A Hideous Beauty Read Online Free PDF Page B

in!”
    He took me by the arm and led me through a swinging gate into the restricted area of administration central, presumably so the students in line wouldn’t overhear our conversation.
    My long-dormant student senses tingled wildly. I’d seen students taken by the arm by the vice principal into the administration inner sanctum. Some of them were never heard from again.
    â€œSeveral of our teachers are running late,” Benton or Benson said in a hushed tone. “Big accident on I-8. Traffic is backed up for miles.”
    As though I needed proof, he led me to a portable TV sitting on top of a row of file cabinets. A square-jawed reporter wearing headphones was describing the situation from high overhead in a news helicopter. At the bottom of the screen a banner announced that this was BREAKING NEWS.
    The reporter was shouting into his microphone in order to be heard over the noise of the helicopter. “. . . backed up all the way to the Grossmont summit. As you can see, all four lanes are blocked. Eastbound traffic is at a complete standstill.”
    While the reporter described every commuter’s worst nightmare, the camera panned, providing a jittery view of three longlines of cars. At the front of the line a lone vehicle was engulfed in flames. The inferno generated a column of black smoke that stretched to the heavens.
    â€œ. . . battling the fire. The flames have been so intense, the firefighters have had to back away. All they can do now is let it burn itself out. As you can see, a second crew is just arriving . . .”
    A fire truck with flashing red lights could be seen inching its way up the emergency lane, slowed by onlookers who had gotten out of their cars to see what was going on.
    â€œWhen we first arrived at the scene, we witnessed several bystanders attempting to fight the flames with handheld fire extinguishers in a valiant attempt to rescue the driver. The intense heat drove them back. (Ronny, see if you can zoom in on the men standing beside the truck.)”
    The picture on the screen bounced crazily, then zoomed toward three men staring helplessly at the inferno. Their shoulders were hunched. “As you can see, they’re still holding the spent extinguishers in their hands.”
    Zooming in closer, the camera swung toward the vehicle. Flames feasted hungrily on the car’s interior.
    â€œPoor devil . . . never had a chance,” Benton or Benson commented beside me.
    A few feet from us a large woman in a floral print blouse gasped loudly, then again, as though she was trying to catch her breath. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared with disbelief at the television. “Oh . . . oh . . . oh!”
    A coworker rushed to her side. “Roberta, what is it?”
    Like a fish out of water the distraught woman gasped repeatedly. “The . . . the . . . plates!” she cried. “Look . . . look . . . at the . . . license plates!”
    All eyes in the room squinted at the television screen, trying to see what Roberta saw. Gasps and wounded cries exploded across the room.
    â€œOne of your teachers?” I asked Benton or Benson.
    The vice principal stood motionless. Tears ran down his cheeks, which was just downright scary. Vice principals don’t cry, they make people cry.
    The woman who had assisted Roberta now turned her attention to him. “Mr. Benson? Maybe you’d better sit down.”
    Stone monuments aren’t easily moved. It appeared Benson hadn’t heard her. He stood with his jaw slightly askew as though its hinge was broken.
    I glanced again at the television to see what would have this kind of effect on him. Centered on the screen was the blackened license plate of the burning car. Even though it was charred, the raised letters were readable.
    CA TCHR
    Benson was weeping openly now and it was painful to watch. “The