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his nose. “You dig it, though, right?”
    “I definitely dig it,” I said. “Is my face really that bony?”
    “Them’s muscles, Big Al.” He cupped his hands to his own cheeks. “You got, like, somethin’ strong going on here, you know what I’m sayin’?”
    “Strong enough to keep you in line.” I didn’t actually believe that, but I figured as long as I had him fooled, he might survive on my watch until he was eighteen.
    “Desmond,” Owen said, “your mother and I are wondering about this particular piece.”
    He nodded toward the eye-patch drawing. The sheen evaporated from Desmond’s eyes.
    “That ain’t s’posed to be here,” he said. “I don’t know who put it up there.”
    “I did.”
    I turned to the very round woman with the cascade of mahogany -tinted hair who was all scarflike skirts and clay bead bracelets up to her dimpled elbows. Although I remembered the clothing that looked too rich for an educator’s salary, I almost didn’t recognize her as Erin O’Hare, Desmond’s history teacher. At our last parent conference she’d been a blonde. It must take several bottles of dye to color that mane; it was almost as long as she was tall.
    Although Desmond had reported to me on more than one occasion that “Miss All-Hair’” rocked, he was now giving her the same look he gave me when I told him he couldn’t watch Lady Gaga videos. It didn’t seem to faze her.
    “I found it under your desk when you left one day, and I asked Mrs. Pratt if she wanted to enter it.” She turned to me, head first, hair following. “It shows his range, don’t you think?”
    “Oh, absolutely,” Owen said. “This young man has more depth than the St. John’s River. We’re talking the Grand Canyon here. I’ve seen shallower wells.”
    Miss O’Hare only stared at him for a fraction of a second. I guessed if you taught middle schoolers all day, you heard pretty much everything.
    “I’d say it was one of your best pieces,” she said to Desmond, “if I had the actual subject to compare it to.”
    “There ain’t no actual subject,” Desmond said. I was glad this wasn’t his English teacher we were talking to. “It’s just somethin’ I made up.”
    That may have been more disconcerting than the idea that Desmond might actually know somebody that creepy.
    “Then as I understand it, we can’t really consider it a caricature,” Miss O’Hare said, gesturing toward it with a drapey sleeve. “Not if you don’t have an objective set of physiognomic features to draw upon for reference.”
    Desmond’s brows shot up to his mini-’fro. “You still talkin’ American, Miss All-Hair?”
    She wrinkled her nose at him. “That’ll keep you quiet for a while.”
    “Good luck with that,” I said.
    Desmond reached for the drawing, eyes still scowling. “Imma take this down—”
    “Step away from the display,” Miss O’Hare said. “You’ll get it back when the show’s over.”
    He opened his mouth, obviously to protest, but I said quickly, “You better go get your stuff together. We’ve got to get home so you can finish your homework before we head out with Chief.”
    The smile sprang back to his face and he raised a hand to high-five Miss O’Hare.
    “Right back at ya,” she said, but he was already on his way down the aisle, one of his “women” Velcroed to each side. Maybe the momentary storm on his face had just been my imagination.
    Owen also took his leave, still remarking to everyone along the way at the fathoms which Desmond’s artistic talent reached. Whether they were interested or not.
    “So, Miss Chamberlain.”
    I turned back to Miss O’Hare. “Please—it’s Allison.”
    “Hence the ‘Big Al’ nickname,” she said.
    “I’m just grateful it isn’t anything worse.”
    “Are you serious? He loves you. But, listen, while I have you alone …”
    My antennae sprang up. “This can’t be good.”
    “It isn’t ‘bad.’” She grimaced slightly. “I just wish he