The Angry Intruder Page 3

  “Well, it looks as if everything’s in order here,” David said. “Let’s go have that tea.”

  “It’ll be dawn soon,” Miss Alice said. “Perhaps we should just have breakfast.”

  “Coming, Christy?” David asked from the doorway of the shed.

  Christy stroked Prince’s ear distractedly.

  “Oh—yes. Sorry. I was just thinking about the writing on the school. Why would someone write that about me? It’s hard not to take it personally. I keep thinking about Zach, wondering if I’ve hurt him in some way . . .”

  “Zach Holt?” David repeated. “Why him?”

  “I thought I saw him running from the school,” Christy explained. “Or at least I saw his red cap. But the more I think about it, the more I can’t believe it was Zach. For one thing, some of those letters are very high. A fairly tall person had to write them.”

  David nodded. “Good point. Unless, of course, Zach was sitting on the shoulders of a friend.”

  “Or using stilts,” Miss Alice added with a grin.

  “There’s another reason I doubt it was Zach,” Christy said.

  “And what is that, Sherlock Holmes?” David inquired, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. Zach Holt just happens to be a very fine speller. He would never spell ‘teacher’ with two e’s.”

  Miss Alice laughed. “With you on the case, we’re sure to get to the bottom of this prank.”

  “I hope that’s all it is,” David said, his voice tensing.

  “What do you mean, David?”

  “Well, Zach’s been spending a lot of time with the older troublemakers—his brother, Wraight, as well as Lundy and Smith. They’re capable of making more than simple mischief.” He stared at Christy thoughtfully. “I just think you should be careful for the next few days.”

  Christy smiled. It was sweet, and a little flattering, that David was acting so protective. Still, she could take care of herself. “I’ll be fine, David. I’m a big girl.”

  “After all those problems with Granny O’Teale, though,” David said, “there may still be some bad feelings about you.”

  Christy shuddered at the memory. She had only been teaching for a week when Granny O’Teale, the great-grandmother of the six O’Teale children, had started a terrible rumor about Christy. She’d decided that Christy was cursed after a big black raven flew into the schoolroom and perched next to Christy on her desk.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, David,” Miss Alice advised. “Maybe this is just a one-time incident. Has anything else happened at school like this?”

  “No . . .” Christy began. She hesitated. “Well, come to think of it, today someone erased some of John Spencer’s arithmetic problems off the board and spilled ink on my attendance book.”

  “You be careful, Christy,” David said. “These aren’t all just innocent children. The mountain people have been raised to think that feuding and fighting are part of daily life.”

  “There is good in all these people, David,” Miss Alice chided gently. “And in all God’s creatures. Sometimes we just have to look a little harder.”

  David nodded. “I know that, Miss Alice. But that doesn’t mean Christy shouldn’t watch herself. Things could get out of hand, even if this prankster doesn’t mean for them to.”

  “Stop worrying, David,” Christy said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll take care of myself, I promise. Besides, I have more important things to worry about.”

  “Such as?” David asked.

  “Such as how I’m ever going to teach these children how to spell correctly!”

  “See how things go today,” Miss Alice said. “We’ll talk more after school at dinner.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Christy said. “I promised Fairlight Spencer I’d start teaching her reading this afternoon. I may be a little late getting home.” Fairlight Spencer was the mother of four of Christy’s students—John, Clara, Zady, and Lulu.

  “Well, just be careful coming home from the Spencers’ cabin,” David advised. “That’s a long walk, and it gets dark early, you know. Maybe I should walk you home.”

  “I’ll have John walk me home,” Christy promised.

  “All right, then,” David agreed.

  The three of them left the shed and made their way across the yard. Christy glanced back over her shoulder at the school. “ ‘Get away, Teacher,’ ” she murmured.

  Prank or not, the words still stung.

  By the time the children arrived for school that morning, David had removed the plank nailed across the schoolhouse door. As the students read the message scrawled on the front of the school, Christy watched their expressions, hoping to get a clue about the culprit. She kept a careful eye on Lundy, Smith, and Wraight. Lundy seemed to find the message especially funny, but that was hardly proof he was involved.

  When Zach arrived, trailing behind the older boys, he just glanced at the message for a moment, then turned away. He pulled his dirty red cap down so low that his eyes were almost hidden.

  “It’s the most all-fired rotten thing I ever did see, Miz Christy,” cried Lizette. Her wide brown eyes glistened with tears. “Makes me madder’n a peeled rattler to see something like that on our brand-spankin’ new school. Who do you think done it?”

  Christy patted Lizette’s shoulder. “I’m not sure, Lizette,” she said. “But I intend to find out.”

  “Let’s clean it off,” John suggested.

  “We will,” Christy said, “but first I want everybody to have a look.”

  A tiny, cold hand reached for Christy’s. It was Mountie O’Teale, a shy ten-year-old who, with Christy’s help, was learning to overcome a speech problem that had left her nearly silent.

  “But Teacher,” Mountie said softly. “I—it was so purty and clean.”

  Christy smiled. Every time Mountie spoke, it still seemed like a small miracle. “I know, Mountie,” she said. “But we’ll fix the school. Don’t worry, sweetheart. Soon it’ll be good as new.”

  When all the students had arrived, Christy signaled for them to quiet down and gather by the school. “First things first,” she said to her hushed audience. She knelt down and dipped her hand into a slushy spot of half-frozen mud near the steps, scooping up a big handful.

  “What in tarnation are you doin’, Miz Christy?” Ruby Mae cried.

  “Mud fight!” Creed yelled, and some of the other boys cheered.

  “Nice try, Creed,” Christy said. “But this mud is for another purpose.”

  Lifting her long skirt, Christy picked her way along the edge of the building through the snow and mud.

  “She’s gone plumb crazy, I ’spect,” Ruby Mae whispered loudly.

  Christy turned to the group. “Laughter is almost always the best way to deal with a difficult problem,” Miss Alice had said.

  “I want to say that while I appreciate the effort that went into this . . . this little writing exercise, I am very disappointed in the spelling.” Christy turned to the wall. “To begin with, it’s ‘g-e-t,’ not ‘g-i-t.’ ”

  Using the cold mud, Christy carefully drew three small horizontal lines extending from the letter i. Behind her, the children watched, murmuring and whispering in amazement. A few giggled.

  “And the rest of this is no better.” Christy corrected the remaining message as well as she could. She glanced back at her students. Most of them were staring at her mud-covered hand.

  “And frankly, I don’t much care for the punctuation,” Christy added. “I would add a comma here, after ‘away.’ And how about an exclamation point at the end? That way—” she paused to smile— “it’s clear you’re serious about wanting me to leave.”

  Christy stepped back to admire her work:

  GET AWAY, TEACHER!

  “There,” she said with satisfaction. “Much better. I want to thank the person responsible for providing us with such an excellent opportunity for a spelling lesson. Next time, however, if it’s not too much tr
ouble, I’d prefer to work on grammar.” Christy motioned to the door. “Time to head inside.”

  “But Teacher,” came a small voice.

  Christy felt a tug at her skirt. It was Little Burl.

  “What is it, Little Burl?”

  “Ain’t you mad? About the writin’?”

  Christy smiled. “Sometimes getting mad just gets in the way, Little Burl. I’m disappointed that somebody hurt the new school. And I’m sad to think that someone is angry at me because I would never want to hurt one of you in any way. Not ever.”

  “But what about the mess?” Creed asked. “Who’s a-goin’ to clean it off?”

  Christy winked. “Guess what we’re going to be doing during noon recess?”

  Everyone groaned.

  “If I ever get my hands on the person who did this, I’ll whop him good!” Creed said.

  “I appreciate the offer, Creed,” Christy said. “But I don’t think that’ll be necessary. The person who did this knows that it was wrong. And I hope that he—or she—will reconsider before pulling a similar stunt. Now I want all of you to get inside. I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve got to wash off my hand in the snow.”

  While the children made their way up the steps, Christy knelt and wiped her muddy hand in a patch of snow. When Zach passed, she motioned for him to join her. He grimaced, glanced over at his brother, then reluctantly shuffled over. Wraight, Lundy, and Smith waited for him by the door, scowling at Christy.

  “Zach,” Christy said in a soft voice so the others wouldn’t hear, “you know that I would never accuse you of something unless I had a very good reason, don’t you?”

  Zach shrugged. He kicked at a mound of snow with his bare foot.

  “The thing is I thought I saw someone running away from the school last night. He was about your size, and he had on a red cap, just like the one you’re wearing.”

  Zach touched his cap. His cheeks were flushed. “Don’t mean nothin’,” he finally said. “Sure don’t mean I done it.”

  Christy stood and dried her hand on her skirt. “No, it doesn’t. As a matter of fact, I happen to know from your work that you’re an excellent speller, Zach. You would never spell ‘Teacher’ the way it was written on the wall.”

  A small smile lit up Zach’s thin face. “Got to admit it ain’t the best spellin’ I ever seen, that’s for certain.”

  “How did you learn to spell so well, Zach?”

  “My Aunt Georgia came a-visitin’ last summer. She had a real live book with her. Taught me some of the words. Little ones, leastways.”

  “That’s wonderful. You should be very proud.”

  Zach shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced nervously toward the door of the schoolhouse. “I reckon so. But just ’cause a feller can’t spell and such, that don’t mean he’s worthless or nothin’.”

  Christy nodded thoughtfully. Was Zach trying to tell her something? “Zach, I don’t think you wrote that, but I do think you might know who did. Can you tell me who it was?”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Again Zach stole a fearful glance toward the steps, where the older boys were waiting. “Yep.”

  “Is someone making you afraid, Zach? One of the older boys?”

  “I ain’t afraid of nobody!” Zach cried. “Now can I go in?”

  Christy sighed. “Of course you can.” She watched the boy march into the school. “Lundy,” she called.

  Lundy glared at her. “You be wantin’ somethin’?”

  “I want to know if you have anything to say about the writing on the school wall.”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you,” he spat. Wraight and Smith came to stand beside him.

  By now Christy was used to Lundy’s angry outbursts. From the first day of school, he’d been this way. But the sneer on his face today was almost more than she could bear. Still, she reminded herself, she wasn’t going to get anywhere by yelling at Lundy—even if she did suspect he was responsible for the vandalism.

  “I’m just going to ask once. Do you boys know anything about that writing?” Christy questioned calmly.

  “Why are you blamin’ us?” Wraight demanded. He was a taller version of Zach, with the same gray-blue eyes and tangled blond hair. But there was something troubling in his gaze.

  “I’m not blaming you. I just—”

  “Why don’t you ask Rob Allen or John Spencer if’n they done it?” Wraight pressed, his anger growing.

  “’Cause they can spell,” Smith said with a snort. “Myself, I don’t take no stock in spellin’ and such. Can’t feed an empty stomach with no spellin’ words.”

  “Boys,” Christy said. “I thought you might know something—”

  “You know we don’t know nothin’,” Wraight shot back. His words burned with angry sarcasm. “Nothin’. Can’t add, can’t spell. Can’t do nothin’, ain’t worth nothin’.”

  “’Course,” Lundy said with a dark smile, “we can shoot the eye out of a deer half a mile aways, quicker than you can spit and holler howdy.”

  “True enough,” Smith agreed.

  “What do you think of that, Teacher?” Lundy demanded.

  “I think,” Christy said with all the quiet force she could muster, “that it’s time for you boys to go inside.”

  As they slowly entered the school, big and sullen and full of anger, Christy suddenly felt very small and afraid. She shivered, but she knew it wasn’t because of the cold.

  1

  Lizette just couldn’t understand it. If she were the teacher, she would have been angry with the person who’d ruined the front of the school that way. But Miz Christy was sitting at her desk like always, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She was reading from a book about a boy named Huckleberry Finn. It was a mighty funny book, and Lizette loved listening to the pretty words. Miz Christy spun them out like pure music.

  But Lizette had other things on her mind today. She glanced down at her little blackboard. She’d carefully drawn a heart, with fancy frills along the outside. It was a little lopsided, but still, it wasn’t a bad-looking heart, not at all.

  John Spencer had carved a heart just like it on the big spruce near the bridge over Big Spoon Creek. He’d worked on it for two afternoons to get it just so. At least, that’s what he’d told Lizette. Inside the heart he’d put big letters: J. S. + L. H. It had taken her a minute to realize that the L. H. stood for her—Lizette Holcombe.

  John had been so proud of his work that Lizette hadn’t known what to say. She hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, least of all John’s. He was probably the nicest boy this side of the Mississippi. But it had taken her by surprise to learn he was sweet on her.

  After all, she and John had known each other all their lives. They’d always been friends. Just friends. Always liked the same sorts of things too—dreaming about the future or staring up at the night sky when the stars were just starting to peek out.

  Both of them loved learning too. Since school had started, they’d spent long hours talking about how exciting it all was and wondering about the arithmetic and history and English Miz Christy was going to teach them.

  And it wasn’t that John wasn’t a fine-looking boy. He had that curly blond hair, and light brown eyes that smiled a lot. Still, he wasn’t the one she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.

  Lizette fingered her chalk, considering. In the center of the heart, she wrote L. H. + W. H.

  Ruby Mae leaned over. “What’s that you’re writin’?” she whispered.

  “Nothin’,” Lizette said quickly. She wiped away the initials with her palm.

  When John had showed her the heart in the spruce tree, his face had turned as red as an apple. “I guess you can tell I’m sweet on you, Lizette,” he’d said, all shy and soft.

  What could she say? After a while, she’d answered, “I like you, too, I reckon, John,” because they’d seemed like words that wouldn’t hurt his feelings
. But on the way home, when he’d tried to hold her hand, she’d stuffed it in her skirt pocket as fast as lightning. He hadn’t tried again after that.

  She couldn’t have said the real truth of it: that she had her eyes on another boy. To begin with, John probably wouldn’t have believed her. Wraight Holt was as different from Lizette as night was from day—on the outside, anyway. Where she liked to talk, he was gruff and shy. Where she loved to learn, he didn’t much seem to like school at all. And though it pained her to say it, he wasn’t very quick at picking up things, not the way she and John were.

  Of course, she’d spent a little bit of time last year at the school way over in Low Gap. The school year only lasted four months there, but that was something, anyway. Wraight hadn’t gone to the Low Gap school. His pa wasn’t much for learning, from what Lizette could figure. He’d only let the Holt children go to school this year because Wraight’s ma had talked him into it.

  But Lizette knew that Wraight was smart. Maybe he wasn’t the quickest study when it came to letters and numbers and such. Many times she’d seen how angry he got when he looked foolish in class. But Wraight was special in other ways.

  He’d long been famous around these parts for his hunting. He’d shot a deer at two hundred yards. And once he’d even brought down a bear that was charging straight at him. Other children had looked up to him after that. Even the men would nod their heads and say, “That Wraight’s a tough one, he is, and a mighty fine shot.”

  But that wasn’t all. When Wraight played his dulcimer and sang in a voice so pure it could melt a frozen river, that’s when Lizette knew for sure how different he was from all the other boys. And when he smiled at her in a way that made her toes curl up just so, she was even more certain.

  Lizette looked up and was surprised to see Miz Christy had finished her reading. When she got to thinking about Wraight like that, Lizette often lost track of time.

  Miz Christy was so beautiful. Lizette would give anything to have eyes that blue and a smile that bright. She had a feeling the preacher thought Miz Christy was special too. When he came in the afternoon to teach math and Bible studies, he always had an extra-wide grin for Miz Christy. Anybody with a lick of romance in them could see it there, plain as day.