It smelled the same. Like paint and sawdust and orange-scented carpet cleaner.
The theater sat 250 in red vinyl seats that terraced up from a small black stage. The stage lights were on, and a partially built set constructed out of plywood and canvas gave the vague impression of a turn-of-the-century parlor. She recognized the same old Queen Anne sofa that they had used in “Arsenic and Old Lace” and “Cheaper by the Dozen.” The sconces from “Murder at the Vicarage.” And the same staircase. Always the same staircase. It just switched sides.
She had hated high school, but she had loved this place. It floored her now to think of all the time she’d spent there, hours after school in rehearsal for play after play. It had been her whole world, especially after her father had died.
There wasn’t anyone in the auditorium today. The emptiness of the place made her feel a splinter of sadness. She walked to the last row of chairs and knelt down to examine the underside of the second chair in from the aisle. There, scratched in the metal, were her initials: S.W. After all these years, her name was still carved into this place. She felt a sudden wash of self-consciousness and stood up. She didn’t want someone walking in, finding her there. She didn’t want any old reunions. It was a mistake to have even come to Cleveland. The story was about Archie, not her. She took one last look around, and then turned and fled back into the hallway.
A voice called, “Ms. Ward.” She recognized it immediately. It was the voice that had launched a thousand detentions.
“Mr. McCallum,” she said.
He looked the same. He was a short barrel of a man, with an enormous mustache and a ring of keys that pulled down one side of his pants, requiring constant adjustment. “Walk with us,” he said. “I’m just escorting Mr. Schmidt to detention.” Susan then noticed the teenage boy walking behind McCallum. He smiled at her shyly, a painful trail of acne making its way up his neck.
Susan hurried along behind. The jostling kids in the hall parted for McCallum, who didn’t break stride.
“I see your byline,” he said to Susan.
Susan cringed. “Oh?” she said.
“Are you here about Lee Robinson?”
Susan brightened and opened her notebook. “Did you know her?”
“Never laid eyes on her,” McCallum said.
Susan turned hopefully to the kid. “You?”
The kid shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I knew who she was.”
McCallum whipped around. “What did I tell you, Mr. Schmidt?”
The kid reddened. “Not a word?”
“I don’t want to see your mouth open or hear words come out of your face until sixth period tomorrow,” McCallum said. He turned to Susan. “Mr. Schmidt has a talking problem.”
Susan was about to fall prey to her own talking problem, when she was distracted by a glass display case in the hallway. “Look,” Susan said, pressing a finger against the glass. “All the Knowledge Bowl trophies.”
McCallum nodded proudly, his chin and neck converging into one. “We won state last year. So they were forced to move a few football trophies to make room in the display case.”
The case was full of trophies, the largest a wide silver bowl with the name of the school and the year engraved in fancy calligraphy. “I really loved Knowledge Bowl,” she said quietly.
“You quit the team,” McCallum pointed out.
Susan swallowed a ball of sorrow in her throat. “I had a lot going on.”
“It’s difficult to lose a parent so young.”
She laid her hand flat on the glass. The trophies were polished to a shine and her distorted reflection stared back at her a dozen times. When she lifted her hand, a faint greasy palm print marked where it had been. “Yeah.”
“That’s harsh,” the kid said.
McCallum looked at the kid and raised a finger to his lips. “Not a word,” he said.
The physics teacher spun back to Susan and jabbed a thumb at a brown door across the hall. “This is us,” he said. He held out a thick, hairy hand. Susan took it. “Ms. Ward,” he said. “I wish you the best in your future endeavors.”
“Thanks, Mr. McCallum,” Susan said.
McCallum walked the kid over to the door and opened it for him. The kid waved limply at Susan as he was led inside.
“Sorry about bailing on Knowledge Bowl,” she called after them, but the door had already shut.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Susan stood with her hands on her hips, examining her old Saab. It had been booted. The metal device was firmly affixed to her left front wheel. She squeezed her eyes shut and emitted a low growl. She had parked in a reserved teacher spot, sure. But it was after school. And she’d been fifteen minutes. She shuffled around for a few minutes, collecting herself.