Finals (23 page)

“
In regards to Brent Crane’s death, how did you feel about him being murdered rather than dying in say, a fashion similar to Cho’s or someone whose death was a complete accident?” I said, adding the last little bit purely to conform to St. Elizabeth’s general consensus about Harvey’s death.

Quinn spewed off educational dribble about murder being the most inexcusable act an acceptable member of society could commit, as I tried to draw SpongeBob SquarePants while every minute or two bobbing my head to give off the impression I was actually listening to her answer.

“
No person labeled as an acceptable member of society could commit such an act. Only sociopaths or other individuals with mental health problems could be capable of committing such an inhumane deed,” Quinn said, concluding her rant as I finished shading in SpongeBob’s pants.

I probably would have been more insulted by her statement had I been listening, but since I was concentrating on my cartoon, I wasn’t too hurt by her calling me a sociopath. I imagine many people probably would concur with Quinn’s rationale. I was guilty of creating two headstones after all.

“
I completely agree,” I said, lying through my teeth. “However, would your opinion change if you knew the victim was a heavy drug user with possible gang affiliations?”

“
I wouldn’t be inclined to state his death was deserving, but by surrounding oneself in that type of atmosphere with characters some might describe as shady or unsavory, the odds of finding a knife at your throat or a bullet in your ribcage increase dramatically.”

Again, Quinn’s logic was sound, but if I was ever going to have an opening to pounce on her words, this was my chance.

“
Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?” I stated. “If one of your female students was in a similar predicament, I doubt you’d give the answer you just gave me.”

Quinn appeared unbothered by my trifle comment as a smirk reeking of arrogance appeared on her face.

“
Women are rational creatures with sound judgment, which is why you don’t see many women drug dealers or sociopaths. Men in this position often develop a God complex, as they concoct this absurd notion that defeat will never occur. With this belief and the hunger for more power, money, and control, their reign of destruction continues until it eventually ends drastically. Women rarely have lust this extreme, which is why the two situations are incomparable.”

“
Is that coming from your years of research on the subject or your years of discrimination against St. Elizabeth’s male population?” I asked boldly, faintly worried that I was about to bite off more than I could chew. I usually came out victorious in battles of wit, but I was now facing a new caliber of opponent. It was entirely possible Quinn could take me down.

Quinn leaned back in her chair, giving me an expression I had witnessed a few times in my twenty-two years of worldly encounters. The best example is one of a fighting couple who against their better judgment attend a social function when they should be bickering at home. The couple pretends everything is fine, but then one of them blows up, for instance the husband by stating, “I didn’t get to watch the game, and you know why, because I had to clean the whole damn house. God forbid I don’t roll out the red carpet every time Courtney’s parents come into town.” When his repressed rage finally comes out, the wife is far too classy to fire back in this public situation. Instead of letting a few F bombs fly, she sits silently, with a tight-lipped smile, waiting to release her wrath in the car ride home.

Quinn was giving me that same closemouthed sneer, no doubt thinking of how to best respond to my brash question. For a deathly long sixty seconds we sat simply staring at one another, as if we were in an intense game of Texas Hold’em, trying to read the other player before the final turn.

“
I don’t know how you expect me to answer such an uncouth question. Unless you’re planning on asking the questions Miss Summers intended to ask, I suggest you leave.”

“
It’s only a question,” I said innocently. “One that could be easily resolved if you’d just show me your grade book, then I’m sure that I would be more than satisfied.”

“
I’m sure you would be Mr. York but I am not here to indulge you or give resolve to your flippant requests,” she said, becoming louder and more authoritative.

Sensing I was soon to be thrown out of her office, I stealthily whipped my cell phone out of my pants pocket to check the time. Six o’clock. Rogers was probably close to being finished, but to be absolutely positive he was done by the time Quinn arrived at her car I threw one last insult in for good measure, knowing it would get the wrinkly old diva’s goat.

“
I apologize,” I said. “I was naive to think you would do me such a favor, considering I’m a man you can’t fuck to get ahead in your career.”

You should have seen the vein bulge from the side of the professor’s neck as her face became a deep crimson, similar to Hawaiian Punch. She started impaling me with a bunch of remarks an elderly woman would typically make such as, “Your generation has no respect for anyone or anything,” and “Your constant vulgarity shows your immaturity.” She followed it all up with, “Your rude, imprudent attack on my character is completely unacceptable young man!”

Like a stereotypical young social miscreant, I packed my belongings ignoring the tidal rush of declarative remarks headed in my direction. I stood up, flipped my backpack over my shoulder and started to make a move for the door.

“
We are not through here, Mr. York. We are going to discuss your ill-advised behavior because I know Miss Summers would not have conducted such a rude interview!” Quinn screamed, as she pointed to the seat that I previously occupied expecting me to return to it.

My inner darkness begged me to continue the charade, but I knew it was time to go. This meeting had served its purpose. The bomb was in place, I hoped, and Quinn was in a sour mood. I had achieved both objectives.

“
Whatever lady, you’re not the boss of me and just for your information, I’d start altering that grade book of yours before something unfortunate happens,” I said, keeping up my momentary image of manly, arrogant bravado. Then like an insubordinate middle-schooler
, I started down the abandoned social sciences wing, leaving Quinn to gawk at my insolence.

Chapter Twenty-One

O
nce out of Quinn’s office, I went up to the third floor of Buckley to see the show. From the wide windows near the staircase, I had an excellent view of the main parking lot.

As I stood waiting for Quinn to come into view, I began to think about the memorable events I had eagerly anticipated as a child. This reminded me of Fourth of July weekends, sitting with my parents shoving Junior Mints into my mouth as I counted down the minutes until the fireworks began.

This was like watching a James Bond movie or a scene from
Mission Impossible
. In mere minutes, Quinn’s Rolls Royce was about to turn into a soaring inferno of scrap metal. Even though I was aware of the chaos soon to ensue, I was still anxious. Seeing the whole ordeal play out was going to be priceless.

I imagined Quinn would have one of two responses. The first was that she’d be terrified. She would be a complete idiot to assume our discussion and this explosion were coincidental. The blast was bound to awaken an internal realization that she wasn’t as bulletproof as she thought. The second response would likely be similar to Uma Thurman’s character’s reaction in
Kill Bill.
A ravenous need for vengeance would follow in the aftermath, and likely, my name would appear towards the top of the list as did Uma’s lover, Bill.

Staring out the window, I noticed Rogers wasn’t in his predetermined position. He sat on the far right outskirts of the parking lot patiently waiting. His appearance didn’t give him away immediately. He wore brown cords, a Columbia jacket, and his developing beard gave off the impression that he was an outdoorsy granola, like a large portion of the students at St. Elizabeth. The only clear giveaway was that he was sitting twenty-five feet directly to the left of Quinn’s Rolls Royce. I wasn’t too alarmed by Rogers presence since I presupposed that he had to be within a certain vicinity to denote the bomb; however, I had hoped that he didn’t need to get this close to the action. After my little confrontation with Quinn, the last thing I needed was Rogers blowing our cover.

With my eyes on my accomplice, I missed Quinn entering the parking lot. The large brown bag slung over her shoulder was slowing her down a little, but she was making her way towards the Rolls at a steady pace. She was less than forty feet from her reserved parking spot, and was getting closer with each passing footstep.

You know when movie-goers become so engrossed in a film they begin talking or doling out advice to the characters on the screen, as if they can be heard? This especially happens in a horror picture when the unsuspecting victim walks right into the killer’s trap, and despite the audience’s gasps the inevitable happens. That is exactly how I felt, watching the scene unfold from the empty third floor of the Buckley Center.

My meager mourns and protests weren’t enough to keep that dumb ignoramus from walking over to meet Quinn at her car. When the old broad finally arrived, there was Mr. Rogers leaning up against her car.

Initially, the conversation appeared to go moderately well. For the first few minutes, the two talked as though they were old friends simply catching up. I had no idea what they were saying but since Quinn stood one hand grasping her pursue handle and the other tucked in her pocket while Rogers slouched on the driver’s side of the Rolls, I didn’t get the sense the discussion was too hostile. They could have been even having a healthy discussion. The sane move would have been to work out their issues like rational adults, as opposed to say, blowing up a car.

However, within the span of thirty seconds, the tide turned and Rogers lost his cool faster than a cast member of
The Jersey Shore
. He now stood rigidly, shaking his finger at Quinn vigorously as though he were scolding his unruly child, no doubt hammering his former teacher with a slew of insults.

Quinn didn’t take kindly to this treatment. Even from this distance, I could see the pulsating veins in the old hag’s neck as her limbs began to whip around in a sporadic fashion, as if controlled by a puppeteer. Quinn’s face began to turn a familiar crimson hue, which I imagined was due to the coarse language she was beginning to use once again.

Watching the two verbally abuse each other for a good five minutes, I knew this situation was bound to bring about unfavorable results for yours truly. The plan was falling apart faster than Zack Braff’s acting career and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

At this rate, I knew the bomb wasn’t going to go off, if it had even been created, much less planted on Quinn’s car. Most likely this dumbass was spilling our plan to Quinn, since it appeared as though Rogers’s rage was getting the better of him. I could already see him being dragged kicking and screaming into the custody of either Public Safety or the Portland Police Bureau. I suppose denying the accusations was a possibility if Rogers was caught, and since he was a certified loony, someone might believe me. Threatening a teacher wasn’t the worst offense, at least when it came to my resume. Attempted manslaughter would put a damper on my future aspirations, and if Quinn or the cops were able to link this incident to Brent’s murder or Harvey’s death then I would be royally fucked.

Not surprisingly, a chubby member of Public Safety came within earshot of the heated brouhaha and began slowly making his way towards the two. The officer weighed a good three fifty and unless he happened to find a Segway to ride on like his brotherly mall cops, he wasn’t going to make it over to Quinn’s Rolls Royce any time soon.

It took close to a minute for Rogers to notice the Public Safety officer. The darting of his head back and forth from Quinn to the officer and then back to Quinn made it quite clear that Rogers was in panic mode. It was fight or flight time for my accomplice. He had to make up his mind and fast or else his decision would be made for him.

With the officer moving in and out of the rows of cars, drawing ever closer, Rogers struck. With three quick steps, he lunged at Quinn, trying for some particular reason to snatch her purse. Quinn had been screaming at Rogers for the past five minutes, but her fury intensified as she hit Rogers repeatedly on the head, in a desperate attempt to remove the leach from her side.

Upon seeing Rogers’s action, the hulky officer took off in a dead sprint, which looked more like a strenuous jog than anything else, but regardless of the pace, he was inching his way closer to the deranged engineer with every step. Rogers’s Spidey senses were tingling, or he perhaps out of the corner of his eye caught sight of the pseudo cop coming to rain on his parade. Whatever the reason, I could see he was becoming more frantic as he tried to seize Quinn’s purse. Pushing her back with one hand while tightly gripping the handbag with the other, Rogers ripped the bag from Quinn’s shoulder, tumbling backwards onto the asphalt near the car.