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Granted, it’s not perfect. Particularly for something called “the abandoned chapel.” It doesn’t live up to its Gothic nickname at all. For one thing, no bats. Not even birds roosting in the rafters. No rusty bells, no eddies of wind stirring crackling dry leaves in every dark corner. For that matter, very few dark corners. Twisty alcove stairs would be a nice touch, including rooms for crazy wives and/or sweethearts and dark secrets hiding in dusty, leatherbound books. So, not perfect.
But awesome anyway. A great space. I find myself staring up at the windows no matter where I am in the room. The strange, bare architecture had to have been designed to draw the eye upward, because I can’t help it. I’m getting a crick in my neck from all the looking up. Not to mention that there’s nothing else in the room. No furniture except the coffee-table-esque . . . altar? Dais? Podium? Rostrum?
Whatever it’s called, I walk to it and circle it. Nearly knee-height, it’s about the shape and size of a king-sized bed. I step up on it and can easily imagine a chancellor or a preacher or a professor standing here to teach the masses of privileged kids at Chamberlain. I reach my arms above my head like I’m gesturing to an audience filling the empty room as I turn in a slow circle.
“Students and teachers, welcome. Welcome to the latest incarnation of the Chamberlain Chapel.” I turn toward the back of the room. “Today you may have come to see the work of one of your friends, or even your own art on display.”
Hands sliding through the air in front of me, I gesture to imaginary artworks hanging throughout the room. I nod and bow my head to receive the applause of every imaginary person in the chapel. “Thank you. Thank you. But I don’t deserve your praise. The congratulations should all go to the wonderful students of the Chamberlain Academy, whose hard work, creativity, practice, and dedication have made this day possible. Their talent is prodigious, and their efforts make it even more impressive. Of course, you are impressed. Of course, you are delighted. Of course, you are pulling out your favorite money-transfer apps to make donations and purchase pieces from the display.”
I spin a quarter turn to address another side of the room. “And we should put in a nod to Mr. Dexter Kaplan, who, despite his tendency to wear a bow tie every day and use too much hair product, can really make a show-choir sing. Yes, his arrogance may put you off, but he has such nice students, and they seem to love him. Perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, we should give him another chance. After all, rumor has it he was a Newsie.” This time I lead the clapping, enjoying the way the sound rounds through the room.
“And although that, plus his nice hair and his ability to direct a good high school play was enough to get him this job,” I say, nodding to my imaginary audience, “he’s clearly not too interested in trying any more serious roles. He’s happy dressing the part and revisiting the lines of Handsome Teacher. Does he mean any of it? Hard to say. That’s the mark of a true actor, I think. Has he meant anything he’s said this whole school year? Impossible to know. But he knows his part, and he plays it well. Give it just enough to get polite applause, and don’t make any waves. That seems to be the theme for our Mr. Kaplan’s tenure here. If he makes advances and then a hasty retreat, he’s only practicing choreography. If he disappears from campus, or skips an activity he’s supposed to be co-chairing, don’t be surprised. It’s only stage magic. He isn’t interested in putting in the hard work, so much as he is interested in looking good as he takes his bows.”
Click.
I stop turning and clapping and look behind me. Was that the door closing? That was the door closing.
Didn’t I close the door when I came in?
Of course I did.
Maybe it blew open. Maybe it blew closed again. I jump down from the dais and go to the door. Without turning the handle, I try to pull it open, but it’s sealed tight in its frame. No way the wind did that.
Someone was here.
Watching me.
Listening to my nonsense. All my cruel, utter nonsense.
I lean my back against the door as if keeping out anyone else who might try to come in and listen to me talk to myself.
What if it had been a student?
What if a kid came in here and heard me making fun of another teacher? I would hate to lose any credibility with a student, but even worse, I hate to think that any kid’s impression of Dexter might be tarnished by a flippant comment I made.
Or worse, what if it was a teacher? Unless it was Ginger, who would have understood. Any other faculty member here at Chamberlain would surely despise me for talking like that. It sounded like—it was—mockery.
Oh, no. What if it was Dr. Moreau? What would she do to me? But no, if it were Dr. Moreau, she wouldn’t have left. She would have marched inside and fired me on the spot.
I debate running outside and finding whomever is walking through this unused part of campus. I could probably catch them. But even the thought of someone hearing me say those mean things has my pulse racing, and I worry I’ve pushed my body past the safety zone.
I sit against the door and let my head fall into my hands.
