about rumors.

How could it be worse? What else was there?

In his ear, Ms. Pierce reminded him he wasn’t a parent. He couldn’t save them all. It’s a marathon, Jennings.

He hadn’t begun his education classes yet. If the Academy had been a public school then he wouldn’t qualify for a license. But he’d been reading. He knew teachers were mandatory reporters, compelled to disclose signs of abuse. He’d done his duty. Yet it wouldn’t quit nagging.

On field, the running back took a pitch and came around the offensive line. He was a punishing runner, a senior named Mickey King. King turned the corner, packing on speed until he met Benji Lynch. King was powerful but he wasn’t Benji. They collided, pads popping, a smack Jennings felt. The linebacker tackled through him, wrapped up King’s legs, and drove him into the turf, eight yards from Jennings.

Shouting. Whistles blew.

Jennings winced. Hard tackles like that were banned from practice for a reason. Killing your teammates was no way to keep cohesion or a healthy roster.

King bounced up, hot. He yanked off his red helmet, pulled out his mouth guard, and advanced on Lynch. “The shit, boy!”

Lynch used both hands to remove his helmet. Held it by the face mask.

“It’s football, Mickey. Don’t cry about it. You come on my field, I knock the hell out of you.”

Coach Murray was back at the line of scrimmage, regrouping the players. He called for a penalty and Lynch was ordered to sit out for five minutes, but neither boy moved.

Mickey King was wincing, holding his chest. “Watch that mouth, white boy, or I’ll kick you home to daddy. Hear me, Lynch?”

“No, I didn’t hear you, King. Get your black ass back to the line.”

Jennings saw it coming. Climbed to his feet, too late.

King had enough. He dropped the helmet, dropped the mouth guard and shoved Lynch