Read Online Stand by Me by Neta Jackson - Free Book Online Page B

she started the car and pulled out of the parking space. Put that in the minus column.

Chapter 8
    M onday at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary School lived up to its reputation as “Wild Horse Roundup Day.” In every classroom Avis peeked into as she navigated the halls, teachers were having to corral kids who were practically bouncing off the walls after a weekend with too much TV, too much sugar, and too little attention from grownups. By Tuesday they’d be settling down, but in the meantime the row of chairs in the school office for kids being remanded for detention was full before noon.
    After-school detention wasn’t an option at the elementary level, so Avis rotated all teachers and support staff to supervise a separate lunchroom, which meant each person had to be on duty only once or twice a month. If more than five kids were assigned to detention on a single day, Avis added herself to help supervise.
    Like today.
    By the time detention was over—seven disgruntled miscreants dawdling their way through the school lunch of tuna-noodle casserole, followed by a grade-appropriate extra math assignment—Avis had a headache.
    And she still hadn’t had time to call Manna House.
    Closing the door to her office, she sank into the padded desk chair, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, ignoring the stack of mail the school secretary had put on her desk. Her trip to the South Side yesterday afternoon had been fruitless. She’d found the apartment at the last address she had for Rochelle, but there was no name on the mailbox in the foyer of the apartment building, and no answer when she pressed the buzzer. Not knowing what to do, she’d hung around for a while, hoping someone would come out or go in who might know whether Rochelle still lived there. Two big dudes with tattoos and low-slung jeans were buzzed in by somebody about ten minutes apart, but they just shook their heads. Then a plump woman—she looked Hispanic—came out pulling a wire grocery cart and said, “ Sí , I think I know who you mean. Pretty woman, skin like caramel candy, lots of hair? And a little niño about five or six?” Avis had nodded eagerly. But the woman had shrugged. “Haven’t seen them around lately. Maybe they moved.”
    She’d given up then, but it was already after five. The Yada Yada Prayer Group would’ve started by then, and would be almost over by the time she drove back to Rogers Park from the South Side. She’d called Florida on her cell, apologized for her absence, and said Jodi could explain.
    Peter had been upset that she’d gone to the South Side by herself. “You should’ve woken me up! That neighborhood’s crime statistics are going through the roof!”
    Maybe she should feel glad he was concerned about her safety. But his comment irked her. Wished he felt that upset about Rochelle and Conny living there.
    Avis pressed her fingers to her temple. She couldn’t let her mind go there. She needed to keep moving forward, take the next step: call Manna House . Avis pushed the stack of mail, requisitions to sign, and interschool memos to the side and picked up the phone.
    â€œMabel Turner, please,” she said when the regular receptionist at the shelter answered. Nice girl, recently engaged, she’d heard, to a young man at her Korean church.
    â€œOh, hello, Mrs. Douglass! Hold on . . .” Avis waited a long minute and then heard, “Mabel Turner speaking.”
    â€œHello, Mabel. This is Avis Douglass. I’m—”
    â€œAvis! What a nice surprise. Didn’t see you here last month when SouledOut hosted Sunday Night Praise. Everything all right?”
    â€œUh . . . yes, fine. I’d just lost my voice, had laryngitis. Hope the service went all right.” SouledOut Community Church was one of several churches that sent a small praise team and someone to speak at the shelter once a month on Sunday evenings.