Mrs. McGillicuddy’s theater class began studying Romeo and Juliet last week, and things haven’t been the same since. I’m not sure why she decided that eighth graders should be introduced to method acting, but she’s the “expert,” so we in the front office bit our tongues. As usual.

I had no idea what method acting was, but Janet explained it to me over a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge. I’ll admit, I’m naturally suspicious of Mrs. McGillicuddy’s antics, especially after the great Angels in America debacle of 2021. Nothing Janet told me about this “method” made me feel better about it, but the vice principal, Bertrand, caught us talking about it. That sent Janet scurrying away to finalize the honor roll and left me glowering over my hot cup of joe at Bertrand, daring him to suggest I go back to my desk. I don’t think he appreciates how difficult it is to answer the phones in this place. I have to know everything.

And, of course, I was right to be concerned, because the first parent called the very next day. Mr. Allen said that his son—Blake, ID 182101, not the brightest bulb, but has never missed an administrative professionals week—refused to eat breakfast, claiming that “communion with the Lord demandeth that he fast.” Our little Friar Laurence also, apparently, tried to mix ammonia and bleach together. When Mrs. Allen caught him and locked up the chemicals, he called his mother the Whore of Babylon and said she could not keep a godly apothecary from his appointed duties. I suggested to the Allens that they not pay too much attention to it. Kids get all kinds of notions these days, and those little phases seem to pass faster the less attention is paid to them. I did agree to send a note in to Bertrand and make sure the janitor’s closet was locked. I didn’t actually bother the vice principal with it, because I didn’t see what he could do about it. I did tell Darlene, the janitor, to make sure not to take her eyes off the cleaning products.

By that afternoon, however, I had no choice but to leave a stack of notes in Bertrand’s box because I’d heard from three more parents. They weren’t quite as upset as Mr. Allen, which I suppose makes sense. None of their children were mixing up chemicals, but Mrs. (always Mrs., never Ms. and heaven help you if you say Miss) DeWalt was all worked up about the twins. Bridget—ID 596201, advanced math, remedial English—was a Montague and Kathleen—ID 596202, advanced English, remedial math—was a Capulet. They were refusing to share a room with one another, claiming the ancient grudge between their families would threaten to break into new mutiny if they had to share quarters. Bridget took up residence in the treehouse and was refusing to come inside.

I have a hard time believing that Mrs. McGillicuddy didn’t see this coming when she assigned the twins their roles. In fact, I suspect petty revenge. After all, Mrs. DeWalt had been the one to count up all the swear words in the district musical last year, and she forced them to change the words to less mature subjects. That’s how “I Get a Kick Out of You” ended up losing its reference to cocaine and gaining a reference to “perfume in Spain.” And, of course, she was none too happy when little Danny Scrimshaw “forgot” to change the lyrics and walked out on stage with baby powder covering his nose. I laughed, even though I probably shouldn’t have. But Mrs. DeWalt is Mrs. DeLulu if she thinks these kids don’t know what cocaine is. Bertrand has at least a kilo in his desk drawer that he’s confiscated since August. That’s always a hit at the Christmas party.

 The following morning, Bertrand broke up a fight between Darin Kneal and Matthew Blomquist in the breakfast line. I guess that’s when I realized that Mrs. McGillicuddy’s lesson on method acting was the common thread. Darin—ID 610293, advanced everything and State Spelling Bee Champion three years running—normally wouldn’t harm a fly, so when Bertrand explained that he sucker-punched Matthew Blomquist near the syrup warmer, I was shocked. Not that the Blomquist boy didn’t deserve it. He’s always in the office for everything from dress code infractions to lighting fires in the art wing bathrooms. Last year, we had to call in a special cleaning crew to scrub down the International Graffiti mural that Coach Laws did with the kids.  The smoke damage was so bad from the Blomquist boy’s fire that you could barely make out the Banksy recreation, and the lace panties of Paris looked decidedly singed. The Anti-Western slogans from the former Eastern Bloc were curiously untouched, and I’m not sure how he managed that, but I’m sure it was intentional.

It was probably for the best that he didn’t chalk Darin’s participation up to a fluke, since during the interrogation we learned that he was defending Señorita Gomez’ honor after the Blomquist boy accused her of being a Montague. Matthew apparently bit his thumb at her, which Janet assures me is the Italian middle finger. She dated an Italian in college, so she would know. Not that I’d be sad to see Antonia Gomez flipped off by the Blomquist boy. She’s a bitch, but she doesn’t need any more excuses to call out sick. It would put us in a pinch because the district has been clear that they’re not sending us any more substitutes.

I think Mrs. McGillicuddy would still be working here if things had ended there. However, Coach Vargo caught Fairleigh Joyner and Scott Lundfisk doing the horizontal tarantella in the projection booth of the auditorium, even though Margaret Rawlins—ID 277011, transfer student from Lincoln, Nebraska—was standing guard. She tried to distract Coach Vargo, but he saw through the ruse immediately. Bless her heart, that girl is as dumb as a box of hair. In my true crime podcasts, they’re always talking about criminals wanting to get caught and making silly mistakes. That’s probably what was going on when Mrs. McGillicuddy gave Margaret the part of Juliet’s Nurse. I can’t tell if it’s that or if she really nailed the casting with that one. Either way, there was no way Bertrand could explain away that mandatory reporting requirement.

By the time the vice principal tracked down Mrs. McGillicuddy, the front office was full of angry parents and crying students, and yours truly was left to deal with the braying masses. She had gone home for the day, so Bertrand told her to just stay there pending an investigation. When Janet pointed out to him that there were no substitutes, he shouted that she’d have to pull double duty as guidance counselor and theater teacher if she wasn’t careful, and she scuttled back into her office without another word. He ended up telling Coach Vargo that he would have to handle the theater class for the next couple weeks, though I’m not sure how he planned to look Fairleigh or Scott in the eyes after what he saw in that projection booth.

As for Mrs. McGillicuddy, she was unrepentant, so I suppose that made the investigation simpler. I didn’t catch everything of her conversation with Bertrand, because the phone rang and I had to stop listening at the door, but I do know that she said those kids learned more about real life in two days of her class than they had in years at Ima Hogg Junior High, and I’d wager she wasn’t wrong about that.