Whisper Down the Lane by Clay Chapman (inspiring books for teens txt) 📕

on the phone with Mrs. Kelly, Mrs. Blackmer had called Mrs. Cook, while Mrs. Henry and Mrs. Evans had phoned the school three times, demanding the headmaster reach out to them at once with answers about Mr. Woodhouse.

By the time Sunday services were underway, there wasn’t much else for these mothers to discuss. The pews simmered with whispers about Mr. Woodhouse and his class.

Well, yes, Gloria couldn’t keep her meal down just the other night…

Now that you mention it, I’ve noticed Craig has been acting rather remote…

Who’d blame Michael Jackson for Jenny’s nightmares? This has to be something else…

I noticed a few bruises on Alice’s leg. I thought it was just horseplay, but now that I think about it, they were a little too far up her thigh for my comfort…

There were twenty-one students in Mr. Woodhouse’s class.

The number twenty-one represents the Union of the Trinity. The number twenty-one appears in the Bible seven times.

Seven multiplied by three is twenty-one. The number twenty-one is a symbol that represents the union of unknown superiors—or the great spiritual masters of humanity.

Tommy Dennings’s favorite after-school cartoon was Masters of the Universe. His mother hadn’t realized the show’s main character was a boy—a prince, just like her Tommy—whose secret identity would be conjured up after he lifted his mystic sword and recited an incantation:

I haaave the poooooooower.

Several mothers had written to the local television channel to encourage programmers that they should no longer air Master of the Universe due to its, as they claimed, “pagan undertones.” Their letter campaign had little sway over the channel, so Mrs. Dennings merely switched the television off during that particular half hour after school, no matter how loud Tommy griped.

There was power in unifying their voices, these mothers learned. A combined strength.

Unity.

They could harness their concerns and make it one voice. One loud, determined voice. These mothers were legion—and they demanded to be heard. Reckoned with. They were not going to simply sit by as their community corroded—downright decayed—underneath them. Certainly not when it was their children at risk. Their little angels.

Their one voice spoke louder. More forceful. It gained strength as their numbers grew.

They would be heard.

By Monday, more phone calls were pouring into the school. It wasn’t parents anymore. Concerned citizens were picking up the phone. What exactly is happening in Mr. Woodhouse’s class? What’s he doing behind closed doors? What the hell’s going on in your school?

Local authorities logged ten official complaints. The headmaster assured detectives there was nothing untoward happening in their classrooms. Mr. Woodhouse was happily married. They had a child of their own, a lovely daughter. She was enrolled at Greenfield Academy as well. Mr. Woodhouse was one of the school’s most prized teachers. Just last year, he’d received a regional award commemorating his commitment to academic excellence. He inspired his students. He was a shining example for all teachers to follow. The school was lucky to have him.

Greenfield stood by Mr. Woodhouse, the headmaster told detectives.

That was last week.

This week, the escalation in complaints was too steep to be written off. There was something foul happening at Greenfield, something rotten, even if no one could quite say exactly what. All anyone knew for certain was it had to do with Mr. Woodhouse. His name was consistently whispered among the parents, and their voices were growing louder.

The calls were coming into the school at an even clip. The administration couldn’t answer them all. They needed to bring in an additional secretary just to log all the complaints.

Now other members of the faculty were being accused of following in Mr. Woodhouse’s footsteps. The school had to act. Had to get out in front of this story before it was too late. This wasn’t stopping. If anything, the whispers were only getting worse. Parents were organizing now. A phone tree was distributed. Parents met in the evenings to discuss and compare notes.

I heard he keeps a bag of candy in his desk to give kids who do special “favors” for him…

My daughter told me he likes to massage the students’ backs…

My son says he has them play “touchy” games in class…

By Tuesday, only eighteen students were in attendance in Mr. Woodhouse’s class. On Wednesday, it was fifteen. Ten the next. Then six…

Six…

Six.

Greenfield was hemorrhaging students. Their parents were keeping them at home. And it wasn’t just Mr. Woodhouse’s class anymore. It was all of them now. A letter had been hastily written by the headmaster to quell the rising tide of concerns. It was dictated, typed, and mimeographed, then sent home with each student. Not just Mr. Woodhouse’s class. This was schoolwide. An epidemic. Everyone knew what was happening in Mr. Woodhouse’s room.

Everyone except Susan Crenshaw.

Sean remained in Mr. Woodhouse’s class even as his classmates began to vanish. Mr. Woodhouse was the first to sense there was promise in Sean. The depth of the boy’s developing imagination was on full display from the beginning, even at age five. His capacity to create worlds. His questions. He was, as far as Mr. Woodhouse was concerned, a star pupil.

A bright boy, Mr. Woodhouse called him at the first parent-teacher night. A shining child.

When Miss Crenshaw received a note from school informing parents about an ongoing investigation regarding one of their teachers—Sean’s teacher—she was utterly paralyzed. She was working herself to the bone, losing sleep just to keep her family under one roof. Now this?

Where were the warning signs? Had she missed something? How blind could she be? she imagined the other mothers whispering behind her back. Sean told her he’d had a tummy ache the other day, but she thought he was just trying to get out of eating his broccoli.

Now, during bath time, she noticed the berry patch of black-and-blue skin on his thigh.

Where did these bruises come from? Such a simple question. Who did this to you? Was it your teacher? Sean nodded. So slowly it was imperceptible at first. Yes, the nod said. And just like that, their precariously balanced life, constantly teetering