The Crazy School by Cornelia Read Page B

that,” she replied as we started for the door.
    “Usually, the kids pack up what they need by themselves, but we didn’t want him to have to carry anything. They gave him fi fteen stitches yesterday.”
    “Poor guy,” I said as we walked across the lobby. “Can someone help him with his notes and stuff ?”
    “I’m sure Fay will want to pitch in.”
    I shouldered my way through the outer door. “She’s allowed to go down there?”
    “You haven’t heard?” she asked, following me outside.
    “Heard what?”
    “Fay got sent to the Farm this morning.”
    “For what happened last night?”
    “No, not for that.”
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    I felt my stomach clench, wondering if Fay had done a turn-in about her pregnancy, given Mooney’s predicted outcome of any such confession.
    Dhumavati sighed. “One of the kids found her in the dorm bathroom this morning, cutting herself.”
    I stopped walking and looked at her. “Is she all right?”
    “It wasn’t severe. Just ritualistic. Some of the girls do it. It’s rarer with boys.”
    “Ritualistic?”
    “It’s considered an effort to communicate distress that they’re unable to voice. It’s supposed to be soothing when someone is overwhelmed by a mood state they can’t cope with. Pain lowers the level of arousal almost immediately—makes it tolerable. It can become addictive.”
    “She’s done it before?”
    “For a long time.” Dhumavati touched my back and got us walking again. “Not within the last year, however. She’s made remarkable progress here. I’m deeply concerned that it’s started up again.”
    “Understandably,” I said.
    “Did she say anything to you last night that might indicate what’s behind it?”
    I struggled with how to answer that. I wanted to believe that these people actually had the kids’ best interests at heart, but Santangelo’s freak-outs du jour still didn’t sit right with me, despite his effort at schmoozing. The idea of a raise made me even more uptight about it.
    “She was . . . upset,” I said. “I don’t know the specifi cs beyond that.”
    “She seems to feel comfortable with you,” said Dhumavati.
    “I’d like you to talk with her, if you’re willing.”
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    “Of course.”
    “And if anything were to come up?”
    “You’d be the fi rst to know,” I said.
    The rain clouds were scudding away. In the stronger light, Dhumavati looked pale and tired, ten years older than she had the previous day.
    She misjudged the height of a curb, catching her toe. She stumbled slightly and grabbed my arm to steady herself.
    I braced her for a second until she got her balance back. “Are you all right?”
    “I’ll be fi ne,” she said.
    “You look exhausted.”
    “I had trouble sleeping last night. I’m concerned about Mooney and Fay. Fay especially.”
    “She seems so fragile,” I said.
    We were walking on grass now, a shortcut to the path that would take us into the woods and down toward the Farm.
    “She’s survived a great deal,” said Dhumavati. “Horrible family life.”
    “Mooney hinted at that. He’s very protective of her,” I said.
    “Fay brings that out in people, I’ve found.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I found her very compelling from the moment she came to us.
    She has great depths of compassion, especially for a child who’s been through such trauma. I think she’s tremendously brave.”
    We reached the trees and soon hit a rough patch of trail.
    “You’re limping,” I said. “Lean on me, if you’d like.”
    “I’m fi ne.”
    “Really, it’s no trouble.”
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    Dhumavati smiled at me and put her arm across my shoulders. “Fay reminds me of my daughter. Similar-looking, but really, it’s that sweetness.”
    We walked on in silence, her weight shifting onto me slightly whenever she took a step on the tender ankle. We came to a break in