"I appreciate your honesty. I know the kids love you. Every teacher in the school wants you to drop by."
"My pleasure." Standing, I grab the small rucksack I bring with me filled with coins for the kids, pieces of memorabilia I scored overseas and other odds and ends. Depending on the age of the students, I sometimes don't need anything but my story. The younger kids often need props or something to occupy them while they listen.
"Is it hard to kill someone?"
I pause before looking up. The boy's voice is pensive and hushed, shy almost, and the way he asks the question … unusual. My instincts flare. One of the best ways to stay alive during missions is to know when you're in danger, to sense when the tribesman you're negotiating with is stalling you while his men set up an ambush.
The boy is hiding something.
"Todd, that's not an appropriate question," the teacher chides.
Todd is what I expect him to be: a lanky teen with haunted eyes and an uncertain expression. He ducks his head at the teacher's words. He's clutching his book bag to his chest like it's a shield.
"Sorry. Thanks for the presentation," he mumbles and hurries out.
"Great grades but a little troubled by all accounts," the teacher says when he's gone.
"Troubled how?" I ask curiously. "Needs to be in JROTC troubled?"
"He transferred in two months ago, after school had started, which is highly unusual. I keep telling the administrator - you can't uproot a kid and expect him to adjust properly. It's no wonder he had issues at his last school."
"Hmmm." I'm not at all interested in the explanation. It's not telling me what I want to know. I have a soft spot for people in distress, an impulse to help that's only grown stronger since the issue with my leg taught me about the bottomless depths of pain. It bothers me to see someone else suffering.
Whatever it is, though, it's none of my business. I've run across a lot of kids I'd designate as troubled or ill adjusted, and most seem to be in a stage where they turn out fine with time. I push Todd from my thoughts.
"Can I ask you something?" the teacher continues.
"Sure."
"You're family is the Khavalovs who live outside of town?"
"Yeah."
"I thought so."
Our town of Glory Glade, near the coast in Massachusetts, is small enough that no one is more than one degree apart. My siblings and I attended private schools, but my father sponsors athletics and summer programs for the kids and community facilities in town, which is how most of the town knows us.