Read One Boy Missing for Free Online Page B

she replied, fixing an earring. ‘The farmers’ kids are just…content.’
    ‘Content?’
    ‘You know, passing time until their legs are long enough to reach the brake on the header.’
    They passed an older woman emerging from a room that smelled of fresh bread.
    ‘This is Mrs Maxwell,’ the principal said, stopping. ‘Mrs Maxwell has been here for…how many years?’
    ‘Thirty-four,’ the older woman replied. Mrs Maxwell was wearing an apron. She took a tea-towel from a pocket and wiped her hands. ‘I think I might have taught you.’
    ‘Yes. 1981?’
    ‘Very likely.’
    ‘This is Detective Sergeant Bart Moy,’ the principal explained.
    ‘Very impressive,’ the teacher said.
    ‘Yes, I was the only boy in the class,’ Moy recalled. ‘All the boys chose plastics and metalwork, but I liked cooking. So, they all assumed I’d turn out gay.’
    ‘And did you?’ She laughed, squeezing his arm.
    ‘I remember it came to sewing,’ he said, ‘and all the girls had some frock they were working on and you…I think perhaps it was you, or that other lady, the Chinese one, Mrs…?’
    ‘Lee, she passed, four years ago.’
    ‘Oh, sorry to hear…One of you said, so, Bart, what are you going to make? And I said, well, perhaps it’s time to go back and make a spice rack.’
    Mrs Maxwell smiled. ‘You were quite a pioneer.’
    Rebecca Downey was growing impatient. ‘We must go, the assembly’s started.’
    ‘Nice to see you again,’ Moy said, as Mrs Maxwell waddled along.
    Moy said to the principal, ‘Nothing much has changed.’
    ‘Well, she’s way past retirement, but it’s hard to find a good home ec teacher…Any home ec teacher, really.’
    ‘I mean, nothing much has changed physically. Same lockers, same chairs, same desks.’
    She looked at him strangely. ‘We have a master plan. Most of the rooms have been renovated and recarpeted.’
    ‘Really? Well…’ He looked in one of the grade five classrooms. ‘Looks just the same.’
    ‘Interactive whiteboard,’ she pointed out. ‘Data projector.’
    ‘Yes, but look at those macaroni murals. What’s that one?’
    ‘I think it’s meant to be a face.’
    They arrived in the gym. All three hundred children were waiting for them, sitting on the ground in year level lines: the youngest, their hands in the little valley of flesh created by their legs; the grade ones and twos, more alert, staring at the strange man beside Miss Downey; the threes and fours, laughing and holding their nose because someone had farted; the older kids, their lines snaking across the floor at the back of the gym, their legs stretched out, whispered threats and promises passing up and down the line.
    Principal Downey waited at the front of the hall with her arms crossed. Eventually, over a minute or so, the students fell quiet.
    ‘Well, that was quite a wait,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why I should have to wait here for so long when it’s obvious what I want you to do.’
    Silence; as the teachers thought the same thing as the kids.
    ‘I’ve explained,’ she continued, ‘how it should be so quiet that I can hear the air-conditioning.’
    And they all listened, realising no one had turned it on.
    There was a boy staring at Moy with a scowl on his face. Moy glared at him, opening his eyes wide and clenching his jaw. The boy mouthed a word. Moy couldn’t make it out. Was it please ? Was he pleading for something? Perhaps he was saying his name: Peter, Paul? Pavlich? He said it again.
    Poof .
    Jesus, nothing changes.
    ‘Howard!’ the principal growled, and the boy looked forward. ‘The Student Council is meeting this Thursday. They’ll be voting on four proposals put forward by you, the students.’ And she indicated, in case they’d forgotten who they were. Then she read from a clipboard. ‘One: soft drinks for the canteen.’ She looked up. ‘Well, I don’t know how that one got through.’ She smiled at an efficient-looking woman to her left.