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maker in the faculty lounge.
    His eyes jumped as Carolyn slapped the note down next to his coffee mug. A few teachers looked up from their conversations about 30
    A Density of Souls
    impending Thanksgiving plans and their stacks of yet-to be-graded papers, then looked away just as quickly.
    “Did you see this?” she asked.
    “Yes, but . . .”
    “You saw this note? You saw . . .”
    “No I didn’t . . .” He backed away from her.
    “Well, what are you saying then, Dave? Did you or didn’t you see the godamn note?” She felt the effect of her suddenly raised voice rippling through the faculty lounge.
    “I’d appreciate it if you stopped yelling at me,” David said gravely.
    From his tone, Carolyn could tell he thought she was violating the rule of all high school teachers by being too emotional, getting too involved. He would tell her to calm down, get a little distance, and realize that they were only children.
    “Have you spoken with Phillip?” she asked. Phillip Hartman was the headmaster.
    “I didn’t see who did it, Carolyn,” David whispered.
    Carolyn’s shoulders sagged. She had just been told a lie she didn’t have the energy to expose.
    “Carolyn.” David took an exaggerated, deep breath. “Have you ever heard the argument that if you confront the issue at the moment you might end up embarrassing the victim more than the perpetrator?
    There’s a point where . . . well, kids want to take care of it on their own. It’s humiliating to have a teacher intervene . . .”
    Carolyn snorted, then looked from the note to David. “We have auditions for the musical a week after Thanksgiving break,” she began, her voice quaking with each word. David furrowed his brow in confusion, but Carolyn continued. “Stephen wants to audition. I want him to. If he doesn’t make it until then, or if he”—Her teeth clenched, her eyes flared—“. . . if he’s too embarrassed to get up on stage, then expect this note in your mailbox!”
    In the nurse’s office, a sophomore girl had just been hooked up to an aspirator by Mrs. Schwartz, a member of the Cannon Mothers’ Club whose only qualification for tending to the young was the ability to speak gently. As the plastic tube pumped oxygen into her asthmatic lungs, the girl stared blankly at Stephen, who was sprawled flat on his back on a gurney. Stephen studied the ceiling.
    The Falling Impossible
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    Nurse Schwartz approached and laid a hand softly on his shoulder.
    “Do you think you’re ready to go back to class, Stephen?” she asked.
    “No,” he whispered.
    “Well . . .” Nurse Schwartz seemed baffled. Her hand lifted off his shoulder, then touched him lightly again before she withdrew it completely. Her eyes wandered down the length of Stephen as if there was some solution in the way his legs attached to his hips.
    “It’s never a good idea to cry like you do,” Nurse Schwartz said quietly, so the girl would not hear. “Kids can be mean, but if they see you cry that usually makes them meaner.”
    “When will it stop?” Stephen asked.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “When are they going to leave me alone? They don’t have to like me. But I just want to know when they’re going to leave me alone,”
    Stephen said.
    He raised his eyes to meet Nurse Schwartz’s pained gaze. There was no answer to his question.
    After the final bell rang, Stephen spared himself the torturous walk down the English Hallway, which he knew would be crowded with juniors and seniors heading to practice on the field. The Administrative Hallway afforded a quiet and easy escape. The pine office doors and framed pictures of prominent alumni would not snicker or giggle at him.
    Stephen shuffled toward a framed eight-by-ten portrait of the Headmaster’s Award winner, vicious white smile shining from half a hallway away. Hesitantly he passed the closed door to the headmaster’s office.
    A small bronze placard was affixed to the bottom of the frame. Its cal-ligraphic script