UnCatholic Conduct Read online

  She strode purposefully through the crowd at the front and came to a stop in front of Jil, hand outstretched. “Ms. Kinness?”

  “Hello.” Jil got to her feet to shake the proffered hand. It was hot—electric, even. Jil couldn’t turn away from her intense gaze, even if she’d wanted to.

  “Jessica Blake.”

  “Oh. Um. Hello.” Then, regaining her composure: “You’re the principal?”

  “Three years running. C’mon in.”

  Jil followed her back through the maze of desks and chairs to the quiet and spacious office in the corner. As soon as the door closed, the noise level dropped about fifty decibels. Jil felt herself relax.

  “Welcome to St. Marguerite’s, Julie.” Ms. Blake indicated a seat at the round table.

  Jil sat, and Ms. Blake did too—one leg tucked up underneath herself on the large, square chair. Quite a feat, in a tailored suit.

  “It’s Julia, actually.” She was determined to redo this first impression. Professional. Detached. Why did she feel like she’d already been made?

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Julia.” Ms. Blake’s speech was clipped and definite—like she had both a word and time crunch. “Welcome all the same. We’re glad you could pinch-hit on such short notice.” She opened a file and riffled through until she found what she wanted. “Ms. Barnes was in a car accident last week and won’t be returning until next semester. At the earliest. We know it’s not going to be easy diving in here at the last minute, but you come highly recommended.”

  “Thank you.” Jil wondered what the hell the superintendent could have had to say about a woman he’d never met.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have time for a formal interview or orientation, but you’re here now, and that’s the important thing.” She brushed a stray strand of hair away from her forehead and regarded Jil steadily.

  Jil tried to smile. Why couldn’t she meet Ms. Blake’s eyes? “Did Ms. Barnes leave a course outline?” she asked, her voice coming out more of a croak than she’d expected.

  “Yes. If you don’t want to follow it, you can run the changes by me, and we’ll see about making modifications. I’m going to set you up with Buck Weekly. He’s head of the Religious Studies Department, and he’ll be a good mentor for you. He has some time set aside for you this morning, so he’ll be in R200. In the Red building.”

  “What time do I begin my class?” How much effort would this teaching thing be?

  “Buck will be able to answer all your procedural questions. And if he’s not available, Mark Genovese will be able to help you. He’s the VP for the grade eleven and twelve students, as well as the director of residence.”

  “Residence?”

  “Yes. We have fifty boarders at St. Marguerite’s. Many of them come from the Pathways Program, which is for at-risk youth previously living in foster care. Many of them have been kicked out of the regular system and seem to thrive in a more structured environment.”

  Jil envisioned Mark’s six-foot, five-inch frame, and imagined he’d be more than capable of dealing with any student who got out of line.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. Things are a little nuts. But feel free to drop in later in the week if you have any questions.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Ms. Blake.”

  “Call me Jess.”

  “Okay, thanks, Jess.”

  Jil rose to leave and nearly tripped over the leg of the chair. She smiled sheepishly and ducked quickly out the door before she could embarrass herself further. Her sweaty palms and racing heartbeat were more than the nervousness of starting a new assignment. Undercover was her specialty. She knew how to morph into someone else better than she knew how to breathe. Some days it was the only way she could breathe.

  So why did she feel like she was underwater, moving so slowly she could barely surface?

  *

  “You must be Julie. Nice to meet you.” Buck Weekly appraised Jil as she stood on the threshold of the Religion office.

  “Julia Kinness. Pleased to meet you.”

  His lumbering frame reminded her of a clothed grizzly bear as he ambled toward her, paw outstretched. She shook his hand, and he surprised her by clasping hard and leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Welcome to St. Marguerite’s,” he said, still holding on.

  Jil maneuvered expertly out of his grasp and took a step backward.

  “Thank you,” she said. Padraig owed her a very expensive lobster dinner after this assignment.

  She gave herself a mental check. He’d be lucky to afford a fast-food joint.

  Buck bared his teeth in what he obviously considered a welcoming smile and indicated the seat opposite him. His hair, a wavy shock of heavily graying brown, resembled thick beaver fur, arranged expertly on his too-large head. Jil wondered for a moment if it was a rug.

  She sat down gingerly at someone else’s desk and took out her notepad.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Jil hadn’t figured out where the staff room—and therefore the staff bathrooms—were located, and having coffee would require her to find that out sooner rather than later.

  “No?” Buck echoed. “Well, I was going to go on down to the cafeteria and get myself something. Maybe we could meet there—a bit friendlier than this office.”

  “If you like, but I’ve already had a cup this morning.”

  “Well, I wish you’d change your mind.” A note of impatience crept into his voice. “I’d like to welcome you properly.”

  Jil sighed inwardly but tried to smile. After all, she didn’t want to be rude—or make enemies right from the start. “Tea would be fine,” she replied and followed Buck out of the room down the stairs to the cafeteria. He lumbered ahead of her, and Jil noticed his heavily worn shoes, and his misbuttoned, threadbare shirt. She wondered if he was low on funds, or if he just didn’t like to buy new clothes. She guessed the latter; he didn’t seem like a guy who liked change.

  “Two coffees,” he told the woman behind the desk.

  “Actually, that was one tea,” Jil corrected him.

  “Oh. Did you change your mind then?” He knitted his bushy eyebrows. “Okay. One coffee and one tea.”

  Jil took her lukewarm Styrofoam cup and dunked the teabag up and down, deciding that since the water would likely remain that peculiar shade of gray, she might as well leave the bag in. She added a little milk and put the lid back on, noticing a few errant coffee grinds twirling through her cup.

  “How’s the tea?” Buck asked, leading her to a table in the corner.

  “Tastes like coffee.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. Would you like me to ask her to make you another one?”

  “No, thank you.” Jil did her best to keep the impatience from her voice as she set her cup aside and looked anxiously at the clock. “I’d rather hear about the school. It’s my first year as a teacher here—anywhere, actually—and Jess seems to think you’ll have a few pointers.”

  “Well, Julia…” Buck took a slurp of his coffee. “I’ll give you an idea of how this department runs, and if you have any questions, you can ask me at the end. Okay?”

  Jil nodded, feeling like she was sitting through a lecture with a particularly arrogant professor.

  “The Religion Department is probably the most important department here at St. Marguerite’s. Now, I’ve been asked many times to step out of it—become a religious consultant, or even a principal, but I’ve always said no, because I love it here.” For some reason, Buck seemed to feel the need to bang his fist emphatically on the table as he spoke, which made their Styrofoam cups jiggle and jump precariously.

  Jil picked her cup up in an effort to avoid a spill.

  “I was a student here,” Buck continued. “I’ve taught here my whole career, and I plan to retire here.”

  “Wow. That’s commitment.” Jil struggled to keep the irony out of her voice. Settling in one place and staying there was her idea of hell, not glory. Which is probably why she’d been attracted t
o investigative work in the first place. “Is it a family tradition?” She feigned interest. She’d once heard that the way to deal with an arrogant person was to make him believe you found him fascinating.

  “Yes. My father was a teacher. As was my brother, Charleston.”

  Jil shook her head. “Afraid I don’t know him.”

  Buck bared his teeth again. “Before your time.”

  “Did he teach religion as well?”

  “Yes. In Africa. We all feel that religion is the cornerstone to Catholic education. It’s what sets us apart from the public schools. It’s what makes St. Marguerite’s such a success. We teach all students, no matter how troubled or backward they are. It doesn’t matter if they’re mentally retarded or slow. They all come into religion and are taught the Catholic way.”

  Mentally retarded—now there’s a term I’m pretty sure was outlawed back in 1984.

  She noticed that students left a respectful distance as they passed the table. None of them even made eye contact or waved. She wondered if they were afraid of Buck, or if an unwritten rule said that students didn’t associate with teachers, even in the cafeteria.

  She clued in that Buck had asked her about her schedule, just in time to avoid another of his annoyed looks.

  “I’m here half-time,” she said, as if she’d been paying full attention. “I have one class. Grade Twelve World Religion.”

  Instead of looking at her, Buck scanned the cafeteria. He nodded, out of sync with her words, as if he were just putting in time before he could speak again. “Yes. Jess and I spoke about that earlier. I’ll be sitting in on your class for the first week or so, helping you to get an idea of what you’re doing. We tend to stick together, the religion teachers. If you have any problems, you can feel free to see me. I can always help you.”

  “That’s great. Jess said the same thing about herself. Looks like I’ll have lots of support.”

  “Well, now.” Buck held Jil’s eyes in his piercing blue gaze. “Here at St. Marguerite’s we have a chain of command. If you have a problem, you see me, and if I can’t solve it, I’ll take it to Jessica. Teachers don’t normally see the administration about things on their own. And same with the other staff members. If you have a problem with one of them, see me, and we’ll work it out together.”

  “I thought if you had a problem with somebody—not that I expect to—you saw them directly?”

  “Yes, well, here we like to work things out as a team,” Buck said, a slight edge in his voice. “I promise you that if you trust me with your issues, I’ll never lead you astray. You’ll be in good hands.”

  Jil felt her temper flaring, for reasons she couldn’t quite put a finger on, and had to take a breath before changing the subject. “So, my class?”

  “Yes. World Religions: Buddhism, Sikhism, Christianity, and Hinduism. With an extra unit of Catholicism thrown in too for good measure.”

  “Is that in the course outline?”

  “Not officially.” Buck grimaced.

  Jil did not smile back.

  “We like to remind the students of where their hearts are before the course wraps up.”

  A moment of silence dragged on a little too long. Buck clenched and unclenched his jaw.

  “I’d like to see my office,” she said finally. “I need a few minutes to prepare for my first class. And to go over the course outline.”

  “The secretary at the front desk will have your office keys.” Buck waved bizarrely, like a royal dismissal. “It’s right down the hall from mine. In R. You’re R202.”

  “Great.” Jil rose to leave. “Thank you for your…insights.”

  As she walked away, she consciously slowed her footsteps, feeling Buck’s cold stare at her back. She opened the door to the cafeteria and saw him watching her. No doubt about it: not an hour into her first day, and she was already well on her way to making an enemy.

  Chapter Three

  By nine fifteen, Jil had keys, a burgundy and ivory lanyard (St. Marguerite’s official colors), and a borrowed office full of bookshelves that rivaled her own. No piles of folders, though. Ms. Barnes was clearly a neat and tidy sort.

  Jil dumped her stuff on the floor and threw her folders on the desk. She flipped to page one of her instruction manual. Apparently, teachers didn’t teach on the first day. They did “ice breaking” exercises and went over the synopsis. Then they gave instructions on how to drop the class in an effort to get smaller numbers, and sent students down to the Student Services mosh pit—apparently the new name for “Guidance.”

  As she stood over the enormous photocopying machine, trying to navigate her way around the touch screen and various characters, she rediscovered why she’d gone into investigating and not office work. This loathsome piece of machinery. She loaded in her outline once again, and once again, the pages came out blank.

  “What did you want to do?” asked an amused voice behind her.

  Jil turned around to see a tall woman dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt, an orange flowered lanyard around her neck.

  “I’d settle for photocopying.”

  “You’re new?”

  “First year. My name is Julia Kinness.”

  “Hi there. I’m Rosie McMonahan. I teach—”

  “Gym?”

  “Well, health this unit, but otherwise, yeah, phys ed.”

  “Brave woman.”

  Rosie giggled, her chestnut curls bouncing as she turned to point across the room. She looked young, no more than twenty-five or six. A wedding band sparkled on her finger. Looked new.

  “Try the one over there. It gives you step-by-step instructions. This thing’s a beast.”

  “Great, thanks.” Jil moved over to the smaller, somewhat less intimidating machine.

  Rosie loaded the paper in the top for her—blank side up. Jil’s face flushed. Of course. Printed side down.

  “How do you like it so far?” Rosie asked as the machine started spitting out copies—stapled and double-sided.

  “It’s a nice facility.”

  “Nice facility?” Rosie teased her. “Are you from Revenue Canada? Here to do an audit?”

  Jil raised her eyebrows. That was all it took to make her stand out? She’d have to be more careful. “Uh, no…I teach religious studies. What about you? How long have you been here?”

  “Well, I was on contract here last year, so I feel pretty well at home. It’s a little big if you’re not used to it, I guess. At least, that’s what I remember. Hey, do you play any sports?”

  “Not well. Why?”

  “We’re looking for coaches. After school, mostly. Any chance you’d like to coach a team?”

  Jil shook her head. “I’m only here in the mornings.” She was glad she had a real excuse. She liked Rosie and didn’t want to disappoint her.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe next year. I’ll have to see if I can con my husband into taking one more.”

  “Oh. Does he work here? Your husband?” Never miss an opportunity to sleuth. The quicker she eliminated delinquents, the faster she could get out of here.

  “Yeah. Mark Ivanhoe. He teaches math. Up in the R building.”

  “Oh. My room’s in R too. What floor is he?”

  “Two.”

  “Huh. We must be neighbors. Ivanhoe, you said?” Not McMonahan? Didn’t married people usually change their names? Especially married Catholics?

  Rosie must have heard the unasked question, because she looked sheepish. “Yeah. Actually, we’re not technically married. We’ve lived together for five years, but never walked down the aisle. It’s just easier to say ‘husband’ around here, you know?” She pointed ironically to her ring finger. “At least he finally got me a ring.”

  Jil smiled. Shit. Could she just pretend she hadn’t heard that?

  “Are you married?” Rosie smiled.

  Jil shook her head. “Never found the right man for me.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time…though teaching’s kind of a bum jo
b to find a husband.”

  Jil liked her smile—bright, genuine.

  The machine stopped spitting out paper, and Jil went to collect her pile. “First class.” She bit her lip with a nervousness that was only partly for show. “I wonder if they’ll like me.”

  Rosie laughed. “You’re hilarious. Good luck.” They traded places, Rosie tackling the machine, and Jil going to check her internal mailbox in the alcove beside the staff lunchroom. Some very efficient admin person had already labeled one: Kinness, J.

  She found a scroll tucked into the box—a list of teachers, alphabetically by homeroom. Also a class list with phone numbers and addresses of her students, a newsletter, and a copy of that morning’s announcements. Wow, they sure didn’t waste any time. The school year was starting today—no turning back.

  Jil felt a ball of real nervousness settle in her chest. She wasn’t a teacher. She’d made a specific point not to talk to teenagers. Ever. Since her own high school experience, the school cafeteria had been on her top five list of most hated places—right below the firing range and slightly above dank, dark basements. Now here she was saddled with a morning break duty every Thursday, and a Bible on her bookshelf for easy access.

  As she headed out of the staff room, flipping through her folder of photocopies, she failed to notice the large indoor flower bed in the atrium. She also failed to notice the man in a blue shirt, bending over the flower bed until she almost tumbled over him.

  “So sorry!” She caught her balance by laying a hand on the stranger’s back.

  He looked up from the flower bed with a frown. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered and went back to working. His dark hair contrasted oddly with his face, which placed him in his early forties, max.

  Jil backed away and headed for her class. These black button-up creased trousers were enough to make her gag. Forget the blouses that required ironing, or the high-heeled pumps she stumbled around in, the dress code at this school was just one more thing to add to the list of things to hold over Padraig’s head.

  Someday in the future, when they could laugh about what a mess the firm was in, she would drag out these old stories.