The Sacrifice (5 page)

Scott decided not to ask about Mrs. Willston's role with the mock trial team. There was no need to confirm that the teacher was going to reappear in his life like a wraith out of the mists of the past.

“What's the high school like now?” he asked.

“I'm sure it's changed some since you graduated, but it's no different from thousands of other schools across the country. There are probably more cliques on campus than in your time. Some groups are bizarre and have to be watched, but my greatest concern is for the students who don't belong to anything or anybody—the loners. No one is looking after them. They are the ones most likely to fall through the cracks and have the worst personal and social problems.”

“I never thought about that when I was here.”

Dr. Lassiter smiled. “You were probably a popular student. They usually don't look very far beyond their peer group.”

“Not really,” Scott replied. “I was introverted in high school. I played sports and had a few close friends, but I moved in a small circle. I still enjoy my privacy.”

“Then, I especially thank you for giving up your personal time to help with the program. Mrs. Wilson has been recruiting a handpicked group.”

At the mention of the teacher's name, Scott's heart sank, and the wraith rode out of the mist. He'd been through a lot in the past twelve years and could cope with almost anything, but there were practical reasons why the history teacher shouldn't sponsor the mock trial team.

He spoke slowly and respectfully. “Dr. Lassiter, don't you think she's too old to take on an extracurricular responsibility like this? Your letter said the time commitment would be significant.”

“Too old?” The principal looked puzzled. “What do you mean? She's not that old.”

Scott decided it was time to be blunt. If he was going to help with this program, he didn't want it to crash before it got off the ground. No decent students would volunteer for an activity if the history teacher were involved.

“Mrs. Willston taught me,” he said. “She was as old as dirt then . . .”

Dr. Lassiter burst out laughing. It reminded Scott of Perry Dixon's reaction—only worse.

“I don't think this is funny,” he said. “I want the program to be a success. That can't happen without the right people being involved.”

“I totally agree,” Dr. Lassiter said, still chuckling. “You didn't hear me correctly. I said Mrs. Wilson, not Mrs. Willston. There's no way I'd ask Delia Willston to work on something like this.”

“Oh,” Scott said, deflated. “I thought you said . . .”

“It's okay.” The principal held up his hand. “And I promise not to tell anyone. The faculty sponsor for the mock trial team is Kay Wilson, a second-year English teacher. I believe she was a student at Catawba High for a year or two before moving to California. You may remember her. I don't know her maiden name.”

“I've only kept up with a few of my classmates.”

“When we're finished eating, we can go back to my office, and I'll show you Mrs. Wilson's picture in the yearbook. I also need to give you a packet of materials we received from the trial lawyers' association.”

After pushing their trays through an opening onto a conveyor belt that chugged its way into the depths of the kitchen, they returned to the administrative area. On one wall of Dr. Lassiter's office Scott saw a large, detailed floor plan of the school. Four blocked areas were labeled A, B, C, and D. The principal pointed to the diagram. “Each of the four grades has all its homerooms in one of the four zones, but the students move from section to section for classes.”

Scott saw three small squares labeled “Modular Units” on the south side of the campus. “Are these trailers?”

“Yes. Number three is Mrs. Wilson's regular classroom. That's where you'll meet.”

“What days and times would be best?” Scott asked.

“That's up to you. You're the volunteer, so we want to work with your schedule. Do you have any regular commitments on a particular night of the week—business meetings, sports team, church?”

“No, I work out at a gym, and except for the weekends, my evenings are usually free.”

“The program will only interfere with your weekend activities during the regional and state competitions. Everything else can be scheduled during the week. I talked with Mrs. Wilson, and she suggested Tuesday and Thursday evenings at seven o'clock. That would avoid conflicts with most other school programs. You'll meet in her classroom, so you can come and go as you please without having to come into the main building.”

“That sounds fine.”

Dr. Lassiter picked up a thick packet of papers on his desk and handed it to Scott. “This is the information about the competition. With your experience I'm sure you won't have any problems sorting through it, but if you need my help in any way, let me know.”

The principal retrieved a copy of the school yearbook from a bookcase beside his desk. “Oh, let me show you Kay Wilson's picture.” He flipped through several pages. “Here it is. Top row on the right.”

Dr. Lassiter handed the book to Scott. On the opposite page from Delia Willston was a small color photograph of a young woman with long blond hair. Now that he knew her first name, it didn't take Scott more than a second to make the leap back in time twelve years to another time and another place.

“Do you remember her?” the principal asked.

Scott nodded. “Yes, Kay Laramie. She was a couple of years younger than me.”

He handed the volume back to the principal.

“She's a good teacher, very creative,” Dr. Lassiter said. “I know she'll be a big help.”

“Does she know I'm the lawyer who is volunteering to work with the mock trial program?” Scott asked.

“Not yet. I'll tell her later today and ask her to call you.”

Scott handed one of his business cards to the principal. “Give her this. I'll be in the office all afternoon.”

In the hallway outside the administrative offices, Scott didn't notice whether any of the students brushing past him had studs through their tongues or purple streaks in their hair. He didn't glance at the trophy case. He was deep in the archives of his memory, recalling images in which Kay Laramie appeared.

In the winter of Scott's senior year in high school, a tall, slender, blue-eyed sophomore arrived at Catawba High School and walked through the door of Mr. Myer's English class. Barely sixteen, Kay Laramie was a language whiz who wrote poetry. At first, Scott didn't pay much attention to the new student, but that spring Kay made the magic leap from girl to young woman. And Scott Ellis was sitting next to her in class when the transformation took place.

Everything between them happened fast. In his memory, it was like time-lapse photography. They did the typical high-school things: walking together in the halls, meals at fast-food restaurants, and going to the movies. Scott wasn't much of a conversationalist, but they had phone calls that lasted for an hour, and he surprised his friends by asking Kay to go to the prom. He couldn't remember what she wore, but the pictures from that night were still in a plastic box somewhere at his parents' house.

Kay's father kept her on a short leash. Otherwise, things might have gone farther. Then, after a few weeks, Scott was caught up in the swirling activity of high-school graduation. Kay was there, but his focus shifted to his longtime friends who were about to scatter to the winds. After he marched down the aisle of the auditorium in his cap and gown, Kay's family left for summer vacation. When she returned, Scott and his family were out of town at the beach. They were together for one week before Scott left for basic training. But their relationship was strained, and Scott questioned whether it wasn't better to let it go so they could both move on. How could he expect to hold her affection and see it grow into something more when he could be stationed halfway around the world?

So he was cool. And she thought he was cold. She came to see him on his last day in Catawba and handed him an envelope containing a poem she'd written. He read it alone in his room after she left. She had bared her heart, and it gave him the courage to reciprocate. He dialed her number. It was busy. He tried twice more without success. An hour later he was on his way out of town.

He started four letters to her on different nights while he lay in his bunk during basic training. He thought about her during long marches and while standing guard in the middle of the night. His feelings were real, but he couldn't express them on paper. Her poem had been so powerful; his letters sounded so phony. Frustrated, he decided to wait until he could see her in person and tell her how much she meant to him.

During his first leave at home, he phoned her house as soon as he woke up from a comfortable night in his own bed. Her father answered and told him that she had gone to Charlotte with Bill Corbin. Scott knew Bill. He was a good guy. Scott was devastated. He should have known Kay would go on to someone else. Maybe his doubts were more real than his feelings. He was being trained to fight, but he decided not to fight for Kay. He didn't leave a message.

Now, her last name was Wilson.

4

Summon up remembrance of things past.

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE,
S
ONNET 30

K
ay Wilson glanced up from her desk and checked the time on the clock hanging crookedly on the back wall of modular unit number three. It was the last class period of the day. Several wild strands of the teacher's long blond hair had escaped the grip of the clasp she'd used to gather it together at the back of her head before rushing out of her apartment that morning. Her makeup was an afterthought applied at two stoplights on the way to school, and she'd forgotten to wear the gold hoop earrings that still lay on the corner of the dresser in her bedroom.

Kay enjoyed the popularity reserved for new, young teachers and cultivated relationships with her students by getting to know them as more than names on a seating chart. Friendly and interested in others, she nevertheless kept her personal life private—a practice that fueled the curiosity of female students who wanted to know more about the teacher from California.

“Five minutes!” she called out to the class of twenty-eight eleventh graders writing their final thoughts about Thomas Wolfe's use of imagery in the excerpt from
Look Homeward, Angel
printed on the quiz. While the students worked, Kay continued grading papers from a test given the previous week to another class. She finished Lester Garrison's paper. He made a C, not because his answers were wrong, but because he didn't write enough. His ability to understand and analyze what he read was clear; he just needed encouragement to put his thoughts on paper and improve his understanding of grammar. Lester had been absent from class earlier in the day, and Kay determined to talk to him as soon as possible.

“Time,” she announced. “Make sure you've written your name on the top of each sheet and pass your papers to the front.”

Janie Collins, a short brunette with brown eyes and a deep dimple in her right cheek, handed a stack of papers to the young English teacher.

“Janie, can you stay after class for a couple of minutes?” Kay asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” Janie answered politely with a rural twang that revealed a family heritage on tobacco road. Modular unit three was like home-schooling for Janie. She lived with her mother and two younger brothers in a twelve-by-seventy mobile home in a trailer park.

Kay sat on the edge of her desk. “There is a new extracurricular activity starting next week—a mock trial program, and I thought you might be interested.”

“What is it?” Janie asked.

“Pretend court. I've never been involved, but I've read the materials enough to understand the basic idea. A group of students learn about the legal system by acting out a court case. They serve as the lawyers and witnesses based on facts provided to them. After practicing for a couple of months, they compete against students from other schools before real lawyers and judges.”

Janie looked skeptical. “I don't like talking in front of groups, and I've never thought about becoming a lawyer.”

“It's not limited to people interested in a legal career. You write well and speaking in public is the next step. The first meeting is next Tuesday evening at seven o'clock. If you don't like what you hear, I won't ask you to come back.”

“Are you going to be there?”

“Yes, I'm the faculty advisor. Dr. Lassiter is trying to find a lawyer who will help me.”

“I'm not sure my mom can bring me to the meetings,” Janie said hesitantly. “It depends on her work schedule.”

“If you need a ride, let me know and I'll help,” Kay offered. “Think about it over the weekend, and we'll talk on Monday.”

After Janie left, Kay returned to the tests on her desk. On top was Dustin Rawlings's paper. The football player's perspective on American literature always made her smile. Picking up her red pen, she began. An hour and a half later she was almost to the bottom of her stack when there was a knock on the door. Dr. Lassiter stuck his head inside the room.