Karen’s desk surveys the antechamber
to the interrogation room of the AP.
Six chairs face different study carrels
where she answers phone calls about
sick kids, doctor appointments,and
homework requests, all while keeping
a vigilant eye on the sullen row of penance
possibilities that populate the pit.
On a daily visit to check out which of my
lovelies stand accused, Chaz Gladue is there,
laughing with Karen.
“OK, Whadjya do Gladue?” I smile.
He comes back with, “I backhanded Mr. Lancer,”
and I feel my eyes crack out from my head.
“It was an accident.
Enit Miss Karen?” His face
“Show her what happened, Chaz,” Karen indicates a carrel.
Chaz sits and places an elbow on the carrel,
“He came up behind me,
to scare me, ya know.”
“Lancer,” Karen rolls her eyes.
“It worked. My arm jerked back
and my fist rammed into his face.
He left all bloody.”
His smile fades, and I ask,
“Is Lancer backing your story?”
“What was it you was saying in class
the other day, Mrs. Warren?
One of them vocab words, ummmm . . . ”
Chaz searches the empty air,
bites his lower lip, then
snaps his fingers,
he exchanges a look with Karen,