Page 20 of I Will Ruin You

Trent said, “So, in the midst of a crisis, in a life-or-death moment, Richard Boyle decided this was his big chance to cast you, of all people, in a negative light.”

“He didn’t have to come up with it in the moment. He could have thought of it after.”

Trent took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Herb, let me lay it out for you. I not only believe Mark said those things, and that Richard retold them accurately, I believe what Mark said was true. I’ve heard how you talk to your students. You puff yourself up by putting them down. You went too far with Mark LeDrew. Actions have consequences. I’m not saying it’s your fault he came here intending to kill us all, but it’s possible you lit the match.”

Herb stood. “If you speak to me in this manner again, question my professionalism, I’ll want my union rep with me. Maybe even a lawyer.”

Trent sighed. The meeting was over. Herb turned and walked out of the office.

Herb held himself together until he got back to his classroom. His heart was hammering in his chest, droplets of sweat were beading up on his forehead. Once there, he closed the door, dropped into the chair, and flattened his palms on his desk until he had his breathing under control.

Another panic attack.

God knows, if there was anyone who could have benefited from those counseling sessions it was him. He’d been on an emotional razor’s edge since learning what Mark LeDrew had said. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus, nearly ran a red light the day before. But talking to somebody, spilling his guts to some school board shrink, would amount to an admission of culpability, wouldn’t it?

Better to put up a good front that he had nothing to be concerned about. Tough it out.

But Jesus Christ on a cracker, he could have died Monday. If it hadn’t been for that son of a bitch Richard, Herb might have finished his day in as many pieces as LeDrew did. Hard to get your head around. My God, he thought. What would have become of Margaret?

Okay, sure, maybe he’d been a little rough on the kid back in the day. But hadn’t his intention always been to make the boy shape up? Make him tougher? Mold him into someone better than he was?

Of course. That was why Herb Willow had said those things. That was his story and he was sticking to it. His intention was not to humiliate, but motivate. Everyone had their own teaching style. Some coddled. But not Herb. Not a chance. The way you got these dumbass kids to learn things was to badger them, shame them. You were doing them a favor whether they appreciated it or not. Years later, once they’d made something of themselves, they’d thank you.

But he had to tell Trent that Boyle had been lying. The politically correct, touchy-feely admin types would never understand his methods. And let’s face it. The LeDrew kid really had been dumber than a bag of hammers.

But it did give Herb pause. How many other current and former students had he spoken to this way? He’d have to modify his approach. If he had to baby them, mollycoddle them, to keep the powers that be happy, well, fine, that’s what he would do. Principles be damned.

If Boyle’d had any sense of decency, he would have kept quiet about what LeDrew had said. What was the point? There was nothing any teacher might have done that would justify LeDrew’s intentions. Why even bring it up?

What a way to treat a colleague.

Later, on hall patrol—a mundane task that fell to all teachers to make sure there were no strangers in the school, walking around like some beat cop—Herb spotted a student sitting on the floor, back up against the locker, a book propped on his raised knees, a phone on the floor next to him.

“Hey,” Herb said. “You can’t sit in the hall. Don’t you have a class?”

“I’ve got a free period,” the student said.

Herb recognized him. Andrew Keenan, or Kanin, or something. Yeah, Andrew Kanin. Kind of a weird kid. Withdrawn, awkward.

“Go read in the library, or the cafeteria,” Herb said. “Someone could trip over you here. You’re a hazard.”

“I’m sitting here in case someone with a gun or a bomb comes in. I’m close to a door.” He pointed to a double set that opened onto the back field. “I’ll be able to make a quick getaway.”

“What if someone comes in through that door? You’ll be the first person he sees.”

Andrew’s face dropped, like he hadn’t thought of that. Dumb kid, Herb thought.

Herb asked, “What are you reading?”

“The Road,” he said.

“That’s that one about the dad and his son and the end of the world?”

“Yeah.”

He hadn’t read the book but was familiar with the late author’s reputation. Herb couldn’t recall seeing it on any approved reading list.

“Reading it for fun?” It wasn’t a sarcastic question. Kids—and plenty of adults—loved apocalyptic storylines. Couldn’t get enough of them. Herb could remember, when he was barely ten years old, being transfixed by a TV-movie called The Day After that depicted the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. He was unable to stop thinking about it for days and wanted to see it again, but almost no one had a VCR in those days. You couldn’t record stuff.