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mahogany desk across what felt like miles of dingy rose-pink carpet with such a deep pilethat she felt she was about to sink right through it and into some netherworld where pupils endured perpetual detention in dark classrooms supervised by grim teachers with no sense of humor and an abiding dislike of children.
    She joined Steve in front of the desk and examined the office with interest. It was much brighter than she’d expected, with gleaming white walls, certificates cataloging Miss Parker’s achievements, photographs of past school events, and a large print of a Picasso painting. But pride of place went to an old wooden lacrosse stick that was mounted on a polished board along with a brass plaque that Belladonna couldn’t quite read, though she imagined it was a memento of some long-gone tournament played in the days when Miss Parker herself had been a student. Two huge sash windows dominated the far wall of the office, between which there was a tall, narrow bookcase with an arched top like a church window. Belladonna tried to look out of the windows, but all she could see from where she was standing were the decaying facades of the buildings on the other side of the street. She turned her attention back to the Picasso print. It was of a crying woman and was all angles and planes, with a handkerchief that seemed more like a weapon than a comfort. She looked from that to the angular Miss Parker, and thought she could see why it might appeal to her.
    She glanced at Steve, but he was examining thecarpet intently. After a few moments, he shifted his weight, shoved his hands into his pockets, and then quickly pulled them out again.
    Miss Parker sniffed and put her bony elbows on the vast shiny desk, resting her chin on her clasped hands. “Mr. Evans,” she drawled, “here we are again. I thought you told me you were going to stay out of my office for the rest of this term.”
    Steve didn’t respond. Miss Parker turned her probing gaze toward Belladonna.
    Belladonna thought of gorgons, creatures that could turn people to stone simply by looking at them.
    “And Miss Johnson, what on earth are you doing here?”
    Belladonna wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer or not, but she was generally of the opinion that getting the whole proceeding over with as quickly as possible would be the best thing.
    “We . . . accidentally made some stuff. And it exploded,” she explained. “But it was an accident.”
    Miss Parker looked at her for a moment with the same kind of expression she would probably have adopted if her cat had suddenly started reciting Shakespeare.
    “An accident,” she turned to Steve. “Was it an accident, Stephen?”
    Steve glanced at Belladonna like a drowning man spotting a distant life raft.
    “Absolutely,” he said, a little too loudly. “We weresupposed to be making this stuff, but then we accidentally made this other stuff. And then Mr. Morris walked in it while it was drying next to the radiator.”
    Miss Parker nodded. “While it was drying?”
    “Yes, Miss,” said Steve, optimistic of a quick escape.
    “That doesn’t really sound like an accident, does it? Mr. Morris told me that as it dried, he began to experience an unsettling sensation around his feet.”
    “Yes, Miss,” Steve burbled on. “But it was only because he had hobnailed boots on. They kept making little sparks, y’see, and setting it off.”
    “Setting it off?”
    “Bangs.” Steve was losing momentum as he seemed to realize this was probably not going to help his case. “Small . . . um . . . bangs.”
    Miss Parker’s pale green eyes stared at Steve over her glasses and he seemed to shrivel up in front of the desk. Belladonna couldn’t bear to watch.
    “But it isn’t our fault he got it on his shoes,” she blurted, thinking fast. “We couldn’t clean it off the dish, you see. And we thought that if it dried, then it would be easier to clean. We’d just been messing with different things; we didn’t