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Chapter One: The Wrath of Pratt
Ms. Imogene Pratt smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat. Her job extended beyond the boundaries of teaching English. To her, shaping her student’s futures was paramount. Although with this bunch, it would not be easy. She took a moment to reflect on the four pupils seated before her. Their sour expressions said it all. Detention with her was a punishment worse than death.
“Well, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Ms. Pratt began, peering over her cat eye glasses. “Can anyone tell me why you are here?”
“Ooh, I know,” Chad Zuzansky said, flashing a grin at the blonde girl beside him.
“I was on my phone instead of paying attention.”
“Wrong, Mr. Zuzansky.” The boy was paying attention—just not to her, but to a photo of Miss Marshall on his phone.
“Nice one, bro,” Marcus Ballantyne chuckled, giving his red-haired classmate a satiric, thumbs-up.
Ms. Pratt honed in on the Indigenous student, whose acerbic wit often drew the ire of his peers.
“Your turn, Mr. Ballantyne. Any inkling as to why you are here?”
“I was late for class?”
“Wrong again,” Ms. Pratt replied, oozing with complacency. Her gaze pivoted to the entitled exchange student from the Philippines. “Miss Sansavong? Would you care to speculate?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Perhaps, dear—but first, answer the question.”
Peyton Sansavong paused to inspect her fingernails. “Let me guess. You’re poor and you hate rich people?”
“The only thing poor in this room, dear, is your attitude.” “Whatever.”
Ms. Pratt was keenly aware of what her pupils thought of her—that she was overly strict and over the hill. Punctuality, diligence, and respect seemed in short supply these days. And while building confidence had its place in the classroom, competence was what marked the cornerstone of a solid foundation—and the reason why, under her watch— high standards and civility ruled. And would continue to do so for as long as the inscription on the door bore her name.
“What about you, dear?” Ms. Pratt asked, targeting Jillian Marshall, next. “Have you anything to add?”
The captain of the cheer squad tapered her eyes. “You tell me.”
“Very well,” Ms. Pratt agreed. “You are all here because you’re missing something vital to your lives.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Marcus asked, sounding unimpressed.
“Each other. Which is why I’m assigning you to work on your enquiry project— together.”
“Like in a group!” Jillian cried, neck veins bulging like a garden hose. “Please, Ms. Pratt. I prefer to work alone. Scholarships are hard to get and med school isn’t cheap. I can’t risk these amateurs ruining my chances.”
“Hey, what’s with her?” Chad cut in, whipping his head sideways.
Everyone turned to look. Perched in a lotus position atop her chair, Peyton sat with her eyes closed, murmuring in a foreign language. “Ommm Mani Padme Hummm. Ommm Mani Padme Hummm.”
“Quick,” Chad cried. “Somebody call a priest. Peyton is possessed!”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Marcus spat. “She’s having a seizure.”
Jillian pinched the bridge of her nose as if to stem a headache.
“You’re both idiots. See the way her hands form a triangle? It’s called a mudra, which is all part of the ritual. Peyton is meditating.”
“You sure about that?” Marcus asked.
“Positive. What you’re hearing is Samadhi—her chant. It’s based on Sanskrit and is commonly used by Hindus, Buddhists and Sikhs.”
Marcus blinked several times. “Sand skirt? Never heard of it.”
“It’s Sanskrit, you moron. An ancient Indian language. I learned about it in yoga.”
“Watch it! It’s not cool to call us Indians, anymore.”
“That is quite enough,” Ms. Pratt said, staring both combatants into submission. “We’ve more important matters to discuss.” She had hoped they would come together as a group with as little intervention as was possible. This project was of the utmost importance, as was their ability to work as a team. And time was of the essence.
Chad nodded. “I’m with you, Ms. P.” Then, turning to Jillian, he smiled. “Let the love shine through. Right, Jill?”
Wrinkling her nose, the cheerleader flipped him her middle finger.
“You learn that in yoga?” Marcus quipped.
“Get lost, Marcus.”
A single handclap cracked the air. “Well, then,” Chad said, “on that cheery note, how about we break for lunch? My stomach won’t stop growling.”
As if in response, Peyton popped open her lids.
“Is there a problem, dear?” Ms. Pratt asked, perceiving the panic in her pupil’s eyes.
For a moment, the rich girl stared into space. Then, seizing her handbag, she emptied its contents onto her desk. Breath spray, lip gloss, sunglasses and more, all spilled out in disarray. “My phone… I can’t find my phone!” Several items clattered to the floor while she scrabbled through the pile in a frenzy. “Bad vibes have blocked my energy. If I don’t book an appointment to realign my chakras, my life will be over.”
“Hey, I gotcha, girl.” Chad unzipped his waist pack. “Here, try this, instead.” He produced a square object wrapped in a napkin.
Peyton arched her eyebrows. “A brownie?”
“Go on, take it,” the redhead prodded. “It’ll help calm your nerves.”
“I’ll bet,” Marcus said. “What’s in it?” Chad winked. “Chocolate, what else? Girls love chocolate. Right Jill?”
“It’s Jillian.”
“Do they also love weed?” Marcus teased, turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Hey! My mom made these.”
Ms. Pratt glanced at her watch. Time was running out.
“I hate to say it,” Jillian said, stroking her jaw in a scholarly manner, “but perv, here, is right. Chocolate contains tryptophan which produces neurochemicals that reduce stress.”
Chad’s grin was pure cheddar. “Gee thanks, Jillian. I also think you’re swell. Though just to clarify, I’m not a perv. That photo I took of you was for the yearbook.”
“Some pic! I was upside down in the middle of a cartwheel.”
Ms. Pratt shook her head and sighed. When caught ogling the girl’s likeness in class, the startled lad had dropped his phone, only to have it land at Jillian Marshall’s feet.
“It’s called an action shot,” Chad said, his ears glowing watermelon-red. “You know… like the ones in Sports Illustrated?”
“I know what an action shot is,” Jillian fired back.
Like tiny flickers of fire, the redhead’s curls danced in the light as he raked his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I didn’t mean to… That is… Hey, have I ever told you how smart you are? Say, can I have your number for my… smart phone?”
“Ew! Ms. Praaatt! Are you sure about this?”
“To answer your question dear… Should the four of you choose to combine your strengths, you will achieve miracles together.”
“And if we refuse?” Marcus said, narrowing his eyes.
“Then, your course credits will be withheld.”
“That’s not fair!” Jillian complained. “I’m acing every other subject.”
Peyton scowled. “I’ll sue. My father has a dozen lawyers on retainer.”
“I’m afraid you’re missing the point,” Ms. Pratt said, rising to her full height. “More is at stake here than good grades. Miss Marshall—you wish to practice medicine, do you not?”
“From the first time I played with a toy stethoscope.”
“Indeed. And while such a goal is worthy of your intellect—professionalism, compassion, commitment, and keeping one’s ego in check are also critical components of being an effective physician.”
“Mr. Ballantyne—” “Yes, Ms. Pratt?”
“As a member of the swim team, you of all people know the value of teamwork.”
“Well, yeah. But—”
“And you, Miss Sansavong. You pretend your education is of little consequence, but there’s no escaping the truth. Beneath that phlegmatic façade, lies a gifted seeker of knowledge.”
“Whatever.”
“And, as for you, Mr. Zuzansky… social inelegance is not always indicative of a simple mind.”
“Huh?”
Ms. Pratt maintained a steadfast gaze while gauging each of them in turn.
“Think of this as buried treasure. Dig deep and you will prosper.”
“Fine,” Jillian said, lips pressed into a Muppet-mouth. “So, what’s the assignment?”
“We shall discuss it tomorrow. Report to class at nine a.m. sharp.”
“But tomorrow is Saturday,” Marcus argued.
“How good of you to notice, dear. You’ve become quite adept at telling time.”
“And just how are we supposed to get in?” Peyton asked, a tinge of hostility in her tone.
“Why, through the main entrance, of course,” replied Ms. Pratt. “Parent council is holding a bake sale, so the building will be unlocked—speaking of which, these letters are for your parents or guardians to sign.”
Chad sprang up in his seat. “I’ll bring the brownies. My mom made a huge batch for the bake sale.”
“Very thoughtful of you, dear,” Ms. Pratt said, cordially.
“I can hardly wait,” Jillian moaned.
Ms. Pratt assessed the brooding teens one last time. The wheels were set in motion and there was no turning back. If they failed to gel as a team, all would be for naught. “Now, listen carefully. I expect each and everyone of you to be here, tomorrow. No excuses. Especially you, Miss Sansavong—no matter how many attorneys your father may have.”
A slow burn smoldered in the rich girl’s eyes.
With a magician-like flourish of her hand, a weary Ms. Pratt dismissed the group. While the others traipsed off, Marcus stayed behind to gather his belongings. Then suddenly, like a thread drawn tight, a strange inclination tugged at the English teacher’s soul.
“One moment, Mr. Ballantyne.”
“Yes, Ms. Pratt?” “I have something for you.”
The boy slung his backpack over his shoulder with a wary look.
“A sugar cookie—my mother’s own special recipe.”
“Uh, thank you, Ms. Pratt.” She forced a smile.
“You’re welcome, dear.” Tomorrow, he’d require much more than that. They all would.