Meg explained how to find the school building, so I could look at the boy's personal record. Damn, Joe wanted me to talk to people about her, but didn't supply me with any helpful information.
The school was located just a couple of blocks away from Debbie's place in a sprawling cinderblock building with a "No Drug Zone" warning at the beginning of the driveway. I pulled up to the entrance and rang the bell. An elegant lady came from the other side, looked at me through the glass, and unlocked the door.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm the Coopers' new social worker, and I need to talk to the principal. I don't have an appointment. I just drove by."
"It's perfectly okay. I'm the principal. You can come in. Sorry, I can't spend a lot of time with you. School will be out soon. But I certainly can answer a couple of your questions."
It was quiet inside the school, like the eye of a hurricane. I followed the principal to her office, where she introduced me to the state of Matthew's affairs.
"You know, of course, the real reason Matthew Cooper is under the surveillance of the Children and Youth Department?" The principal looked straight into my eyes.
"Well, I just got his case. I'm not familiar with every detail."
"Then you are talking to the right person. Matthew is a pyromaniac. He's fascinated with fires."
Who isn't? I like to sit next to a fireplace and stare at the fire.
"There is always the possibility that he can set fire anytime and anywhere. Here, at school, we keep our eye on him. Home is a different story. His mother, Mrs. Cooper, works full time." The principal apologized and picked up the ringing phone.
"May I look at his personal records, please?" I asked the second she hung up the phone.
"Yes, of course," she said and walked to the door. "Nobody can see the students' personal records, but the school authorities. You are a social worker, so you have the right to view the materials also."
She disappeared behind the door and left me rejoicing quietly. Who said that school ladies are strict and unreachable? They are nice and very gullible. The principal came back with a thick folder in her elegant hands. It looked heavily read, with dog-eared pages, pictures of the burned car, and copies of the police reports.
"I apologize. I have to leave you for five minutes." The principal gracefully left the room.
It turned out that Matthew was fourteen, and that he used to have excellent grades in elementary school. Then something happened, and the boy lost touch with reality. Otherwise, why did all those incident reports suddenly come into the picture? Sorting through the papers, I finally found what I was looking for: the Coopers' old home address at Cherry Hill, which was printed on the top of some inquiry letter. In an emergency form, the phone number of Pitt Cooper, their father, was listed as a priority emergency contact. I copied the address and the number down and was about to return the documents when my cell phone rang.
"Report to my assistant," Joe's voice boomed with excitement. "I have a spider as big as my thumb building a web outside of my kitchen window."
"So?" I feverishly flipped through the remaining pages.
"You have to come here and take it down." My impossible boss was true to himself.
"No, not right now. I'm digging up some dirt here."
"And...."
"I'm all dusty."
"Okay, keep digging. Just remember, you have an appointment with Planet Security at two tomorrow. Don't forget to bring Mrs. Cooper over there. Good luck. Don't flunk it, both of you." And like that, he was gone.
What the hell is `Planet Security'? Aren't polygraph tests administered by the FBI? The office door opened. The principal stood behind it, holding the knob and talking to a little girl. I flipped the last page and saw familiar lettering: NOSE, the National Office of Services to Emigrants. Whoever came up with a name for that place definitely was an illiterate foreigner. Emigrants are people who leave a country for some other country. People who are coming here to America are immigrants! Debbie's workplace sounded trashy to me. I couldn't figure out any reason she decided to take work there. I didn't have time to read the letter, and instead, just folded it and put it in the pocket of my jacket.
"I apologize for leaving you alone, but this time of day is really busy." The principal took the folder from me and tucked it safely under her arm. "Please, let me know if you need any help."
On the way back home, I stopped just once to get gas. While my little red sexy gas-gobbler was getting filled up, I went to the station restroom. Its massive metal door was locked and scratched all over, as if somebody was trying to open it using the wrong key. To get a key, I walked into the station and found myself at the end of a waiting line. A tall, skinny guy was buying several dozen lottery tickets. The cashier needed to enter every number on every ticket manually. Clicking, the machine was gradually spitting printed tickets at him.
"Excuse me!" I shouted, standing at the door.
The cashier didn't even look at me.
"May I get the restroom key?"
The cashier looked at me and opened his mouth to say something, when the skinny man whirled towards me like a blood-thirsty hyena. I saw them in a safari park in Florida. They have glossy eyes, as if thawed after a long-term freezing.
"The cashier is busy; don't you bother him," he whispered.
"I just need the key to the restroom," I said.
But the damage was done. The cashier just stood there, scratching his head.
"Did you want the Powerball, or what?" he asked finally.
"Yes," the thawed guy screamed. "I told you five times; put a hundred dollars on the Powerball lottery! They have one of the biggest games in their history, five hundred million dollars. Hurry up! They are closing up in five minutes."
"I'm sorry." The cashier, a boy merely out of high school, whispered. "I pressed the wrong button. It's all gone to the Number of the Day game. I'm sorry."
The skinny guy started to shake and emit steam like a burning teakettle. "You're not sorry yet. You will pay for this, or I will make you sorry!"
"I can't pay for this. It's a hundred dollars," the boy reminded him, desperately trying to keep his tears at bay. "I'm earning forty dollars a day."
"I don't care how much you earn. Now, I'm not paying for this. The transaction was completed, so you pay." The thawed guy jerked his hundred-dollar bill out of the boy's hand and left the station with a look of triumph shining through his glossed eyes.
A second later, a manager materialized out of thin air. His verdict was similar: your error, pay for it. The cashier was crying openly now.
Nobody said a word. My car was ready to go, but I desperately needed to use the bathroom.
"Hey," I said. "Don't cry. Check those numbers. Maybe you've got a couple of bucks."
"Yeah, right! Check those numbers, bro." The line responded enthusiastically. The winning numbers started to run across the black screen on the top of the counter. Sobbing, the boy looked at his couple of feet of tickets. It would take him an hour to check every ticket, and I was about to piss in my pants.
"Hold it," I said, meaning myself. I moved forward, grabbing the tickets from the boy's hand, tearing them along with the perforation, and giving a bunch of tickets to everybody in the line.
"Look for the numbers I'm reading," I said, and dictated numbers off the screen. The numbers ran too fast, so I wrote them down on my bunch of tickets. Alas, I dictated the numbers several times, and nobody found a match.
"Well," I said finally. "Maybe you can give me a restroom key now?"
"What about the tickets in your hand?" the manager asked me. I was so busy picturing myself opening the restroom door and devoting myself to my guilty pleasures that I forgot about my share of tickets. Two of them had no matches, but the third one had the matching numbers of the day!
"Your total win is one million dollars,"