Chapter Five – You Never Know
When the first knock came, Ms. Frizzle, despite being trained for precisely this sort of situation, didn't know what to do. She was alone in a school that had closed for the day, trapped inside her own classroom— hardly comparing to the training scenarios, which had taken place during the day and in the company of other teachers and students. (She had no such luck here.)
Maybe the janitor was nearby?
The stranger knocked again.
Maybe the stranger was the janitor. But janitors had keys, didn't they? They wouldn't need to knock.
The stranger knocked a third time, and Ms. Frizzle, over the pounding in her chest, could have sworn she heard a strange bzzing sound just outside the door.
Oh, great, she thought. They've got power tools.
The bzzing stopped, and, as the familiar squeak of hinges turning inward filled the air, Ms. Frizzle made herself as small as possible and hid beneath her desk, pulling her chair in as far as she could. It was a standard desk, with a metal front and a space for a chair to go.
She closed her eyes.
"Hello," a man said. "Anyone there?"
It was a voice that, to Ms. Frizzle's astonishment, sounded strangely familiar.
-
"Are you sure your mom's okay with this?" D.A. looked over at Tim one more time, The History of Walkerville Volume 3: 1980 to the Present on her lap. "She seemed a little, well, anxious over the phone."
"It's book club night, and she's hosting," Tim said. "It's always a big production. She buys expensive milk and everything."
D.A. frowned. "What would anyone need expensive milk for?"
Tim shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's something you need when you're older. Did you go to the records' office like you said?"
D.A. sighed and set A History of Walkerville aside. "Yes."
"And?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"Nothing— no birth certificates, tax forms, mortgages, anything at all about John Smith or Marion Prentice."
"So, according to this office, they never existed?"
"Well, all their files are on the computer now, so the only logical explanation is that John and Marion's records just happened to vanish when all the other files were moved. But that's highly unlikely."
"But they exist," Tim said, "in your book."
"Yes," D.A. said, "but why don't they exist anywhere else?"
"I don't know. Maybe they wanted the records deleted?"
"Who would want that?"
"I don't know," Tim said. "If John Smith is the same man we saw stepping into that police box, maybe he would. What do we know about aliens in Walkerville?"
"Not much," D.A. said, sighing and reaching for the book next to her, "but maybe others do." She opened it to the index.
"Let's see… Aliens… page 114. Okay."
She began to read aloud. "The mysterious Walkerville Forest has long been a source of myth and legend in the Walkerville community. Many have been said to venture into the forest and never be seen again.
Perhaps the most famous of these disappearances was in the spring of 1983. Four students in their third year of high school went into the forest on the night of the fall dance and, for many hours, were deemed missing. Later, however, all four emerged from the forest, unharmed and mildly dazed. The cause of their disappearance remains a mystery to this day, although some have suggested that extraterrestrial forces were involved."
"That's strange," she said. "My mom and dad were in their third year of high school in 1983 and they never said anything."
"Well, why would they?" Tim said. "I'm not sure my parents would say anything either, if I asked them."
D.A. paused. "Could you do that?"
There was silence. Tim shifted.
"I don't know," he said. "I think they'd be upset if I asked them a question like that."
"You think they'd be upset," D.A. said. "I think they'd be relieved. Maybe I should ask my parents too…"
Tim cleared his throat. "Uh, D.A.?"
"Yes, Tim?"
"What if they are upset?"
She considered this for a moment. "Well, if you really want to find out something, there
's always going through their stuff."
Tim couldn't tell if she was joking.
-
"Hello?" the man said, louder. "Is anyone there?"
Don't do anything, Ms. Frizzle thought desperately to herself. If I don't do anything, he'll go away.
She heard the man's footsteps as he walked around the classroom, pausing at various intervals. Then he stopped, and Ms. Frizzle couldn't figure out where he was.
She peered through the small gap of space between the metal front and the floor and saw a pair of red sneakers. He was standing by her desk!
She inhaled, and could, judging by the way his feet shifted, sense the man standing at attention.
The bzzing sound returned, and then stopped as abruptly as it had started.
"Hello?" the man said, a third time. "Is anyone there?"
Out of the corner of her eye Ms. Frizzle saw a small, bright red sphere on the panel above her. It was the panic button all classrooms in Walkerville Elementary had been outfitted with after Dunblane. If she used it, someone would (hopefully) come and help.
The only problem was that the position Ms. Frizzle had forced herself into was as far away from the panic button as possible— she'd spent so much time trying to remember it was there, and here she was forgetting it when she needed it most— and to actually get to the darn thing, she would have to push the chair back, slide out, stand up, and push the button that way. It was a risk she was willing to take.
She began slowly pushing her back against the chair, and, if she hadn't been so focused on her current task, could have heard the man's feet shift yet again. Once the chair was gone, she began, using the floor for friction, pushing herself away from the desk.
She stood up and looked the stranger dead in the eyes. He was dressed in clothes that, even to someone with Ms. Frizzle's fashion sense, seemed strange: a blue pinstripe suit and a brown trench coat, topped off by the red sneakers she'd seen before.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Well, that depends," he said, shrugging, "on whether or not you can answer my question."
"Which is?"
"Why was someone like you, Valerie Frizzle, hiding under your own desk?"
He knows my name? My full name? "Oh," she said, "I was just… looking for something."
Her left hand began to slowly move across the underside of her desk towards the panic button.
"How did you know my first name? It's not something I usually tell people."
"Well, to be honest, it's not your real name, is it?"
Her left hand froze. This man, somehow, knew who she really was.
What was she going to do?
"I wouldn't do anything particularly drastic," he said. "You're not the type. Even in Maintenance class, you always double-checked my Helmic regulator's circuits to make sure they were functioning properly— before checking yours, of course."
She took a deep breath. "Doctor?!"
"The one and only."
Ms. Frizzle stepped out from behind her desk to take a closer look at the Doctor. "But— but— but— they told me you were dead!"
"Same thing they said about you," he grinned. "How did you survive?"
"Oh, I fled in my TARDIS to some planet called Sto. Have you been there?"
His gaze darkened. "No."
Ms. Frizzle paused. "Is something wrong?"
"No," the Doctor said. "Just remembering someone."
"Anyway, once I got there, I became a secretary—"
"You? A secretary? Wasn't your life's ambition to become President of Gallifrey?"
"Let's just say my plans were drastically changed. Capricorn Industries paid well, but after I began conducting a private investigation into the owner's disappearance, let's just say I wasn't quite as welcome as I'd previously been."
:"So you came here."
She nodded. "The TARDIS randomly selected this place for me. Isn't it nice? How'd you get here, anyways? I thought the door was locked."
"Oh," he said, turning red. "I sonic'd it."
"You were always addicted to that toy. Boys and their toys, hm?"
She smirked. "Men never change, I guess."
"Oi! It's not a toy!" the Doctor said, affronted. "And I can change, I-I try to be post-feminist."
"Speaking of change…" Ms. Frizzle took a moment to study the Doctor's face. "What regeneration are you on? Ninth? Eleventh?"
"Tenth," he said. "I hope I stay this way, I like this body. I can't imagine what I'll be like in the Eleventh. Some scrawny twenty-year-old body, I suppose."
He paused. "Why? What regeneration are you on?"
She shuffled her feet. "My third."
"Third? I thought you'd be, well, older."
"You always liked them young," she said. "Did you just come to Walkerville to talk?"
He smiled. "Well, unless you have other ideas…"
"You're kidding me! You never go anywhere without a plan."
"I just happened to pick something up on my scanners and thought I'd drop by."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't believe this," the Doctor said, waving a hand around. "Why didn't I sense you earlier? Why didn't the Master?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," she said, shrugging. "Maybe I was lucky."
"Maybe," the Doctor said, turning towards the door. "Nevertheless, t was good to see you. I might pop round again soon. You never know."
"I'm looking forward to it," Mrs. Frizzle said, and although the Doctor couldn't see it, she was smiling.
"I'll just make my way out of here— oof!"
Ms. Frizzle looked up and saw, to her horror, that the Doctor had collided with Mr. Ruhle.
"Hi, Val," Mr. Ruhle said, twirling a rose in his left hand. "You left this in the car."
"Thank you," she said, while Mr. Ruhle glanced at the Doctor.
"And you are?"
"James McCrimmon," he said, flashing his psychic paper. "Walkerville School Division."
"So you're the James McCrimmon I talked to on the phone! Very nice to meet you," he said, offering a hand.
"I was just on my way out," the Doctor said, shaking the proffered hand as he stepped out into the hallway. "Have a good evening, Ms. Frizzle."
"You too, uh, James," she said. "You too."
Mr. Ruhle turned towards her, the rose still in his left hand.
"So," he said, "where were we?"
-
"Welcome to Mare Scuro!" The girl at reception, dressed in stylish blue, broke into a smile at the sight of a well-dressed couple coming through the doors. "Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes," Mr. Ruhle said, dressed in a grey pinstripe suit. Ms. Frizzle stood beside him, wearing a pale green gown and trying not to gawk at her luxurious surroundings.
Mare Scuro was the most expensive restaurant in Walkerville, and for good reason. Its walls were painted a rich, luxurious red, matching the ivory-hued tablecloths and ornate carpet. Windows lined the western wall of the restaurant. Soft classical music played from hidden speakers, probably hidden, she supposed, somewhere under the large marble statues of various Greek gods.
"It'll be under Ruhle," he said, startling Ms. Frizzle from her reverie. "For two?"
"Certainly," the girl said, taking two menus from a cubby behind the desk. "Follow me."
Once Mr. Ruhle and Ms. Frizzle were seated at a small, round table for two by a window, she placed the menus before them and walked off.
"Welcome to Mare Scuro," a tall man with short brown hair said, taking her place. "I'm Dominic, and I'll be serving you this fine evening. How are we today?"
"Fine, thank you," Mr. Ruhle said.
"Both of you are dressed very well. Are you celebrating an anniversary, perhaps?"
"Thank you, but no," Ms. Frizzle said. "We're not married." She could have sworn something flickered behind Mr. Ruhle's eyes.
"Can I get you anything to drink? We have some excellent wines— Beaujolais, Pinot Noir, Shiraz…"
"I'll just have water for now, thanks," Ms. Frizzle said. "What were you thinking of, Max?"
He blinked. "Oh— er— ah— water will be fine, thanks."
"Excellent choice! I'll be right back." As soon as Dominic was out of earshot, Ms. Frizzle leaned across the table and placed her right hand over Mr. Ruhle's.
"Max, are you alright? You seem, I don't know, distracted."
"It's nothing," he said, moving his hand away from hers. "Just had a busy day at work, that's all."
"Are you sure?"
He breathed in and out. "Yes."
"Well," she said, "if you need anything, let me know."
"Here are your waters," Dominic said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with a platter on which two crystal goblets of ice water stood. "Would you like a few more minutes to decide what you're going to order, or have you made up your minds?"
As he placed the water glasses before them, Ms. Frizzle noticed a small silver ring with the Walkerville High crest and Class of '84 on Dominic's right hand.
"I didn't know you went to Walkerville High!" she said, taking a sip of water.
"Indeed I did, ma'am," he said. "Do you teach there?"
"Oh, no," Ms. Frizzle said. "I teach at the elementary. So does Max, actually."
"And what do you teach?" Mr. Ruhle made a subtle slash in the air with his left hand, but Ms. Frizzle, in her desire to be polite, ignored it.
"Third grade. Max here is the principal."
"Oh," Dominic said, taking out a pad of paper, "so you were the one that left Walkerville High after—"
"Yes," Mr. Ruhle said. "After the elementary school hired me."
He looked at Ms. Frizzle and smiled. "I think I'm ready to order. What about you?"
"Sounds good," she said, consulting the menu. "I think I'll have the pickerel."
"Two pickerel, please," Mr. Ruhle said to Dominic, scribbling away on the pad of paper with a black pen.
"Excellent choice," he said. "If you need anything, please let me know."
"He seems nice," Ms. Frizzle said, leaning across the table.
"Yeah," Mr. Ruhle said. "He does."
-
Dominic returned to the table a half-hour later and scooped up the dinner plates, holding them with one hand while he took out his pad and pen with the other.
"Did you enjoy dinner?"
"Oh yes," Ms. Frizzle said. "The pickerel was fantastic! It's been a long time since I had really good fish."
"I guess it was worth leaving the book club for, right?" Mr. Ruhle said, winking.
"Would anyone like to see the dessert menu? Coffee, perhaps?"
"Yes," Ms. Frizzle said, something occurring to her, "coffee would be lovely. I just have a question."
"Yes?"
"Have you ever heard of Belgian coffee?"
Dominic shook his head. "Can't say I have, and I worked in a coffee shop before being hired here."
He cocked his head to one side. "Why? Do you think it should be on the menu?"
"No," she said, smiling. "It was just a question. I'll have my coffee black, no cream or sugar."
"Sounds good." Dominic turned to look at Mr. Ruhle.
"And for you, sir?"
"I'll have black coffee as well," Mr. Ruhle said.
"Two black coffees… gotcha. I'll be back soon with your order."
Ms. Frizzle leant across the table as soon as Dominic had left. "You like black coffee too?"
"I guess we have similar taste," Mr. Ruhle said, smiling.
"I guess," Ms. Frizzle said, deep in thought.
"I guess."
--
To be continued…
