But his sentences sounded so formal and so stilted, more like he was reading written remarks than talking to us. More like a newscaster reading a teleprompter than a colleague. More like a robot than a human.

He went on for too long, doing most of the things that administrators do at the start of the school year—running down the perfunctory checklist of Topics to Cover.

Just as I looked over and saw Alice stifling a yawn, his tone shifted and he seemed to start building toward something. “You’ve been a leader for so many years in education—especially in areas of diversity and creativity. During my tenure, I hope to make Kempner known for leading in one more area. One that’s so often tragically overlooked. One where I have much expertise.”

Suddenly, I got it. All this stiff, bureaucratic nonsense? It was all a setup for an awesome payoff.

I knew what he was going to say.

A smile broke across my face—teeth and all.

What area did Duncan Carpenter have expertise in?

Play.

He was the king of play. Back at Andrews, he’d founded the Donut Society, invented a game called Goof-Ball, and started a club called Fits and Giggles that was basically a semester-long laughing contest. He’d started the annual faculty pie-eating competition. He’d dressed up on unannounced days in costume as, randomly, a hamster, a sandwich, and a saguaro cactus—for no reason. He’d been the instigator of countless lunchtime conga lines, sing-alongs, and food fights.

If this guy had one area of “much expertise,” it was play.

I felt a kind of brightness in my chest at the anticipation. Of course this serious-dude stuff had been a setup. Of course he must be wearing some kind of Captain America costume under that suit. Of course a disco ball was about to drop from the ceiling.

The real Duncan Carpenter had to be in there somewhere.

Something was about to happen. I could feel it.

I nudged Alice, like Get ready.

Then I turned back to look up at Duncan on the stage, my eyes already shining with admiration for whatever it was he was about to do. This was the moment when he would show everybody what I’d meant when I’d promised them that he was awesome.

He was about to redeem us both.

Next, he said, “Get ready, because…”

I lifted my hands, poised to clap.

And that’s when he reached inside his suit jacket and did something that I still can hardly believe to this day.

Totally unbelievable—even now.

Duncan Carpenter—one of the sweetest humans I had ever known—stood on the cafeteria stage of our little school in front of the entire faculty and staff, reached inside his suit jacket, and pulled out … a pistol.

He lifted his arm.

He pointed it at the ceiling.

And then—over the choked gasp of the entire crowd—he said, like it was some great piece of Die Hard–like dialogue: “We are going to lead the nation in campus safety and security.”

six

Spoiler: it was a squirt gun.

Not that that makes it any better.

Duncan had spray-painted a clear plastic water gun metallic gray.

Like a psychopath.

He’d done a great job, too. It looked frigging real.

He paused for one second of terror. Then, before people could start screaming, or fainting, or dying of heart attacks, he pulled the trigger and squirted several little harmless fountains at the ceiling before dropping his hand to glare at us.

There was a long pause before he spoke.

Then he said, “Scared?”

The crowd did not respond.

He set the water pistol down on the podium. “Because you should be.”

Nobody knew what to do. We all just sat there, frozen by fear.

Who was this guy? Did Duncan Carpenter have an evil twin? The Duncan I knew would have been juggling rubber chickens by now. I waited, hoping that any moment a marching band was going to come filing into the auditorium.

But, nope.

Duncan just held up the gun again.

Even knowing it was fake, we all winced.

“For all this school’s prestige,” Duncan said, looking genuinely angry at us, “for all its brilliant innovations, and groundbreaking programs … it’s got a long way to go.”

He set the gun down again, and we all sighed. “I walked right in here with that. Anybody care to guess how I did it?”

He blinked at the group.

The group blinked back.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it—for him, as well as us. I raised my hand as I called out: “Because you’re our new principal and we trusted that you were not a homicidal maniac?”

Duncan nodded at me. “That’s exactly my point: never trust anyone.” He surveyed us all then, nice and slow, and he said it again. “Never. Trust. Anyone.” Like it was going to be our new school motto.

Alice looked over at me, like You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.

And all I could do was give her the same look back.

What was going on? Was Duncan doing good cop/bad cop—but without the good cop?

“The security at this school,” Duncan went on, “is appalling.” Then he started ticking problems off on his fingers. “Nobody looked. Nobody checked. The gate to the courtyard was standing wide open. Nobody asked me who I was or required that I get a security badge. The security guard was fast asleep in a folding chair with a fishing magazine over his belly.”

Alice and I shared a glance—and a head shake. Raymond.

Duncan kept going. “I’ve just completed an assessment of your security practices. Do you know that the school’s emergency plan has not been updated in seven years? Did you know that half of the posted emergency instructions in the classrooms are missing or obscured? Did you know that a third of the surveillance cameras are nonoperational?” He held up a yellow notepad. “I could go on for hours. For a school of this caliber to care so little about its students’ safety is a disgrace. This school is a national embarrassment. It’s a nightmare.”

I looked around at our sunny cafeteria. Its tall, bright windows. Its cheerful yellow checkerboard floor. The kid-painted paper lanterns strung from the ceiling. The bulletin boards already papered in orange and red and yellow, just waiting for some kindergarten self-portraits to fill them. Not to mention the wall mural of giant butterflies that Babette and I had lovingly painted a few years back—colorful and whimsical and joyful.

I wouldn’t exactly call it a nightmare.

“What I don’t understand,” Duncan went on, “is how things could be this bad? What current-day school doesn’t lock its gates during the school day? Or require that visitors show ID? Or have security guards that are conscious?”

We assumed these were rhetorical questions, but then he waited for an answer.

Finally, Carlos shrugged and said, “Because we’ve never had a problem before?”

Duncan nodded and pointed at him. “Exactly.” Then he addressed the room. “No one ever has a problem—until there’s a problem. The state of things at this facility is, frankly, an insult. An insult to you, and to me, and to the children who come here every day. You’re begging to be attacked.”

I wouldn’t say begging.

Did Duncan have a point? Probably.

Were security practices a little too lax at our breezy island school? Maybe.

But was he alienating everybody in the room right now? You betcha.

What could he have been thinking? This was our very first meeting. Even people with terrible people skills didn’t have people skills this terrible. Why wasn’t he charming everybody and being awesome? There was no way he didn’t know what we’d all just been through with Max. What exactly about scaring the hell out of everybody with a fake gun and then calling our sweet, sunny school “a nightmare” seemed like a good idea?

From the looks on all the faces in the room, everybody was as lost as I was. We knew the new guy wouldn’t be Max—who could ever be?—but nobody had expected … this.

If nothing else, Duncan Carpenter had had people skills. He was—or at least had been—a genius with kids. And with grown-ups. And with animals, too, while we’re at it. Basically, if you were a living thing, Duncan knew what to say to you, and how to interact, and how to encourage you to be the best version of yourself.

Not anymore, apparently.

Max had taught us all to care desperately about the school. To be invested. To participate—actively and deeply. Nobody here was dialing it in. Most of us worked extra hours on a weekly basis. Most of us had found a dream job here—where our opinions were valued, and we were admired for whatever gifts we brought to the table, and we were encouraged to have a stake in what the place was and how it was run.

That was all Max. He’d set up a culture of admiration and support.

And he’d spoiled us all terribly.

This Twilight Zone version of Duncan didn’t see any of that. All he saw was what was wrong. Which was the absolute opposite of the Duncan I’d known—who had been the best person I’d ever met at seeing what was right.

Duncan stepped closer to the edge of the stage and stood up taller in some kind of He-Man power stance. “I want you to know that I understand Principal Kempner was pretty much the heart and soul of the school.”