Arriving at work a few minutes later, he cut through the door next to lunchroom. Spaghetti was on the menu. The tangy sauce gave off a ketchup-like smell. It was served with a slice of American cheese melted on top with white bread. His students called it grease and sauce. No lie about that. The cheese and pasta formed into liquid grease.
Brice planned to pick up his mail from the office then asked around for volunteers. In the office, teachers crowded around the wall that had mail slots for each one. He maneuvered around three who patted him on the back.
“Good job keeping the kids from getting arrested,” the Economics teacher said, walking up. “Excuse me, I need my mail.”
“Do you know where Margaret is?” Brice asked.
“Margaret Sanders.” Brice said, not feeling bad about himself only knowing the names of two teachers. Econ worked here for more than twenty years; but he hadn’t recalled any of the teachers’ names.
Econ rubbed his chin, pulling his mail from his box. Then he tapped it on his hand. “It’s best you don’t memorize the names then they won’t become more important than your job.” He grinned. “I remembered the student body.”
“You do?” Brice asked.
“Brice Frankel,” he paused. “Left here after a drug dealer stormed into the hallway, shooting.”
Nobody forgot about the shooting. The news carried it like an advertisement for a new gym shoes being rollout, Arcadio as the star.
“Take care-.” Econ entered the hall, zigzagging through the crowd where kids cried out, “Cody Comets.”
“Brice I have to talk to you,” Margaret said, popping into the office. “Before I have to leave.”
“What?” Brice asked.
“I might lose my job.”
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