The Competition - [76]

She walked us down the pathway that led past the outdoor lunch area and out to the gym. “I set you up to begin with his phys ed teacher, Joe Cooper. When you’re done here, he’ll take you to Sophia Magana.”

Joe was shooting hoops in a gym that was impressively professional-looking for a middle school. He looked like Jimmy Buffett-with the leathery skin of someone who spent a lot of un-SPF’d time in the sun. Joe remembered Logan more for what he didn’t do than what he did. “From the first minute the kid walked into the gym, I’m thinking he’ll be a basketball star. Tall as hell, long arms, long legs. I was stoked. It’s been a while since we had a decent team.”

“How’d he do?” I asked.

“He didn’t. Wasn’t interested, threw bricks like a girl-oh, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said. The look on Bailey’s face told me we were both fighting the temptation to grab the ball and show him how girls threw. “So he didn’t seem to be the aggressive type?” I asked.

“Aggressive? About as aggressive as overcooked pasta, you ask me.” He moved the basketball to his left side. “I’m not saying he was a bad kid. He’d dress and do what he had to do. Which, believe me, I appreciate. Half of ’em won’t even put on their gym clothes.”

“Did he ever get a hard time from the other kids?” Bailey asked.

“Not in my class. I don’t put up with any bullying bs. I tell ’em from day one I’ll turn ’em in to the principal and call their parents the first whiff I get of any ugly stuff.” He held up the basketball and spun it on his right index finger. I’d always wanted to be able to do that. Watching him, I realized for the first time that it might’ve helped if my fingers had been a little bigger. Then again, maybe I just wasn’t a great “ball handler.”

We lobbed a few more questions at Joe, but it was clear that beyond his disappointment at not finding star material in Logan, he didn’t have much to tell us.

We thanked him for his time, and he dutifully squired us to Señora Magana’s classroom. Her interview yielded even less. Logan was a quiet kid who sat in the back of the class, always turned in his homework, and got straight A’s, though he avoided speaking the language whenever possible. Señora Magana did not find that to be an issue unique to Logan.

We moved on to Albert Packman, the math teacher. Here, I expected to get a full report. Surprisingly, he didn’t have that much to say. “I remember him because he aced every test and his homework was always perfect. But he’d never talk in class. He always sat in the back and never seemed to be paying attention. At first, I’d call on him just to bust him. But he had the answer every single time. I finally realized he was bored, didn’t have to give it his full attention. It was just that easy for him. I suspected he helped some of the kids because they’d turn in homework that was pretty damn good and then bomb their exams, but I couldn’t prove it.”

And no, he didn’t see Logan get into any fights or get picked on by anyone. As we were wrapping up the interview, Bailey got a call on her cell and stepped outside. When I caught up with her, she said the elementary school principal had called back. There was only one teacher who had any specific recollections about Logan. “But she’s not far. She lives in Westlake Village and she said we could come by anytime.”

Excellent. Our last stop at the middle school was Cherry Fournier, the English teacher. Here, at last, we got something. Cherry was an unfortunate name for a teacher of young boys, and she was doubly cursed to have looks that went with it: blonde and blue-eyed, a sweet face, and a heroic bust, which she tried-and failed-to disguise.

“I don’t know how he could have gone so wrong,” Cherry said. “The Logan I remember was a wonderful boy. Incredibly smart and very soulful. He wrote poetry, and he actually understood Shakespeare better than almost any student I’ve ever had. That’s no small feat for a kid that age. I’d give him extra reading assignments because the work in class was way too easy for him. He loved Voltaire, so I gave him more of the French classics like Balzac and Camus. He flew through them.”

With very little hope, I asked, “Did he have any problems with any of the other students?”

“Logan?” Cherry shook her head. “No, not that I re-” She stopped abruptly. “No, wait. I think he did.” She stared out the window for a few moments, gathering the memory. “Yes, now I remember. We’d just finished King Arthur and I asked everyone to write a paragraph about Camelot. He wrote a beautiful poem, very romantic as I recall. About Lady Guinevere and Sir Lancelot. I gave him an A, and I wrote a comment about how sensitive and original it was. When I handed the papers back to the class, I accidentally gave Logan’s to one of the football players.”

“Uh-oh,” Bailey said.

Cherry nodded. “Yeah, big uh-oh. The jerk passed it around to his buddies, and they started laughing and making fun of him, and then this really big kid they called Hot Rod waved it in the air and told me he got Sir Pantsalot’s paper by mistake.” Cherry’s face reddened with anger. “His buddies were all hooting about Sir Pantsalot. Poor Logan just sat there like a bug pinned to a board. I felt so bad for him. I tried to talk to him at the end of class, but he ran out. I could hear the jocks out in the hallway calling him Pansy-Ass-Pantsalot…among other things.” Cherry made a face. “Anyway, the next thing I knew, I heard someone screaming out curses. A stream of ‘fuck-yous’ and ‘motherfucking asshole’ and whatnot. I ran out there, thinking someone must be getting hurt.”