Chapter Four: Surprises

The sky took on an ominous grey hue as D.A. hurried home. While passing Walkerville Elementary, she noticed only a few cars remained in the parking lot, and a single window shone with light. That was hardly enough to merit further examination, but after what she had just learned, everything— and everyone— deserved a closer look.

-

Ms. Frizzle, if she had some sort of connection to D.A.'s mind, would have likely admired her pupil's diligent nature as she threw down her marking pen (which had been grading English assignments moments ago) and sighed, burying her head in her hands as it ricocheted off the desk and landed on the floor.

She needed coffee. Badly. And there was only one place to get it…

-

The teachers' lounge was, thankfully, empty as Ms. Frizzle let the door close behind her and practically lunged for Old Faithful, tossing the instant coffee and water into the machine with almost superhuman speed and precision.

Two and a half minutes, she decided, wasn't so bad. She'd been in places where the coffee practically took millennia to boil. Now, if only she didn't have to deal with that snobby Amy March.

"Good evening, Valerie," a woman said behind her. Judging by the voice, it was Amy.

"Speak of the devil," she muttered.

"What?" Amy asked.

"Oh, nothing," Ms. Frizzle said, placing a hand on the machine as she turned to greet her. "Just brewing some coffee."

Amy, she noted, was wearing jade-hued glass earrings and a fashionably-cut dress made of orange fabric whose absence of sleeves allowed her toned arms to stand out. How she manages to stay so fit, Ms. Frizzle thought, glancing at those arms, I'll never know.

"How is the coffee here, anyways?" Amy asked, inspecting her cubbyhole. "I see they haven't put my name on one of these yet. That'll have to change, of course."

"Oh, it's not bad," Ms. Frizzle said. "It's like any other coffee, really."

"I don't suppose you have any milk here, do you?"

"No."

"Pity. I'll have to bring some. Speaking of coffee, I was wondering if you might like to join the next session of my book club. We're meeting tonight, and I assumed you didn't have anything planned, so..."

"That would be great," Ms. Frizzle said, while thinking exactly the opposite. "Where's your house?"

"13 Forgill Drive. Should I write it down for you?" Amy began to dig around in her purse as another person entered the teachers' lounge and began rummaging through a cupboard, their back turned to the two women.

"Here," Ms. Frizzle said, removing a pen from her pocket. Her eyes met Amy's, and in that moment, she saw a strange sort of desperation in the other woman's eyes— or had she? Maybe Amy just really wanted a pen.

"Thank you," Amy said, withdrawing a scrap of paper from her purse and jotting the address down, then handing it to Ms. Frizzle. "See you at four-thirty?"

"Sure," Ms. Frizzle said, glancing at the nearby clock. It was almost four, so she'd have to leave her marking at school if she was going to go home, choose an outfit and find out something about the book she would be discussing. Speaking of which…

"And Amy," she said, just as Amy was about to leave, "what's the book again?"

"Alias Grace," she said, "by Margaret Atwood. Don't worry— you don't have to read it if you don't want to, but it'd probably help you understand what's going on."

"Thanks," Ms. Frizzle called as the lounge door slid neatly shut behind Amy. After pouring herself a cup of coffee (which had long since turned cold; had their conversation really been that long?), she departed as well.

-

Once he was sure both women were gone, Mr. Ruhle stood up and turned away from the cupboard in which he had pretended to root through for what had seemed like ages.

"Book club, hm?" he said, glancing around at the empty teachers' lounge. That would mean his plans for the rest of the evening would have to be significantly altered, but what he had just heard made it more important than he'd previously realized.

"I'll have to call them," he muttered while leaving the teachers' lounge, "early."

Something occurred to him, and he smiled.

-

Twenty minutes later, standing outside the front door of 13 Forgill Drive, Ms. Frizzle took one final look at her reflection in the gold-plated mailbox to the right. To make sure she appeared as normal as possible, Ms. Frizzle had elected to wear a sensible black suit, with matching earrings and, as usual, ruby red lipstick.

She rang the doorbell. Immediately, almost eerily so, the door opened to reveal Amy March, wearing an (admittedly) stunning pale green dress.

"Hi, Val!" she said. "Do come in. You don't mind if I call you Val, do you? I just thought that, since we're on a first-name basis, working at the same school and all, you wouldn't mind…"

"Val is fine, thanks," Ms. Frizzle said as she stepped indoors. "My, you have such a lovely house! How long have you been living here?"

"Oh, I can't remember," Amy said, laughing. "Sooner or later, it's all just a blur. We're meeting in the living room— if you'd follow me?"

Ms. Frizzle followed Amy to the living room, a spacious room with a picture window facing the street. A sofa, currently occupied by two women she had never seen before, faced three other chairs.

"Ladies," Amy said, bidding them rise, "this is Valerie Frizzle, who's joining us tonight. She teaches my son at Walkerville Elementary. Val, this is Marjorie Collins."

"Pleased to meet you," the first woman, in vibrant purple that complimented her long, raven-hued locks, said, shaking Ms. Frizzle's hand before sitting down.

"And this is Kara Horne." The second woman, in quiet, inconspicuous grey, pushed her chocolate-coloured locks aside as she smiled and took Ms. Frizzle's offered hand.

Amy sat down in the rightmost chair facing the sofa; Ms. Frizzle, wanting to be friendly, sat down next to her.

"So, how's Tim?" she asked. "He doesn't seem to be in."

"Oh, he's at the Taylors', across the road. He and Dorothy Ann are studying, or something. They always seemed like a cute little couple."

Ms. Frizzle wasn't sure what to say to this.

"Can I get anyone coffee?" Amy said, alighting from her seat after mere seconds of sitting down. "Marjorie? Kara? Val?"

All three nodded..

"And what about milk?" Amy called as she headed towards another room, presumably the kitchen.

Only Kara and Marjorie nodded this time; Ms. Frizzle, after some hesitation, nodded as well.

"Here you go," Amy said five minutes later as she returned to the living room, holding a wooden tray on which four ceramic mugs sat. Marjorie and Kara accepted and sipped theirs without comment; however, when Ms. Frizzle was handed hers, she took one sip and noted that something was very different about this particular cup of coffee.

"Amy," she said, peering down at the thick, foam-like stuff that seemed to fill most of her ceramic mug, "is it just me or is the milk you used is, well, a little richer than usual?"

"Oh," Amy said, eyes wide, "you've never had Belgian coffee?"

"I can't say I have. What is 'Belgian coffee'?"

"It's coffee made with Belgian cream, of course! What else would it be?"

"Oh, well, I don't know… are we expecting someone?" Ms. Frizzle asked, glancing at the chair beside her.

"Oh, no," Marjorie said. "That chair is for Louise."

"Louise?" Ms. Frizzle frowned. "You mean Louise Winters? Isn't she on vacation?"

"Well, yes," Kara said, "but we keep it empty for her, out of courtesy."

"More like out of the kindness of our hearts," Marjorie said, scoffing. "We only took Louise in because no-one else would have her. She doesn't even read the books, just watches the movies. When it comes to actual discussion, she's useless."

"Which brings us to this month's book," Amy said quickly, "which, coincidentally, has no movie. What did everyone think of Alias Grace?"

"Stunning," Marjorie proclaimed, taking a deep swig of coffee.

"I loved the ending," Kara said. "What did you think, Val?"

"Well," she said, flashing a nervous smile, "seeing as my invitation was very last-minute, I didn't have time to actually read Alias Grace."

She paused. "I'm sure it's a wonderful book and all, but— but—"

As if completing her thought, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get that," Amy said, setting down her coffee. Minutes later, she returned to the living room, face red.

"Val," she said, struggling to keep her bewilderment in check, "it's for you."

Ms. Frizzle crept cautiously down the hallway, although all her efforts at keeping a cool head evaporated when faced with Mr. Ruhle standing on the Marchs' doorstep, holding something behind his back.

"What are you doing here?" she spluttered.

"Rescuing you," he said, handing her a singularly wrapped crimson-coloured flower. "Do you like roses? I thought you liked roses."

"Why would I need to be rescued? I'm having a wonderful time."

"No, you're not," he said. "I can see it in your eyes."

For the second time that evening, Ms. Frizzle found herself at a loss for words.

"Listen," he said, "I've booked us a table at Mare Scuro for an hour from now. That gives me enough time to drive you home and for you to get changed into something that doesn't look like you just came back from a funeral."

"You don't know that," she said, following him down the driveway and towards his silver Honda Accord in a daze. "And Mare Scuro? That's the most expensive restaurant in Walkerville! Do you realize I have to pay my bills?"

"Hey," Mr. Ruhle said, sliding into the driver's seat, "don't worry about it. I'm the president of Walkerville Elementary. I can handle it."

The mention of Walkerville Elementary stirred something deep in Ms. Frizzle's mind.

"If it's not too much trouble," she said, sitting down in the front passenger seat, "can we stop at the school first? I just have to pick some things up."

"I don't see why not," he said, turning his key in the ignition. "Let's go."

-

As Ms. Frizzle slipped her key in the front door lock of Walkerville Elementary, she had the curious sensation she was being watched. Just to make sure, after disabling the alarm system, she tugged on the door to confirm it was locked.

Her desk was just the way she'd left it, and through the dark, her eyes perceived a stack of paper sitting squarely in its center.

She turned on the light and began moving towards the desk, closing the door firmly behind her as she did so. She would gather up the homework, find a box to stuff it in, turn off the light and leave the school, simple as that.

There was one thing wrong with such a plan, however.

As if prompted by fate, someone knocked.

-

Who is Ms. Frizzle's mysterious visitor? Find out next time on The Walkerville Visitation!