Period 8

.9



When Mary Wells walks into Period 8 the following day, the room goes quiet.

“Ms. Wells,” Logs says. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” she says in a near whisper, and moves sheepishly to a desk. She sits, hands folded on the flat surface in front of her.

“Don’t mean to be pushy,” Justin says, “but how about bringin’ us up to speed.”

Logs says, “Justin . . .”

“No,” Mary says. “He’s right.” She’s quiet again, glancing quickly at Hannah, then Paulie. Almost imperceptibly Paulie shakes his head, don’t do it.

She looks at Arney, who smiles and nods.

“It was just some stuff at home,” she says. “My dad . . . I got all worried about my scholarship and was thinking about taking a year at the university here. It got ugly and I took off. I don’t know what my dad was doing reporting me missing like that.” She puts her head down. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Only the two or three students sitting adjacent to Hannah hear her singsongy whisper, “Buuullll-shit.”

“That’s it?” Justin says. Mary nods. “That’s it. I was being stupid.”

Logs watches. He starts to ask about her torn-up room, but lets it go. “It would be insincere not to acknowledge that we were talking about you,” he says. “Or at least that we were talking about our responses to your disappearance.”

Mary smiles. “It would be insincere to say I didn’t know that.”

“Any problem for you if we continue with our discussion?”

“No.”

“Then, where were we?” Logs says.

Bobby Wright raises his hand. “Taylor was talking about bad guys.”

Justin’s head snaps up. “Bobby, my man,” he says. “That’s what I mean. Front and center.”

“There’s not much more to say,” Taylor says, shifting in her seat. “I went home sick yesterday after this class. I hate even talking about that crap.”

“You want to stop?” Logs asks.

Taylor looks at her desk. “I’m okay.”

“What about your mom?” Hannah asks softly. “Guys like that have to have a way in.”

“That’s my mom,” Taylor says. “A way in.”

“No offense,” Hannah says, “but file that under ‘Why Some Women Need Two A*sholes.’”

Paulie says, “Sweet, Hannah.”

Hannah stares ahead as if she didn’t hear.

“Who cares?” Taylor says. “The day I’m eighteen I’m out of there, even if I have to live in a cardboard box.”

“If it comes to that, give me a call,” Hannah says.

Justin says, “You got a cardboard box?”

Hannah doubles her fist and Justin raises his hands in surrender.

“Why is everything a joke to you, Justin?”

“Because everything is a joke,” Justin says. “Sometimes it’s a serious joke, but it’s a joke just the same.”

“That’s just stupid.”

“Some jokes are,” Justin says, and turns sideways in his chair to face Hannah. “We’re sittin’ in this nice safe room trying to figure out why Taylor’s momma picks shitheads for boyfriends, or why Mary disappears and won’t tell us why really, or whether guys are a*sholes for having brains in our di . . . not in our heads. Everybody acts like they don’t know what bull it is when Arney goes Oprah on us at the same time he’s messin’ with Bobby, so we go ahead and pretend like we believe he’s gonna lead us to having each other’s backs.” He looks at Arney and rolls his eyes.

“Look, I apologized,” Arney says. “And I don’t need you to believe me in order to do what’s right.”

“Good,” Justin says back, “because I don’t. We been buds a long time, Arney, but that doesn’t mean I buy your stuff.” He turns back to Hannah. “So that’s why everything’s a joke to me, Hannah Murphy.”

A muffled sob comes from the back of the room and all eyes fall on Kylie Clinton, face against a desktop, body shaking. A hush falls over P-8 and Logs raises a hand. “This might be a good day to cut it short,” he says. “Why don’t we call it quits and you can all take a little break and be on time to your next class for the first time this year.”

Mary gets up slowly, eyes locked on Kylie.

Arney touches Mary’s elbow, nods toward the exit, pushes her gently in that direction.

The rest of the students gather their things and file silently out.

Paulie gives Logs a quick see you at the lake, throws his backpack over one shoulder, and heads to AP English.

Logs says softly to Bobby, who lingers at the door, “Would you hang out here in the hall for a while and tell my next class to wait if any of them shows early? I’ll write you an excuse.”

With the door closed and guarded, Logs sits in the chair next to Kylie. No acknowledgment, and the sobs continue. “Do you want to talk about it?” he says.

Head buried in her arms, she shakes it no.

“Would you like to see a counselor?”

The head shake is more emphatic.

Kylie’s an unknown to Logs, pretty, quiet, new to Heller this year.

“Make you a deal. I’ll take my next class across the hall; Ms. Kaywood’s got prep. You stay here as long as you want and I’ll cover for you with whatever your next class is, okay?”

“Fancher,” Kylie says into the desk.

“No sweat. He owes me. But you have to talk to me before you go home today, okay? Or at least to one of the counselors.”

“You,” Kylie says.

“Promise?”

She nods.

Logs gathers material for his next class and moves quietly out of the room, thanking Bobby for standing guard on his way across the hall.



Logs stands in Ms. Kaywood’s classroom, watching Kylie Clinton through the window. She’s sitting in his classroom staring straight ahead. A light rap on the door. He walks over and opens it.

“What’s up, Arney?”

“You mind if I have a quick word with Kylie? I know her, I might be able to help.”

Logs breathes deep. He knows from experience that a lot gets solved when the kids get involved, but he wasn’t in total disagreement with what Justin said to Arney earlier. “Okay,” he says. “But if she doesn’t feel like talking, apologize, turn around, and leave.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Arney says.

Logs watches as Arney enters the room, approaches Kylie slowly. Kylie looks up, then away. Arney walks closer and puts a hand in the middle of Kylie’s back, kneels, and talks. Kylie nods, nods again. Arney pats her on the shoulder and stands to leave and Kylie puts her head back down on the desk. Arney gives Logs a thumbs-up through the window and walks out.

When he returns to his classroom for the next period, Kylie is gone, but there’s a note on the desk. Thanks, Mr. Logs. I’m okay. I’ll catch up with you today or see you in the morning. Thanks, really.



Paulie walks into Frank’s Diner and sits at the counter. In his opinion, Frank’s serves the best hamburger in town and they make shakes the old-fashioned way; hard ice cream and they give you the container once they pour the glass full. No whipped cream on top and no sprinkles. Just good old vanilla ice cream and Hershey’s chocolate syrup. Topped off with a side of onion rings, there are few greater delights from his limited culinary point of view.

It’s not a popular hangout for kids, which is why he’s here, desiring to sit with his thoughts, gorge, and try to forget Hannah.

Naomi Washburn is working the counter this evening. Naomi’s a friend of his mother’s. She started working at Frank’s three weeks after she dropped out of high school in the middle of her junior year and three husbands and five kids later makes a killer living on tips alone.

“Paulie Bomb,” she says, ready to take his order. She squints, looking closer. “Honey, I’ve seen you looking worse but I can’t for the life of me remember when.”

“Hey, Naomi.”

“What’s going on, baby? You look shot at and missed, and shit at and hit.”

“Tired,” he says. “Been working out pretty hard.”

“Your momma tells me that happens when the world’s collapsing.”

“Yeah, well, my momma’s not exactly Dr. Phil. But I’ll tell you, Naomi, I’m startin’ to think I’m crazy.”

“All you kids are crazy,” she says. Her hand sweeps back toward the one booth filled with other high school students. Paulie nods at Ron Firth. “And you tip like shit. But relatively speaking, you’re probably not crazy. Why do you say that?”

“You can’t tell my mom this, okay?”

“And prove she’s a better psychologist than you give her credit for?”

“I broke up with Hannah.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Paulie says, “but the thing is, I’m, like, kicking myself for bringing it on—when I’m not so mad at her for not listening to me I could scream or punch something.”

“Go back to ‘bringing it on.’ ”

“Too long a story,” Paulie says. “I don’t know, I just wanted to explain myself.”

“Would it make a difference?”

Paulie smiles. “Probably not. Good point. Anyway, Arney’s been taking her out. . . .”

“What? That inconsiderate shit,” Naomi says. “Why don’t you kick his ass?”

“I told him okay.”

Naomi’s look turns stern. “Ask me again if I think you’re crazy.”

“It’s gonna happen with someone; she’s Hannah Murphy for chrissake. Might as well be with someone I know.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Naomi says. “Somebody you don’t know, you can run into somewhere and pick a fight. It’s harder to do with a so-called friend, which by the way if he goes out with Hannah, he isn’t. Nobody wants to think about their ex with a friend. If I had time I’d tell you a little about that.”

She’s right. Paulie’s been shocked awake nightly by the vision of Hannah and Arney in the movie parking lot.

“Maybe you should start hanging out with my Karin. An ambitious young man like you would be good for her.”

“I thought Karin was in juvy.”

“She should be out in the next couple of weeks, if she’ll goddamn behave herself.”

“No offense, Naomi, but I’d be terrified to go out with any girl raised by you. I mean that as a compliment.”

The cook slides Paulie’s onion rings and burger under the heat lamp and Naomi places the plate in front of him just as the bell hanging over the entrance rings and three men walk in and sit several seats down.

“Gotta get to work,” Naomi says. “Only other thing I can recommend to a guy in your position is to join up with the Thumpers. Let Jesus find a way.” She laughs and nods at a back booth.

“We’re not quite a fit,” Paulie says, smiling. “I think the answer is to drown my sorrows.” He takes a gigantic bite of his burger and washes it down with milkshake. “And remember, you can’t tell my mother. She doesn’t know any of this. I’ll give it to her a little at a time.”

Naomi’s already taking the three men’s orders, but she runs her fingers across her lips with the zipper sign.

Paulie finishes the burger in four more bites, eats the onion rings two at a time, drains the shake, leaves Naomi a bigger than shit tip, and gets up to go.

“Mr. Bomb!” comes from the back booth.

“Mr. Firth,” Paulie says. “Whassup?”

“Just sittin’ here rootin’ out evil,” Ron says. “Come on back.”

“Gotta get home,” Paulie says. “I just stopped for a little dinner to hold me over ’til dinner. My mom’s expecting me.”

“Come on, Bomb. Won’t hurt you to sit with us and get the Word. We need a little stimulation. Everyone back here agrees with each other. It’s boring.”

Paulie smiles and walks back.

The booth is full so he sits across the narrow aisle and orders another shake. “So how you guys doin’? Jesus still all right?”

It brings smiles. A couple of kids sitting against the window break briefly into The Doobie Brothers’ version.

“From what you said in P-8 the other day, sounds like you could use a little Jesus,” Firth says.

Paulie glances up. Things said in Period 8 stay there.

Ron reads his mind. “They don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “I keep the faith with Mr. Logs.”

“I’ll give you all dispensation on this one,” Paulie says back. “Anybody wants to know the horror of my life can go read Hannah Murphy’s Facebook page. She doesn’t name names, but it doesn’t take a genius to know which a-hole is which.”

“Hannah Murphy was talking about you?” Cassandra Hoops says. “I thought all that was rhetorical.”

Paulie says, “When was the last time you heard Hannah Murphy get rhetorical?”

Carrie Morales says, “So you’re an adulterer.”

“Just a dick, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Paulie says. “Nobody involved was married. Or an adult.”

“Semantics, really,” Carrie says.

“Actually, we have to give our wayward friend the benefit of the doubt here,” Ron says. “No promises were made in the presence of God. Let’s not get too hardass here, folks, even though it’s we who profess to be without sin.” He raises his eyebrows at Carrie.

“So there, Carrie Morales,” Paulie says.

The others look on as if they need to be brought up to speed.

“I cheated,” Paulie says. “And I’m getting what I deserved. Actually, you could have wormed all this out of Arney Stack. You guys have his ear.”

Firth says, “Say what?”

“I thought you guys were lobbying Stack to get Johannsen and the school board to let you have a classroom for your get-togethers. Midnight meeting? One of these last Fridays?”

YFC heads shake in unison. “One more politician who doesn’t come through,” Firth says. “Mr. Stack hasn’t been at one of our meetings since we carried the election for him.”

“Carried the election.” Paulie laughs. “You and every other group in school. Arney didn’t meet with you guys a couple Fridays ago?”

“Haven’t seen Arney at one of our meetings—formal or informal—since last year.”

“And we sure haven’t seen him at any of the late Friday night meetings,” Carrie adds. “Those are where we have some fun. I’d remember that.”

Paulie shrugs and runs the business end of his straw around the inside of his glass, sucking up the cold residue like an 8-pound Oreck. “Gotta go, you guys. Thanks for bearing witness.”

“You wouldn’t have to change much, Mr. Bomb,” Ron Firth says, “to be one of us. We have hope for you.”

“Thanks anyway,” Paulie says back, “but as much time as I spend trying to haul myself through the water, I’m suspicious of guys who walk on it.”

“See you in school, man.”



Paulie belts himself into the Beetle and sits, staring out the windshield at Frank’s Diner. Arney didn’t have to speed off to YFC that night. Why would he say that? Where was he going that he didn’t want Paulie to know? He said in Period 8 that Mary Wells was a friend; why would he not be willing to give her a lift? And Hannah said Arney was the only guy she knew who wasn’t afraid of Mary’s dad. What’s that about?

He jumps at a knock on the driver’s-side window, looks up into Mary’s face. She motions him to roll down the window. “Can we talk?”

“Jeez! There are forty thousand people in this town, how come I keep running into you?”

She smiles. “No coincidence. I’m stalking you. You drive a lime-green Beetle, Paulie, basically a neon girlie car. You’re not that hard to track.”

“I don’t identify myself by my ride,” he says. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Things,” Mary says. “Just things.”