Iris snagged Rachel’s sweater. “Hey, how’s it going?” she asked.

Rachel smiled a lopsided smile, her hand going self-consciously to her mouth. “It’s all good, Miss McKinley.”

“Got a boo-boo?” Iris asked, looking at her lip.

Rachel chuckled. “Blame Cammie. We were working on a few cheers and moves over the weekend and I took a knee to the face. Pretty gross, huh? I guess it could’a been worse. She could’a broken my nose!”

“I hope that particular move is out of the routine now,” Iris said.

“I think we can get it,” Rachel said. “But I think I’ll be the jumper and not the catcher next time.” She tried her smile again.

Brett Davis sauntered toward Rachel, his eyes all sleepy and sexy. He came up behind her and slipped his arm through hers. “Morning, Miss McKinley.”

“How’s it going, Brett?” she asked. Unless she’d missed some breaking news, Brett was the big man on campus. He was a popular football player in a town where football was king. He was a year older than Rachel. They looked so perfect together, a regular Barbie and Ken, but they were sexy. Iris knew all about this yet would never get used to it, these children filled with heat and pheromones.

“Good, good. We killed Franklin High in Bandon Friday night,” Brett said.

“I heard. Congratulations!”

“Thanks, it was awesome.”

Then he led his girlfriend away down the hall, affectionately nuzzling her temple, slipping his arm around her waist. He was very like Seth had been—polite, good-looking, attentive. As far as Iris could see from her close watch on the academics of the team, he was also a good student. She wondered if Rachel helped him with his homework the way Iris had helped Seth.

Rachel seemed very good-natured and kind, and Iris had been watching. Her mother, Sassy, had been conceited and superior, dismissive of girls she deemed lesser and only interested in having a large collection of boys. Rachel hadn’t seemed to inherit that—points to Sassy for raising her well.

Iris stood in the hall until the bell rang. Then she tackled her desk. Each year in the fall, seniors were looking at colleges, at scholarships—sports and academic and those based on financial assistance—while Iris was scheduling testing. The sophomores and juniors were taking their first stab at SATs while seniors who hadn’t done well were trying one last time. She had prep classes scheduled. She was meeting with students in large groups to take aptitude quizzes to help them decide on a study path. There were college applications and selection for seniors. Besides graduation, this was the busiest time of year.

At midmorning, Troy stood in her doorway. “Got a minute?”

She looked up. “Of course.”

“She has a fat lip,” he said.

Iris smiled at Troy. There were few teachers who cared as much about every student as he did. He tried to convince his friends in town that he got a teaching degree because it was easy and that his real interest was in recreation, as much as he could fit in, his choices being particularly expensive. But Iris considered him an überteacher. He was excellent in absolutely every aspect.

“I spoke to Rachel this morning. She explained it as a cheer practice accident. She was trying out a new routine with her friend Cammie. Some kind of lift or throw or something and Cammie’s knee hit her mouth. Sounds reasonable.”

“Uh-huh. She seems to have one of those accidents every other week or so.”

“They’re kids, Troy. They’re careless sometimes. Do you notice other things? Depression? Isolation? A lack of freedom from home—like not being allowed out with friends or not being allowed to attend school events? Anything?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I smell an ill wind.”

“I’m watching. And I appreciate that you’re watching, too. I asked the gym teacher to keep an eye—they’re stripped down pretty much in their little gym uniforms and if there are lots of bruises, she’ll see them. But so far she says all looks normal to her.”

“Don’t stop the watch, please,” he said. Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. The name Misty Rosario was written on a spare hall pass. “Do you know Misty?” he asked.

“I know who she is but I don’t believe we’ve had much interaction.”

“She’s a sophomore. I have only one sophomore class and they’re a pain in the ass, mostly. But Misty has been a delight. She’s very smart. I suggested she sign up to take the SAT or ACT early just to get a feel for it while there’s plenty of time to take the prep course and maybe retest next year. She said she won’t be taking the test. She’s also become very quiet and sad just lately. I tried to talk to her but I have to be very careful.”

“Of course,” Iris said.

“She’s a fifteen-year-old girl,” he added, though no explanation was necessary. Troy couldn’t and shouldn’t speak to her privately, it could suggest impropriety. “But I can send her to you so you can ask her why she isn’t interested in the college entrance test. And maybe figure out why she’s sad.”

“Sad, awkward, unhappy, self-conscious, nervous, afraid, lonely...” Iris ran down the list. “Don’t those words describe the majority of teenage girls?”

“On some days all teenagers act out those emotions,” he said. “But with Misty it’s most days. I almost never see her laugh anymore. She walks alone to class.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you suspect and cut right to the chase,” Iris said.

He shook his head and shrugged. “I wonder if she’s being picked on. I haven’t seen anything suspicious, but these days school isn’t always where it happens anymore. It could be on the internet. Of course, it could be other matters—illness in the family, economic issues, her own health. It’s not academic, that’s for sure. She’s very smart. But she’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Withdrawn but not shy. Sad but not morbidly depressed. Her history class is full of troublemakers, which is how I have them all, I think. Many of them are older than Misty. But she’ll answer questions confidently without so much as a blush. She’ll talk to other students but stays alone. Frankly, she acts like someone who’s keeping her brain tumor secret from the world.”