The Crazy School by Cornelia Read

the parking lot. We never saw him again.”
    “You guys didn’t even try to put out the fi re?”
    “It’s not like he was consumed in fl ames or anything,” said Wiesner. “I, like, barely singed his sleeve.”
    “Accidentally,” I said.
    He dropped his head to beam me a picture-of-innocence look through those thick lashes, guilty grin making his dimples crease.
    I was unmoved. “You’re a piece of work, Wiesner.”
    “And you made Sookie cry,” he said. “How’d you manage that?”
    “Nothing to do with lighters,” I said. “The rest of it stays between me and her. I’m not entirely boundary-free.”
    “No fair,” he said. “I told you .”
    “Not everything, though, right?”
    Sitzman laughed, and Wiesner gave him a little punch to the shoulder. With affection, but still.
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    I was about to say they should cut the shit when they went quiet, heads swiveling toward the doorway.
    “Hi, Dr. Santangelo,” said Wiesner just as I turned to see who it was.
    The man was back in his cape with a fresh Jefferson shirt, a beret added to the ensemble. “Nice to see the two of you spend-ing time with a teacher after class.”
    “Madeline’s cool. She’s even making me kind of enjoy history,”
    said Wiesner.
    “We all appreciate the fi ne work she’s doing,” said Santangelo, giving me a nod. “You boys mind letting us have a moment alone?”
    Wiesner and Sitzman booked out of the room so fast I could practically hear the whistle of backdraft.
    Santangelo smiled and swung the door half-shut behind them.
    Crappe diem.
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    Santangelo took off his beret and sat down on the corner of my desk.
    “We haven’t had any one-on-one conversations, Madeline, for which I apologize. I thought it was high time I checked in to see how everything’s going,” he said.
    “It’s, uh . . .” I suddenly started feeling like there was a chunk of dust on my uvula. I coughed, then sputtered, “Fine.
    Things are fi ne.”
    “I’m making you nervous. That’s the trouble with running a school. I can’t spend as much time with everyone as I’d like, so when I do show up—well, I can’t blame you for being a little tense.”
    “So you’re not here to discuss my lack of appreciation for the salad bar?”
    He let out a bark of laughter and slapped the desk. “What a crock of shit, eh?”
    “Sir?”
    “Not a trick question,” he said. “My performance was intended 7 9
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    as farce. Making a complete ass of myself seemed to be the order of the day.”
    “In that case, Dr. Santangelo, congratulations on a job well done.”
    “It served a purpose. You’re familiar with the broken windows theory?” he asked.
    “Fixing the small things. Attention to detail as a way to prevent larger-scale anarchy,” I said.
    “Exactly,” he said. “In this case, substitute the salad bar for windows. I launch into a goofy rant, and the kids know we’re paying attention. They feel cared for. I’m willing to look like a buffoon for that.”
    Wiesner’s pen lay next to my hand. I started rolling it back and forth across the desk.
    “What about screaming at Tim this morning?” I asked. “Was that intended as farce?”
    “You were shocked.”
    “I was. Yes.”
    “In fact, you thought I was a raging asshole.”
    I gave the pen another roll.
    He laughed again. “That’s the appropriate response.”
    I looked up at him.
    “I was hoping to hell it was the one I’d get out of Tim,” he said. “You honestly believe I’d condone what happened in that dorm last night?”
    “You seemed to. I mean, threatening to shove his head through the blackboard, all that,” I said.
    “Tim should’ve challenged the other dorm parents. He should’ve challenged me . Instead, he caved. That’s goddamn dangerous.”
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    “I admit to