A Table By the Window Read Free

from a square face into a French twist, the same way it did almost four years ago when she was principal of Sacramento High School and Carley was a teacher fresh out of California State University.
    Two years later, Dr. Kincaid had left for San Francisco. Carley did not cross paths with her former boss until last June, when she happened across Dr. Kincaid and her husband under the refreshment canopy at the California Shakespeare Festival outside Oakland. Dr. Kincaid mentioned looking for a replacement English literature teacher and encouraged her to apply. She remembered how hard Carley had worked in Sacramento and guaranteed she would love Emerson-Wake.
    It sounded like a good move to Carley, eager to get out of Sacramento, where there was always the chance of bumping into certain ghosts from the past.
    â€œGood morning, Dr. Kincaid,” Carley said. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
    Dr. Kincaid lay down her pen. “Uh-oh. Please have a seat.”
    Carley sat in the chair facing the desk and unlatched the briefcase in her lap. “I almost telephoned you last night. But it was so late.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œFour of my second-hour students copied their assignments from the Internet.” She leaned forward to hand the papers over the desk.
    â€œThis isn’t good,” Dr. Kincaid groaned, flipping through the stack.
    â€œWould you like to see the Web site?”
    â€œYes, later. But it’s clearly plagiarism.” She set aside the first paper, looked at the name on the second, and blew out a longer stream of breath. “Ryan Ogden. His grandfather will be livid.”
    Retired four-star general Avery Ogden, author of severalscience-fiction novels, grandfather to three Emerson-Wake students, was the preparatory school’s most generous contributor.
    â€œBut he has no cause to be angry at us, ” Carley pointed out. “Not at the school.”
    Without replying, the headmistress scanned the papers again. At length her mocha-colored eyes met Carley’s. “I want you to take the day off.”
    Carley shook her head. “I’m not about to skip out and leave you to handle this alone.”
    â€œI insist.” She pressed a button on the speakerphone. “Faye, will you round up someone for gate duty? And I’ll need to see Melinda when she arrives.”
    â€œYes, Dr. Kincaid,” came through.
    Graduate student Melinda Pearson was one of two “floating” aides and substitute teachers. She had taken Carley’s classes for two days back in November, when Carley had an especially fierce migraine. She was highly competent.
    But very unneeded this morning. At least in Carley’s opinion.
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s best if I handle this myself.” Dr. Kincaid picked up her pen and began rotating it with fingers tipped in the same pink as her lips. “Did you ever explain to your students what plagiarism is, Carley?”
    Desperation had entered her tone.
    And something else…faintly. Accusation.
    At me? Carley leaned forward again in an attempt to catch her eyes, but they were fastened hypnotically to the pen-turning process.
    â€œThey’re high school sophomores,” Carley reminded her.
    â€œBut did you—”
    â€œ Explicitly . What English teacher doesn’t? And besides, it’s spelled out in the handbook they signed.” Disappointment surged through her. “You can’t be thinking of dropping this.”
    â€œOf course not. But a negative grade in this class would destroy any chance at a good college.” Finally her eyes met Carley’s again. The brittle voice softened. “I realize that second-hour class has been a difficult one for you, Carley. But if we allow vindictiveness to cloud our—”
    â€œYou think I’m being vindictive ?” Carley cut in, unable to believe her ears.
    A hand released one end of the pen