The Principal Cause of Death Read Online Free

air-conditioning
decided to stay on high, or you could get Sahara-like heat in early June. The weirdest days were when rooms right next to each other might have completely separate climates. You could step from one to the other and go from rain forest to polar ice cap.
    We entered Donna’s office. She wore a rust-colored corduroy pants suit over a white blouse and kept her hair swept back from her face in a ponytail. She’d been in the district three years and had alienated nearly every teacher at some point or other. Her basic attitude was that “you poor teachers haven’t the faintest idea how to handle these children—only I, a trained specialist, should be allowed to speak to them and deal with them.” I generally avoided talking to her.
    Nearly every social worker we’ve had has been a complete gem, brilliant and compassionate, a true miracle worker with troubled children, but according to the rules at Grover Cleveland, the social worker had to take second place to the psychologist.
    She tossed the manila folder she’d been carrying into the center of her desk, then faced me with hands on her hips and eyes blazing.
    Her office had only interior walls, so no windows gave hope of a world outside. On the cinderblock walls she had posters of rock groups and hot cars. Maybe these made the kids think she was with it and relevant.
    She said, “What was the meaning of your attack on Dan Bluefield?”
    â€œI just went through this with Jones.”
    She rapped her knuckles on the desk top. “You may have destroyed that boy for the rest of his life.”
    My guilt at what I’d done fled, and total anger returned. I said, “That ‘boy’ is nearly a man, and he’s had far worse happen to him than I just did.”
    â€œHe’s turned his life around. He’s reformed. Everybody but you seems to have noticed. What’s your problem?”
    â€œDan is the one with the problem. I can’t believe he’s convinced everyone that he’s now a model citizen.”

    â€œI intend to see if we can’t file abuse charges against you.”
    I showed her my arm. “Your little angel attacked me right after he beat up one of the teachers. You believed his story without checking it out.”
    â€œI trust him.”
    The whole scene seemed unreal. I wanted to find that student teacher, if only to burst their bubble of trust in a teenaged delinquent.
    â€œI’ve been in touch with the parents,” she said. “They’ll be in first thing in the morning. You’ll be lucky if they don’t swear out a warrant for your arrest.”
    I walked out on her. I had no patience for someone incapable of connecting with reality. I had my own emotions to deal with about what happened, and she wasn’t helping.
    As I walked through the gloomy corridors, thinking about my meeting with Jones, my fury increased. I didn’t think the district could do much of substance, didn’t think I had much to worry about. A glance at my watch told me I’d be late for the game. I needed to make a call to the ballpark in case the game ended before I got there, so that Scott would know I’d been delayed. The nearest phone was in the office, so I grabbed my briefcase and walked back in that direction.
    First I stopped in a washroom. With all the activity I hadn’t had time to try and get the blood out of my shirt. I took it off and examined the stain. Probably too dried by now, but I’d give it a try. I ran cold water from elbow to cuff on the left sleeve. Some of the blood washed out. Of course the sleeve was soaked, and I’d have to wear the shirt home wet. Not a bright move.
    I trudged down the darkened corridors. The last rays of light from the early October sunset streamed through a few opened classroom doors that faced west. It gave the old place an almost golden glow that for the moment hid the peeling plaster, defaced lockers, and