Teacher's Pets
Rochelle Kemper stood on the threshold of the prestigious Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies and hesitated a moment, fearful of taking that monumental step; for when she walked through the doorway of the prestigious private school, it would be as an educator, not a student. She had always hated school and went to college only to please her dying mother. Now she was voluntarily entering the world of blackboards, chalk and erasers; of desks and books; of assessment tests and number two pencils. With a sigh of resignation, the young woman steeled herself and stepped inside.
The interior of the Wickersham School was not like that of any institution of learning she had ever seen. The plush carpets, antique mahogany furniture and expensive artwork that adorned the walls gave the appearance of a reception area of a large corporate headquarters or an upscale hotel lobby.
The beautiful young lady behind the desk greeted Rochelle with a smile that revealed a set of pearly whites found only in toothpaste commercials.
"May I help you?" the million-dollar smile inquired.
"I'm Rochelle Kemper. I'm supposed to start work here."
"Oh, yes. You're the new language arts teacher. One second. I'll tell Mrs. Rhodes you're here."
A few moments later a door to the right of the reception desk opened and out stepped an attractive, well-dressed, middle-aged woman with an elaborately coiffed head of flaming red hair and an equally dazzling smile.
"Miss Kemper," she called, "I'm Camilla Rhodes. Welcome to Wickersham."
"Thank you," Rochelle replied, feeling like the ugly duckling of the trio.
Low self-esteem was a condition to which she had long grown accustomed. When she was a young child, Rochelle was overweight, and throughout elementary school, she had to endure the insults and cruel jokes of her classmates. With proper diet and exercise, she was able to slim down considerably but never to the point where she felt attractive. That was why she hated school; she always considered herself inferior to the other girls—girls like the one with the million-dollar smile who sat behind the reception desk of the Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies.
After Rochelle filled out the necessary paperwork—W2 forms, insurance enrollment forms, emergency contact information and the lot—Mrs. Rhodes gave her a personal tour of the campus.
"What a beautiful school!" the new teacher exclaimed as they walked down one of the elegant hallways. "I remember the schools I attended: the dreary corridors lined with metal lockers and cork bulletin boards."
Mrs. Rhodes was amused.
"You won't find anything like that at Wickersham. Ah, here we are. This is your classroom."
Rochelle was speechless. The room resembled an eighteenth-century drawing room, complete with Chippendale wing chairs. Against three of the walls were several tall secretaries that served as writing desks and bookshelves. On the fourth wall was a large brick fireplace, more likely intended to provide ambiance rather than heat. She had no idea what the school charged for tuition, but given the décor, she imagined it must be an exorbitant amount. Rochelle assumed that only families in the Kennedy tax bracket could afford to send their children to Wickersham.
"You'll find the staff's living suites equally comfortable. You see, we believe that contented teachers are the most motivated educators. Now let me show you the rest of the campus."
The other rooms and buildings at Wickersham were all as impressive as the language arts classroom. The dining room rivaled Boston's finest restaurants. The gymnasium included not only an Olympic-sized swimming pool but also a spa, a Jacuzzi and the latest fitness equipment; the music and art rooms were worthy of the most renowned conservatories in Europe.
Yet with each new door that was opened, Rochelle became more intimidated, less sure of her ability to teach such obviously over-privileged students.
Will they listen to me? she wondered. No doubt one look at my JCPenney wardrobe and my Payless shoes, and I'll be the laughingstock of Wickersham School.
Long before her orientation tour was over, Rochelle dreaded the start of the school year.
* * *
The following day, when teachers and other staff members reported to work, Rochelle pulled her fourteen-year-old Subaru wagon into the staff parking lot. When she saw the cars already there—late models manufactured by Mercedes, BMW, Lexus, Jaguar and even a stately Rolls Royce—she felt like giving her car the gas and heading home, but she had never been one to quit.
"How bad can it be?" she asked herself. "So what if my students come from the richest families in the country? They're still just teenagers."
Those teenagers, she decided, were there to learn, and who better to teach them about Shakespeare, Dickens and Hawthorne than a young woman who had graduated valedictorian of her class? With a renewed sense of purpose, she bravely got out of her car, crossed the parking lot and entered the posh lobby of the Wickersham School.
"Good morning, Miss Kemper," the girl with the million-dollar smile greeted her. "Could I have your car keys, please?"
"My keys? Why? What's wrong?"
At first, Rochelle feared that someone had seen the old Subaru, deemed it an eyesore and wanted it removed from the parking lot.
"I assume your bags are in the car. Our custodian will retrieve them and take them to your room."
Rochelle blushed with embarrassment.
"Here they are," she said, handing over the Marvin the Martian key ring. "It's the green Subaru wagon with ...."
"I know which car is yours," the young woman said, flashing her perfect smile.
Again, Rochelle blushed. Was it that obvious that she owned the oldest and least expensive vehicle in the parking lot?
She was about to ask the receptionist where she should go when a voice called to her from the front door.
"You must be the new girl." Rochelle turned and saw a stocky, somewhat masculine-looking woman, who announced, "I'm Mary Jo Osmond, the phys ed teacher and personal trainer to the stars—or at least that's how some of these snot-nosed little princesses think of themselves."
The mischievous twinkle in the woman's eye told Rochelle that her remark had been made in jest.
"I'm Rochelle Kemper, the language arts teacher," the newcomer introduced herself.
"I know. Word spreads fast around here. I hope you're not like the last English teacher we had. Nice girl, but she was forever correcting everyone's grammar. I'm fifty years old, and if I want to dangle my participles, I'll damn well dangle them!"
Mary Jo's laughter was infectious. Rochelle was certain she would get along well with the jolly, unimposing gym teacher.
"Have you had breakfast yet?" the older woman asked in a more serious tone.
"No. I was far too nervous this morning to think about food."
"Come with me then. The kitchen staff puts out quite a spread on opening day: blueberry pancakes, eggs Benedict, strawberry crepes and my personal favorite, chocolate-filled croissants."
"Mmmm! Sounds heavenly."
The smile instantly vanished from the gym teacher's face.
"Strange choice of words," she murmured. "I'm afraid you'll find there's nothing heavenly here at Wickersham."
"I don't understand."
Rochelle was puzzled. Had she said something to offend the other woman? But the mischievous twinkle returned to the gym teacher's eyes and the infectious smile to her lips.
"Decadent, self-indulgent and sinful—perhaps. But heavenly? Absolutely not!"
Over the lavish breakfast buffet, Rochelle had the opportunity to meet many of her colleagues. Except for Mary Jo Osmond, those she met had one thing in common: they were all young and beautiful. It was as though physical perfection was a prerequisite for employment at Wickersham. Good looks aside, the teachers were far from perfect. The science teacher was too timid, the art teacher a bit standoffish, the music teacher extremely talkative and giddy, the home economics teacher opinionated and the math teacher belligerent. Nanette Moreau, the blond, blue-eyed French teacher, who looked like she spent a considerable amount of time on the French Riviera, was the only one besides the gym teacher who seemed genuinely warm and friendly.
After breakfast, Mary Jo offered to show Rochelle the way to the staff suites. En route, they met Leia MacGregor, the senior member of the teaching staff. The elderly history teacher spoke little, but her eyes were quick, and Rochelle had the distinct impression that the old woman never missed a trick.
"Thank you," Rochelle told Mary Jo when they finally arrived at the door to the English teacher's rooms. "You've been so helpful."
Several of the other faculty members who were walking down the hall toward their rooms cast disapproving glances in their direction.
"I don't think I've made a very good first impression," Rochelle noted with concern. "The other teachers don't seem to like me very much."
Mary Jo chuckled and confided, "Don't worry, honey. It's not you. It's me they're uncertain of. The short hair, the masculine features, the fact that I'm a gym teacher. I suspect they think I'm a closet lesbian."
Rochelle's jaw dropped in shocked surprise. She had been raised in a strict, religious household, one where such topics as homosexuality were not openly discussed.
"Don't worry," Mary Jo said, her hand reaching up to touch the gold locket she wore around her neck. "I'm as straight as an arrow. I was married for five wonderful years, but my husband and son were killed in an automobile accident."
"I'm so sorry."
"No need to be. That was almost twenty years ago. The wounds have long since healed," she said, clutching the locket in her hand. "Or at least they're somewhat manageable."
* * *
The next day girls as young as thirteen and as old as eighteen descended upon the Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies. Its quiet halls of learning become a tumult of activity. By 10:00 p.m., the official time for lights out, things quieted down somewhat. Only the sound of whispering and adolescent giggling disturbed the peace of the night.
Rochelle turned in early but was unable to sleep. Classes started the following day, and her stomach was knotted with nerves. Thinking a glass of warm milk would help her relax, she put on her robe and headed toward the kitchen.
When she walked past the atrium with its picturesque waterfall fountain and its lush, tropical plants, Rochelle heard a voice ask, "Are you ready for classes to begin tomorrow?"
Startled, she turned and saw Leia MacGregor emerge from the shadows.
"I hope so," the novice teacher replied.
"You mean you're not sure?" the history teacher asked without the slightest hint of a smile. "If you're not up to the job, perhaps it's best you pack your bags and leave now."
Miss MacGregor then continued on her way without so much as a "good night" or a backward glance.
"Thanks for those kind words of encouragement," Rochelle mumbled beneath her breath.
Just as she had been certain she would become good friends with Mary Jo, Rochelle was positive she would never warm up to Wickersham's history teacher.
* * *
When the new language arts teacher walked into her classroom for her first-period class, sixteen young, inquisitive faces turned in her direction. She had expected a room full of Paris Hiltons and Ivanka Trumps, but the young ladies of the Wickersham School were not much different from the girls who had attended her own high school. There were the usual pretty, popular girls, the ones who would be cheerleaders if Wickersham had a football team; the athletic types who preferred scoring soccer goals to scoring high on exams; the intellectuals who already had their notebooks open and their pens in hand; and even the black-clad non-conformists, the gothic girls as they were more commonly known.
"Good morning," Rochelle announced cheerfully as she made her way to the center of the room.
"Good morning, Miss Kemper," the girls replied in unison, making Rochelle's carefully rehearsed introduction superfluous.
Standing amidst her students for the first time, the young teacher felt an emotion akin to stage fright. How was she to begin? After all, she couldn't just command, "Open your books to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales" without so much as a brief preamble.
An attractive, black-haired girl with green eyes came to her rescue.
"On behalf of everyone in the class, I'd like to welcome you to Wickersham and wish you success in your first year of teaching."
"Thank you, Miss ...."
"Tilton. Elise Tilton."
"Thank you, Elise. Why don't we spend this first day getting to know each other and going over some of the material you'll be learning this year?"
Once she made it through the first-period class without incident, Rochelle was encouraged. The remainder of the day went smoothly. The girls were not the rich little snobs she had expected. Most—with few exceptions—were quite nice actually. Of course, in every school, public and private, there were those students who could not fit in. Rochelle knew this only too well since she was once an outcast herself. She vowed to do her best to try to reach out to these girls, to make their school days less of a nightmare than her own had been.
* * *
That evening at dinner Rochelle was in an exuberant, celebratory mood.
"The hell with the calories," she said to Mary Jo. "I'm having a piece of Devil's food cake."
When the server came to their table to take the dessert order, the gym teacher asked, "I don't suppose you have any angel food cake?"
Conversation abruptly stopped, and the teachers sitting nearby looked at each other uncertainly.
"No, we don't," the server replied flatly.
"No dessert for me then." She turned to Rochelle and added, "I do love chocolate, but I just can't handle too much of a good thing."
There was a spattering of small talk at the surrounding tables, but the joyful mood that had existed before Mary Jo requested dessert did not return.
Later, as Rochelle and her new friend walked down the hall past the atrium, they heard Leia MacGregor remark, "I see you're still here. I take it that means things went well today."
"Yes, they did," Rochelle replied defensively.
"I'm glad to hear that. Welcome aboard."
"She's an oddball, that one," Mary Jo whispered as the history teacher walked away without further comment. "It figures she'd teach history. I'm sure she lived through enough of it."
Rochelle bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was grateful to have the comical gym teacher as a friend.
* * *
The weeks passed quickly in a satisfying blend of professionally fulfilling days and pleasant, sociable evenings. As Rochelle got to know her fellow teachers better, she realized that the science teacher was far from timid, the art teacher was no longer standoffish, the music teacher was less talkative and giddy, the home economics teacher nowhere near as opinionated and the math teacher not so belligerent. Only the history teacher, Miss MacGregor, remained aloof. Still, Mary Jo was by far her favorite coworker.
After classes ended each day, the girls went to their dorms to study or to socialize, and the teachers were free to enjoy the amenities that the school offered. She and Mary Jo often swam in the pool, played tennis or relaxed in the Jacuzzi. On weekends the teachers were free to leave the grounds. Rochelle, however, usually chose to remain on campus except on those occasions when she and the French teacher went shopping or she and Mary Jo took in a movie.
On one such night out, the gym teacher said, "You know you can go away for the entire weekend. The school doesn't own you. You're free to visit your family."
"I don't have any," Rochelle admitted.
"You either? That's strange," the gym teacher mused. "There are more orphans in this school than in the collected works of Charles Dickens."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Mary Jo laughed. "Don't pay me any mind. I'm just rambling on."
But the young teacher did mind, for beneath Mary Jo's lighthearted exterior, there seemed to be an unhealthy melancholy. Rochelle wondered if the death of her husband and son had left the phys ed teacher emotionally scarred.
Rochelle's worries increased later in the week when one of her students inquired, "You've become good friends with Miss Osmond, haven't you?"
The barely concealed smirks of the other students made the teacher realize that gossip about the nature of their friendship was spreading through the student body.
"Yes, I have," she admitted without any further explanation.
"She was good friends with the last English teacher, too—very good friends, if you know what I mean."
Rochelle was torn between the need to maintain proper student-teacher decorum and the desire to learn about her predecessor. Ethics won out.
"I don't think it's appropriate to say such things about your teachers. If I hear any more such talk, I'll have to report you to the headmistress."
Her curiosity had been piqued, however. That Saturday she drove into town with Nanette Moreau, the French teacher, for lunch and a day at the mall.
While they waited for the waitress to deliver their salads, Rochelle casually announced, "Working at Wickersham is so rewarding. I can't imagine why the last language arts teacher wanted to leave."
"Don't you know what happened?" Nanette exclaimed. "I'm not surprised the headmistress remained quiet, but I would have thought Mary Jo mentioned something to you."
"No one has said anything to me. Why? What happened?"
"The previous English teacher is dead. Quite a pleasant young woman. It was such a shock when she hanged herself."
* * *
Rochelle was surprised at how rapidly a person's world could turn upside down. In a few short days, she lost not only the respect of her students but also the camaraderie of many of her fellow teachers. Only Nanette and Mary Jo could still be considered friends. The others, though polite and professional at all times, nevertheless shunned her.
"It's like high school all over again," she told herself, trying to adjust to the ostracism of her peers.
She wondered if accepting a job at Wickersham had been a mistake. With her knowledge of English and grammar, she was better suited to a job as an editor. Making a mental note to update her resume, Rochelle made her way to the dining room.
Halfway down the hall, she heard whimpering sounds coming from a nearby classroom. When she went inside to investigate, she found Sydney Hallowell, one of the black-clad outcasts, huddled in a corner, crying.
"Are you all right, Sydney?" the teacher asked with concern. "Would you like me to get the nurse?"
The girl's eyes widened with fear.
"No. Not her! She's one of them."
"Them?"
"You don't know what kind of place this is, Miss Kemper. Neither did our last English teacher."
A chill of apprehension went down Rochelle's spine.
"What kind of place is it?"
"It's evil. You've got to get out of here while you can."
"What about you? If this is such an evil place, why are you still here?"
"I phoned my father and begged him to come and get me, but Mrs. Rhodes told him I had a disagreement with one of the girls and was overreacting. She assured him everything would be all right. I should have known she would cover for her."
"Her? Do you mean the school nurse?"
"No, I mean ...."
The classroom door opened, and the science teacher stepped inside.
"I thought I heard voices. It's time for dinner, you two. Better get it while it's hot."
"We'll be there in a moment," Rochelle said, wanting to speak to Sydney further, but the science teacher stayed at the door, waiting for them. "We'll talk later," Rochelle promised the crying student.
However, she never had the chance to speak to the girl again. The following morning at breakfast, Mrs. Rhodes announced the tragic news: Sydney Hallowell was found dead by her roommate earlier that morning.
"I can't believe it," Rochelle told Mary Jo. "What was it? Another suicide?"
The gym teacher tensed.
"What do you mean by another suicide?"
"The former English teacher hanged herself. At least that's what I've been told."
Mary Jo's face became ashen.
"You should be careful who you talk to and what you talk about. If you know what's good for you, you'll do your job and mind your own business."
Rochelle was flabbergasted. She had believed Mary Jo was her friend. How could the gym teacher turn on her like that, emotional problems or not? She stood up to leave, but Mary Jo pulled her back down into her seat.
"Sydney Hallowell died from a drug overdose," the gym teacher whispered urgently. "But no one will say whether it was deliberate or accidental."
* * *
There was a definite change in the atmosphere at Wickersham after Sydney Hallowell's death. The headmistress appeared nervous, and on more than one occasion, there was a faint odor of alcohol on her breath. Mary Jo was no longer the good-natured, wisecracking friend. Even Nanette Moreau was more reserved and less outgoing. The students, however—at least the majority of them—were more animated than usual. They joined a social club, headed by—of all people—Miss MacGregor, the dour-faced history teacher.
After her brief discussion with Sydney the night before the poor girl was found dead, Rochelle looked with suspicion at her fellow staff members—the school nurse, in particular. But no one escaped her wary eye, not the kitchen and custodial staff, not the headmistress and not even the gym teacher.
Every day when Rochelle entered her classroom, she steeled herself to face the insolent looks of her young students. She could not wait until the end of the term. Whether she found a new teaching position by that time or not, come June she would leave the Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies.
Word somehow got out that the language arts teacher was looking for another job. Perhaps one of the publishers to whom she sent her resume called the school for a reference. Nanette Moreau brought up the subject one Saturday morning when she invited Rochelle to go shopping with her.
"I guess you're not too happy here," the French teacher said. "I can't really blame you, what with Sydney Hallowell's death and the fact that your relationship with Mary Jo has soured."
"What are you talking about? What relationship?" Rochelle asked indignantly.
Nanette smiled sweetly and said, "Please don't be offended. We all know about Mary Jo."
"You're wrong about her and about me."
"Am I? Perhaps I'm wrong about you, but not about Mary Jo. She made a pass at me last year when she first came aboard. If you don't believe me, ask Miss MacGregor. She'll tell you what Mary Jo is really like."
After dinner, Rochelle walked to the cottages in back of the school where the headmistress and the teachers with the most seniority lived. Rochelle saw a light on in Leia MacGregor's cottage and bravely knocked on the door. The history teacher did not seem surprised to see her.
"Nanette told me you might want to speak to me. It's about Mary Jo, isn't it?"
The history teacher invited Rochelle inside and gave her a glass of sweet, fruity-tasting wine.
"First, let me apologize for my coolness toward you. It was only because you were close to Mary Jo from the very start. None of us was sure if you were like her. Oh, we didn't care that she had a fondness for a fellow teacher, but the students—that we won't abide. She's been warned several times, but—well, I suppose she can't help what she is."
"You're not suggesting she had an inappropriate relationship with one of the girls?"
"I certainly hope it didn't progress that far! I realize she's the gym teacher and as such has every right to go into the girls' locker room and the showers. But several of the students have complained that Mary Jo is often a bit too friendly. And then there was poor Sydney Hallowell."
"Oh, my God!" Rochelle cried, assuming the worst. "How can the school tolerate such behavior?"
"We have no proof. If we fire Mary Jo, we might get sued. The parents would hear of it, and the school would suffer greatly. So, we try to keep an eye on the girls ourselves. That's why I formed the social club."
"I still find it hard to believe. Mary Jo seems like such a wonderful person."
"That's what she wants you to think. She's pulled that particular act on most of the teachers, including your unfortunate predecessor. And just look at what happened to her when she tried to end the affair."
"Yes, I know. She committed suicide."
"That was the coroner's verdict, but she wasn't the suicidal type. We believe she was murdered."
"By Mary Jo?"
"Who else?"
Rochelle left the cottage, eager to return to her own room. The more she learned about Wickersham and its staff, the more she wanted to leave.
* * *
There seemed to be an air of forced gaiety at the school. Rochelle's students came to class in good spirits and tried to wheedle their way back into their teacher's good graces. Even Miss MacGregor, after the discussion in her cottage, treated the English teacher with a good deal more warmth. Mary Jo, on the other hand, was rarely seen outside the gymnasium and locker room. She no longer ate in the staff dining room, nor did she attend any of the school's social functions.
Then, late one night, she showed up outside Rochelle's room.
"I know things aren't the same between us," Mary Jo began, "but I still think of you as my friend. I stole the keys to one of the school vans, and a handful of the students and I are going to escape. I want you to come with us."
"You can't take those girls off school property," Rochelle warned. "It might be seen as kidnapping."
"They want to come with me. They believe they're in danger here, just like poor Sydney Hallowell. I've got to do my best to help them."
Mary Jo reached over and gently put her hand on Rochelle's arm. The English teacher immediately pulled away. A look of pain clouded the gym teacher's face.
"They've won you over, haven't they?"
"Leave the girls alone," Rochelle urged. "I'm sure the school will arrange for you to get help."
"You're the one who'll need help. These people are evil! Your only hope is to escape with us tonight."
"What about the other girls?"
"You mean the teacher's pets? Those in Miss MacGregor's little social club? Trust me. They won't want to leave here."
There was a sound out in the hall, and Mary Jo became frightened and eager to escape.
"Please come with us," she said one last time.
"I can't."
Mary Jo's eyes filled with tears, and she touched the locket around her neck. She was gone without a further word. When the gym teacher left, Rochelle returned to bed. She had just drifted off when she heard a distant crash followed by an explosion. Teachers and students alike ran out into the night, wearing only their bedclothes. In the parking lot, they found a vehicle rapidly being consumed by flames. Many of the witnesses screamed. The headmistress immediately phoned 911, but there was nothing any of the spectators could do to help Mary Jo or the six girls who were with her. They had all been incinerated.
* * *
Classes were suspended the following day, and a memorial service for the late teacher and deceased students was held in the auditorium. After the secular service, Rochelle walked outside to examine the scene of the accident in the light of day.
It's all so tragic! she thought. First Sydney Hallowell and my predecessor and now this! It's as though the school is cursed.
As she turned away, Rochelle saw the sunlight reflect against a piece of metal lying in the charred grass. She bent and picked it up. It was Mary Jo's locket, the one she often touched for good luck. Inside were two miniature photographs: one of a handsome young man and the other of a small boy. Could the pictures be of Mary Jo's husband and son? If so, then Leia MacGregor had lied to her, for the elderly history teacher insisted that the dead woman had never been married.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," Rochelle cried, "or who to trust."
She walked back to the school, went up to her room, locked herself inside and made her own escape plans.
The following day was Saturday. She packed as many of her belongings as possible into an overnight bag, told the receptionist that she would be back Sunday evening and hurried out into the parking lot. Even amidst all the expensive luxury and sports cars, the old Subaru wagon never looked so good. She tossed her bag in the back seat and got behind the wheel, but when she turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. She popped the hood and was stunned to see that the battery had been removed. Apparently, someone at the school did not want her to leave.
"Car trouble?"
It was Nanette Moreau, the French teacher, as pleasant and friendly as ever.
"Even Subarus, dependable though they are, sometimes need work. I don't suppose you can give me a lift into town?"
"Sorry. I'm going to stay on campus today. Miss MacGregor is having a little get-together in the atrium. Why don't we both head over there?"
Rochelle followed the other woman mechanically. Although she had no desire to go, she did not put up any resistance. Nanette suddenly stopped at the school's main entrance.
"Aren't you coming in?" Rochelle asked.
"You go ahead. I'll be there in a minute. I left something in my room."
Rochelle remembered the day she arrived at the Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies and how she had hesitated before crossing the threshold. She felt the same way now. Finally, just as she had done in September, she heaved a sigh of resignation and stepped inside. When she walked down the hall, she saw that everyone was in the atrium: the entire student body, her fellow teachers and the headmistress. The latter seemed extremely nervous and would not raise her eyes to look at Rochelle.
The crowd of students suddenly parted, and Leia MacGregor stepped forward.
"We've decided to give you another chance," she announced.
"When you say we, to whom are you referring?"
"To an ancient race of people, a race with wondrous powers, one far superior to the mortal human beings who later conquered Europe and the Americas."
"Is this from one of your history lessons?"
"Personal history. These young girls and I are all descendants of that race, but there are few of us left. You see, when man took up the cross of Christianity, he chose to wipe out his Pagan neighbors. All across Europe our people were declared heretics by the Church. We were condemned as witches, tortured, drowned, torn limb from limb and burned at the stake in the name of a peaceful, loving and forgiving God. It's ironic, actually. Don't you agree? Anyway, we found it necessary to leave our homes, scatter throughout the world and practice our craft in secrecy. We sought places, like this school, where we could be safe. Here our young women can learn not just the ways of their own people but also gain knowledge of the world around them. Such knowledge is essential if they are to fulfill their destiny."
"And what destiny is that?" Rochelle asked.
"To live among men, to rise in positions of power in politics and industry."
"And the teachers? Are they witches, too?"
"Aside from Leia, we are all normal mortals," the math teacher confessed.
"But yet you've agreed to educate these young women. Why?"
"In exchange for their services," Leia explained, "they are rewarded handsomely."
"It's sad what some people will do for money," Rochelle spat out with contempt.
"The money is the least of it! We offer them much, much more."
Suddenly, before Rochelle's startled eyes, the old, wrinkled history teacher became the young, attractive French teacher.
"We can give you beauty, youth—anything your heart desires."
Nanette Moreau then turned into Elise Tilton, the pretty, dark-haired student with the amazing green eyes who had welcomed Rochelle to the school on the first day of classes. Next, she became the girl with the million-dollar smile who sometimes sat at the reception desk.
"Who are you?"
"I am the one who watches over the students at the Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies. I am the one who teaches them the ways of the old ones. We want you to stay here at the school. The girls will need to learn how to speak and write properly if they are to climb the ladders of power."
"You expect me to help your kind infiltrate and destroy my own people?"
"You misunderstand our motives. We don’t want to harm you. We do so only when necessary to ensure our own survival."
"You're a teacher of history. You must know that power usually corrupts those who have it."
"We do not abuse our powers," the aged witch cried defensively.
"Be sure to tell that to Sydney Hallowell, Mary Jo Osmond, those six dead students, your former English teacher and God knows how many other innocent people."
"God has no place here at Wickersham," the headmistress said with a drunken slur. "It is an institution for the damned."
"That's enough, Camilla!" the history teacher cautioned sharply.
The headmistress cowered, sobbing with fear.
"What will it be, Rochelle?" the pretty Nanette Moreau demanded to know. "Will you join us?"
Rochelle's first instinct was to lie, to promise to help them and then escape from their web of evil at the first opportunity, but then she remembered the bravery of her Puritan forebears. She thought about the valiant men and women who died on the gallows in Salem rather than confess to a lie and save their lives. They chose death rather than condemn themselves in the eyes of God.
"I will never join you," she vowed.
"I should have known," the history teacher said with mocking hostility. "You could never be one of us."
In quick succession, Leia MacGregor became the French teacher, the receptionist and the dark-haired, green-eyed student. She kept changing from one to the other as she berated Rochelle.
"You were always a loser, the fat little girl that no one wanted to play with! The awkward teenager who sat home alone every weekend while the other girls went out on dates. The shy college student who became valedictorian because she had no friends to interfere with her studies."
"Stop it!" Rochelle screamed. "Sydney and Mary Jo were right! You are evil!"
"You've had enough of being the ugly duckling, haven't you? You're tired of feeling that everyone is better than you. You'd rather die than go on like this, wouldn't you?" Nanette Moreau asked in a hypnotic voice barely above a whisper.
Rochelle nodded.
"Why?" the elderly Leia MacGregor asked gently. "Why is death preferable to a life of comfort and safety here with us?"
The history teacher took the young woman in her arms and comforted her.
"Come, let me show you something," she said and led Rochelle to the fountain.
"Open your eyes."
Rochelle obeyed. At first, she did not realize that the face she saw in the water was her own reflection.
"That's you," Leia MacGregor whispered in her ear. "I simply used my power to bring the beauty that was inside you to the outside."
Beauty wasn't the word. She was stunning! For the first time in her life, Rochelle did not feel inferior to those around her.
* * *
Leona Grafton stood on the threshold of the Jerusha Wickersham School for Young Ladies. She hesitated a moment. The size of the campus intimidated her. But that was not unusual; Leona was often intimidated. Her first instinct was to run, to return to the safety of her home, but then she remembered that there was no one there. With her father gone, she was all alone in the world. She took a deep breath and walked through the front door.
"Hi, you must be Leona."
"Yes, I am," she replied, instantly shy in the presence of such a stunningly beautiful young woman. "I'm the new physical education teacher."
"I know," the other woman replied with a dazzling smile. "I'm Rochelle Kemper, the language arts teacher. Welcome to Wickersham."
Salem gives new meaning to the expression "hitting the books."
