It was time to go back to high school, literally. I knew very little about Shony, and even though I suspected that her kidnapping had very little to do with anything she had done, I felt that it would make some sense to get to know what the kid was about. Shony went to McDonough High School, Crawford’s public school, which was located four blocks east of the county jail. That put it six or so blocks from The Hill, which meant it was pretty much a ghetto high school.
I had gone to McDonough as did most kids who grew up within city limits back then. Today, the school was predominantly black and Latino, with various other minorities and the white kids making up the balance. Just about anyone with kids who could afford to headed for the “burbs” a long time ago. Most of the white kids with money either went to Central Catholic or to Crawford Academy, which built a new school just a hair within the city lines eight years ago.
My high school years were marked by intense bouts of both anxiety and acne, though the two are probably not mutually exclusive. It was in high school that I found my way first to the karate academy and then to the boxing gym. I think I signed up for karate the day after the sixtieth time I got my ass kicked in a fight after somebody called me “pizza face” or said that it looked like I had an acid fire on my face and my mom put it out with my dad’s golf shoe. Today, I still carry a few acne scars on my cheeks that people just assume came from the ring, and if someone comments on them I don’t bother to correct them. Funny thing was that by the time I could kick somebody’s ass, I learned it wasn’t necessary to. That was the kind of effect Smitty had had on me.
With twelve hundred students, McDonough was almost a city unto itself. Its gray bricks looked tired and dirty and the place always seemed to have a cloud over it. It was three floors and the classrooms had those tall windows divided by many panes. Graffiti was left to fade on the sides and back of the building because the city only really put an effort into cleaning off the front unless the writing was particularly vulgar. The first floor on top of the main staircase had the large suite of administrative offices where you were supposed to go and sign in and get some sort of badge before you visited. I didn’t feel like doing that so I hung out on the side of the building and waited for some truant to slip out around lunchtime so I could go in and trespass around school by myself.
A friend of mine from the gym, Jamal, worked as a hall monitor and I thought he would be my first stop. Jamal was also a former member of the Nation of Islam, even serving in their elite Fruit of Islam paramilitary outfit. The FOI was sort of a force within the Nation and they provided security and bodyguards and stuff like that. Jamal left the Nation after a few years and though we never talked about it, I got the sense that he got to the point where he didn’t buy everything they were selling.
I had to walk up to the third floor and go down the corridor a bit until I ran him down. He was in the process of throwing some sophomores out of the boy’s room for smoking.
“Duffy.” Jamal smiled when he saw me. “What brings you here to my prestigious domain?”
“I wanted to see the football coach. I still have four years of eligibility,” I said.
“Shit, Duff, you know the Wind needs some speed on the gridiron. How you going to help with that?”
“There you go with your racial profiling.”
“No kidding, man, what’ya doin’ here?”
“You know a girl named Shony?” I said. “Probably a freshman or sophomore. Her stepmom, Walanda, was one of my clients.”
“Walanda Frazier, the woman who just got murdered in lockup?”
“Yeah.”
“She was a Muslim sister for a short period. I think her mental issues kept her from fully embracing Allah,” Jamal said.
“That and the crack.”
“Yeah, there was that,” Jamal said.
“I got her dog now, Allah-King.”
“Ol’ AK, huh.” Jamal smiled. “Dog as crazy as she was. You know he flunked out of the bomb-sniffing program?”
“What?”
“Oh yeah, for a while the Nation was training canines to sniff out explosives.”
“How’d Al do?”
“Not bad sniffing explosives.” Jamal paused and rubbed his chin. “Al’s problem was pissin’ and shittin’ on everything.”
“Still is,” I said. “What about Walanda? Did you know about her relationship with Shony?”
“Another Crawford tragedy. Shondeneisha Wright lived with her on and off. She’s a freshman, but she hasn’t been around in a while.”
“What kind of kid is she?”
“She’s one of the good ones, Duff,” Jamal said. “Respectful, don’t curse, don’t wear foolish-lookin’ belly shirts and having all her business fallin’ out of her blouse. That girl is proper, like a throwback.”
“Any idea what she was into?”
“She’s quiet. I think she was church-goin’. She liked to sing, and I think she was even in one of the civic groups. Not sure how she got that way-that Walanda was a trip.”
“Tell me about it. How’d you know about her mom?”
“A couple times she came down here all raggedy-assed, cracked-up, making a scene. The kid was mortified. She was ashamed that she lived with her and made a big deal about saying she’d never be like that. It was the only time I heard the kid make a lot of noise.”
“You know where I could find a teacher who really new her?”
“Miss Hippenbecker was her homeroom teacher. She’s free this period. She’s in 206.”
I thanked Jamal and headed to 206. I knocked lightly on the door’s opaque glass and let myself in. Behind an old wooden desk sat a fifty-something, rather fat woman in half glasses, reading an Oprah magazine and eating a Snickers bar.
“Miss Hippenbecker?”
“You’re supposed to have your guest badge. Have you stopped at administration?”
“I-”
“I don’t have time right now to go over any student report cards.” She laid the Oprah magazine down and continued to speak while she waved the half-eaten Snickers in her hand. “You really should make an appointment for a parent-teacher conference.”
“I’m not a parent. My name is Duffy Dombrowski. I’m a counselor at Jewish Unified Services. Was Shondeneisha Wright in this homeroom?”
“I’m not supposed to release that information.”
“Yeah, but it has to do with her stepmother’s murder.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” She took a bite out of her Snickers. “Frankly, the kid’s better off. Her stepmom was worthless.”
“Has Shony been in class?”
“I’m not supposed to say, but no she hasn’t.” She picked up her magazine. “You know how they are. They have no sense of responsibility. I’ve been here for twenty-seven years and I see it all the time.”
“They?”
“Oh please. Look, I don’t know who you are and I’m sure you want to believe all these wonderful things about these people but face it, there’s no mistake why they wind up like this.”
“Aren’t you supposed to alert someone when a kid’s absent?”
“I sent the letters.” She exhaled impatiently. “They just ignore them anyway.”
“Who did you send them to?”
“I don’t know. Whoever is the legal guardian.”
“That’s her father and he’s an addict who changes addresses weekly.”
“Not my problem. I have thirty of these animals to look after. The letter definitely went out.”
She chewed her Snickers, leaned back in her desk chair, and picked up her magazine. Without a word she went back to reading, ignoring me like the chalkboard erasers behind her.
“Uh… Miss Hippofucker?” I said.
“What did you say?” She looked down her nose at me and put her magazine down.
“Have a nice day.” There was something about being back in high school that made me do it.
Next, I headed down to the school psychologist’s office on the chance that the shrink might have had a relationship with Shony. The office was on the first floor but at the opposite end far away from the administrative offices. The placard on the office door read, Dr. Nancy Madison-Riverchild, School Psychologist. The name scared me.
I knocked on the door lightly and waited. I tried again and waited some more. I thought she might be in session, but there was no evidence of a sign to not disturb, so I checked the knob and let myself in. Dr. Madison-Riverchild was sitting cross-legged on a tattered Persian rug starring at a candle. The room reeked of patchouli and though her eyes were open, she made no motion to acknowledge my presence.
She looked about fifty, she had wavy gray hair down to her ass, and she wore a hemp peasant top and baggy pants that gathered around her ankles like a TV gypsy would wear. She was painfully pale, had crooked teeth, and was very thin. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her tits hung down around her belt line. It was one of those moments that you know is real but there’s part of your mind that wants it to be a dream. I was deciding whether I should split when Dr. Riverchild spoke.
“One moment, please,” she said without changing her position or diverting her attention.
I folded my hands in the same sort of way that I do when I’m in line at a wake. I was trying to be reverent and I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands.
The doctor stood up and walked over to me.
“I’m Dr. Madison-Riverchild,” she said. She had amazingly good posture and the absolute worst halitosis I’ve ever experienced. “I’m sorry to have made you wait, I was getting centered. How may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Duffy Dombrowski.” For the first time in my life, I felt like I needed a hyphened name in my title to be on equal footing with someone. “I’m a counselor at Jewish Unified Services and I was hoping to discuss Shony Wright.”
“Shony is a terribly troubled child.” She didn’t ask for a release or if I had any permission to speak to her. Apparently, if you’re centered enough, regulations are trivial. “She has been parentified from a very early age, and it has forced her into an untenable heroic identity.”
“Uh… I’m not sure I understand.”
“She comes from a most dysfunctional environment.” The breath was worse than anything that ever came out of Al’s ass. “She parented her parents more than they parented her.”
“I had heard she was a pretty solid kid.”
“Mr. Duffy,” she gave me an incredibly patronizing smile, which was fine with me as long as she didn’t breathe in my direction. “That’s what you see on the outside. Inside you have an inner child struggling against that external self-induced parent. She is the best example of a most dysfunctional teenager.”
“Her grades were great, she sang in the choir, volunteered, and seemed to be pretty popular?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Doctor Riverbreath said with a sigh that nearly made me lose my own center.
“Well, Doctor, you have been a great help.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Duffy,” she said. “Mr. Duffy, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you in therapy yourself? You seem to have your own internal conflicts.”
“I think I’m going to need some real soon,” I said.
“My private practice has openings,” she smiled. “We take most insurances.”
“Good to know,” I said, and I was never happier to leave a room.
I was heading out of the school when I heard the bells ring for lunch. Kids rushed out from behind doors at a crazy pace. After the last two hours that I had experienced in their school, I couldn’t say I blamed them. I fell in the throng of kids rushing to the doors and not a single one paid any attention to me. There’s something about being a teenager that gives you the uncanny ability to focus on the right-now and how it happens to pertain to yourself at that particular moment. A strange adult, out of place in their usual environment, meant nothing to them.
On my way to the car, I stopped to talk to four young black girls. They were all talking at once, snapping gum, and shouting over each other’s voices. It took awhile for them to notice me.
“Excuse me, girls?”
They didn’t say anything, they just stopped talking and looked me up and down.
“You guys know Shony Wright?”
“Why you asking?” the girl in the middle asked.
“I’m a counselor and I’m looking for her.”
“She in trouble?” the girl closest to me asked.
“Nah, I’m trying to find her. Anyone know where she went?”
“She stopped coming to school last week but sometime she do that when she go with her father,” the middle girl said. She was clearly the leader and I only expected her and the one closest to me to say anything.
“Was she doing okay? Was Shony a happy kid?”
“She’s okay. Her family is wack and her mother a crackhead.”
“That embarrass Shony?”
“What you think, mister?” She scowled at me. “Shony has it goin’ on, though. She smart, she pretty, and that girl can sing.”
The other three girls gave a series of “uh-huhs” and “Word!” at the notion that Shony could sing.
“She seem happy to you guys?”
“Mister, who you know who happy all the time?” Again with the scowl. “She happy as anybody else around here.”
I thanked the kids and they went right back to talking and yelling and snapping their gum. It was the most intelligent conversation I had all morning.