Stand by Me

stand by me

Also by Neta Jackson

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series

The Yada Yada Prayer Group

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

The Yada Yada House of Hope Series

Where Do I Go?

Who Do I Talk To?

Who Do I Lean On?

Who Is My Shelter?

stand by me

Book 1

A SouledOut Sisters Novel

neta jackson

© 2012 by Neta Jackson

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail [email protected].

Scripture quotations are taken from the following:

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jackson, Neta.

   Stand by me : a SouledOut sisters novel / Neta Jackson.

      p. cm. -- (A SouledOut sisters novel ; bk. 1)

   ISBN 978-1-59554-864-1 (trade paper)

 1. Christian women--Fiction. 2. Chicago (Ill.)--Fiction. I. Title.

   PS3560.A2415S73 2012

   813’.54--dc23

2011048495

Printed in the United States of America

12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the Dumpster-divers

we know and love . . .

it’s been an education

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Reading Group Guide

About the Author

Prologue

Midwest Music Festival, Central Illinois

Kat Davies ducked into the billowing exhibition tent staked down in a large pasture in central Illinois like a grounded Goodyear blimp. She’d been at the Midwest Music Fest three days already—didn’t know it was a Christian festival until she got here—and needed a little respite from the music pulsing morning till night on the Jazz Stage, Gospel Stage, Alternative Stage, Rock Stage, Folk Stage, and a few more she’d forgotten.

Besides, she’d be heading back to Phoenix in two days, and sooner or later she needed to figure out how to tell her parents she’d given her heart to Jesus after the Resurrection Band concert last night. Maybe this tent had a quiet corner where she could think. Or pray. Not that she had a clue how to do that.

Kat had a good idea how they’d react. Her mother would flutter and say something like, Don’t take it too seriously, Kathryn, dear. Getting religion is just something everyone does for a year or two. And her father? If he didn’t blow his stack at what he’d call another one of your little distractions, he’d give her a lecture about keeping her priorities straight: Finish premed at the University of Arizona. Go to medical school. Do her internship at a prestigious hospital. Follow in the Davies tradition. Make her family tree of prominent physicians proud.

Except . . . she’d walked out of her biochemistry class at UA one day and realized she didn’t want to become a doctor. She’d tutored ESL kids the summer after high school and realized she liked working with kids. (Well, you can be a pediatrician like your uncle Bernard, darling, her mother had said.) And the student action group on the UA campus sponsoring workshops on Living Green and Sustainable Foods had really gotten her blood pumping. (Another one of her distractions, according to her father.)

Was it too late to pursue something else? Her parents were already bragging to friends and coworkers that their Kathryn had received her letter of acceptance into medical school a few months ago. Feeling squeezed till she couldn’t breathe, she’d jumped at the chance to attend a music fest in Illinois with a carload of other students—friends of friends—just to get away from the pressure for a while.

What she hadn’t expected was to find so many teenagers and twentysomethings excited about Jesus. Jesus! Not the go-to-church-at-Christmas-and-Easter Jesus, the only Jesus she’d known growing up as the daughter of a wealthy Phoenix physician and socialite mother. That Jesus, frankly, had a hard time competing with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

But these people talked about a Jesus who cared about poor people. A Jesus who created the world and told humans to take care of it. A Jesus who might not be blond and blue-eyed after all. A Jesus who said, Love your neighbor—and that neighbor might be black or brown or speak Spanish or Chinese. A Jesus who said, All have sinned, and You must be born again. The Son of God, who’d died to take away the sins of the world.

That Jesus.

That’s the Jesus she’d asked to be Lord of her life, even though she wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. But she desperately longed for something—Someone—to help her figure out who she was and what she should do with her life. The guitar player in the band who’d challenged the arm-waving music fans last night to be Christ-followers had said, Jesus came to give you life—life more abundantly! But first you must give your life to Him.

That’s what she wanted. Abundant life! A life sold out to something she could believe in. To give herself to one hundred percent. So she’d prayed the sinner’s prayer with a woman in a denim skirt whose name she never learned, and a peace like a river flooded her spirit.

Last night, anyway.

But by the light of day, she was still heading in a direction—medical school—that she didn’t want to go.

Big fans circulated the air in the large tent, though mostly it just moved the stifling July heat around. Thick, curly strands of her long, dark hair had slipped out of the clip on the back of her head and stuck in wet tendrils on her skin. Redoing the clip to get the damp hair off her neck and face, she wandered the aisles, idly picking up brochures about Compassion International, Habitat for Humanity, and YWAM. Huh. What if she just dropped out of premed and did something like this Youth With A Mission thing. Far from Phoenix and the Davies Family Tradition. Go to Haiti or India or—

Nice boots, giggled a female voice nearby.

Kat glanced up from the brochure. A cute brunette with a shaggy pixie cut grinned at her from behind a booth that said Find Your Calling at CCU! Kat self-consciously looked down at the Arizona-chic cowboy boots peeking out beneath her designer jeans and flushed. Ever since she’d arrived at the festival, she felt as if she’d walked into a time warp—girls in tank tops and peasant skirts, with pierced nostrils, guys wearing ponytails, tattoos, shredded jeans, and T-shirts proclaiming Jesus Freak. Kat had felt as conspicuous as a mink coat in a secondhand store.

Thanks. I think.

The young woman, dressed in khaki capris and a feminine lemon-yellow tee, laughed. This your first time to the Fest? Where’re you from?

Kat felt strangely relieved to be talking to someone else who didn’t look like a throwback to the seventies. Phoenix. First time.

Wow. You came a long way.

You?

Detroit. But during the year I’m a student at CCU in Chicago. I get a huge discount off my festival fee if I sit at this booth a couple hours a day during the Fest. The girl grinned again and extended her hand across the stacks of informational literature. I’m Brygitta Walczak.

Kat shook her hand. Kathryn Davies. But my friends call me Kat. With a K.

Like ‘kitty kat’? That’s cute. And . . . blue eyes with all that dark, curly hair? Bet the guys love that.

Ignoring the remark, Kat glanced up at the banner above the booth. What does CCU stand for?

Chicago Crista University. Usually we just call it Crista U. Located on the west side of Chicago. I’ll be a senior next year. Christian ed major.

Christian ed? What’s that?

You’re kidding. Brygitta eyed her curiously. "Mm. You’re not kidding. Uh, are you a Christian?"

Kat allowed a wry smile. For about twelve hours.

The pixie-haired girl’s mouth dropped open, and then her amber eyes lit up. That is so cool! Hey . . . want a Coke or something? I’ve got a cooler back here with some soft drinks. Wanna sit? I’d love some company.

Brygitta dragged a folding chair from an unmanned booth nearby, and Kat found herself swapping life stories with her new friend. Unlike Kat, who had no siblings, Brygitta came from a large Polish family, had been raised in the Catholic Church, went Protestant at a Youth for Christ rally in high school, planned to get a master’s degree at Crista U, and wanted to be a missionary overseas or a director of Christian education somewhere.

Sorry I’m late, Bree, said a male voice. "Uh-oh. Two gorgeous females. You’ve cloned yourself. I’m really in trouble now."

Kat looked up. A young man about their same age grinned at them across the booth. He was maybe six feet, with short, sandy-brown hair combed forward over a nicely tanned face, wire-rim sunglasses shading his eyes. No obvious tattoos or body piercings. Just cargo shorts and a T-shirt that said CCU Soccer.

Brygitta jumped up. Oh, hi, Nick. This is Kat Davies. She’s from the University of Arizona, first time at the Fest. Nick Taylor is my relief. He’s a seminary student at Crista—well, headed that way, anyway.

Nick slid off his shades and flashed a smile, hazel eyes teasing. So, Miss Blue Eyes. Has Brygitta talked you into coming to CCU yet?

Kat laughed and started to shake her head . . . and then stopped as her eyes caught the logo on the banner across the booth. Find Your Calling at CCU!

Transfer to Crista University?

Why not?

Chapter 1

Chicago, three years later

The earrings. A slight panic rose in her chest as Avis searched the jewelry box a second time. Where were the ruby earrings Peter had given to her as a wedding present? They went perfectly with the wine-colored moiré silk dress lying on the bed, and she’d already told Peter she was going to wear them.

Avis Douglass sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Think, Avis, think. They couldn’t be lost! She’d only worn them a few times since their wedding six years ago. The deep red brought out a rosy glow in her dark chocolate skin. But . . . ruby earrings weren’t exactly de rigueur for an elementary school principal in her fifties. She’d had a few kids at Bethune Elementary—just a few, but still—who wouldn’t have thought twice about ripping them out of her ears.

Besides, she liked to save them for special occasions. Like this weekend.

Their sixth anniversary.

A smile tickled her lips, and Avis sank into the upholstered rocker beside the queen bed, forgetting the earring hunt for a moment. Six years. Amazing. Second marriage for her. First for Peter. Old college friend of Conrad’s who’d never married. Looked her up after Conrad died of pancreatic cancer, and one thing led to another . . .

She closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the rocker, careful not to disturb the twists piled on top of her head after her visit to Adele’s Hair and Nails that morning. Peter would be home soon—he often put in five or six hours at the office, even on Saturday—but she still had time to get dressed. The tiny smile broadened. Her man had turned out to be a class-A husband—well, mostly—in spite of baching it for several decades. She was proud of the way he’d built Software Symphony from a grassroots startup to the thriving business it was today, in spite of the obstacles he’d had to climb over as an African-American male. He treated his employees well—black and white—giving them opportunity to advance, even get more training if needed. He took his involvement seriously as a board member of Manna House, and under his guidance the women’s shelter had operated in the black for the past few years.

But those things made him a good man. What made Peter a good husband was not only that he was crazy about her—she wanted to giggle like a girl every time he called her my queen—but his unflappable steadiness. A man she could count on. His thoughtfulness about little things and helpfulness around the house went a long way too. Avis chuckled. At least he’d learned to fold his own laundry and do the dishes while he was baching all those years!

In fact, the only time they’d ever had a serious disagreement was over the girls.

Her girls. He didn’t have any kids.

Not that they’d had any problems with Charette, her oldest, who was married and living in Ohio. Or Natasha, the youngest, still single, working in D.C. as an advocate with the Center for Law and Social Policy. No, their only tension had been all the drama her middle daughter, Rochelle, dumped into their laps. Like last Valentine’s Day . . .

Can’t believe it’s almost one o’clock! Avis giggled as Peter unlocked the front door and they slipped into the darkness of their third-floor condo. Makes me feel like a teenager tiptoeing home after curfew.

Peter took her warm winter coat and threw it over the back of a chair. Except now I get to spend the night. He chuckled. Come here, beautiful. He pulled her close, and she felt his warm lips pressing gently on hers.

She wove her arms around his neck, breathing in the faint, cool smell of his aftershave. The evening still glowed in his eyes. He’d brought her a dozen red roses and then taken her to dinner and dancing in Uptown. On the way home they’d stopped at a vantage point where they could see the lake, shimmering in the clear February night. Moonlight had tickled the water out beyond the icy buildup along the Lake Michigan shoreline.

Breathtaking, even in winter. But thank God for the car heater! The outside temperature hovered around zero.

Avis wiggled out of his embrace and headed for the bedroom. Using the matches she kept in her bedside table drawer, she lit several candles around the room—but when she turned around, she burst out laughing. Peter was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, one of the long-stemmed red roses held between his teeth.

You’re nuts, you know that. Still laughing, she slid the ruby earrings out of her ears and turned her back to him. Here, help me with this dress. The red silk dress was one of his favorites. But instead of unzipping the dress, he slid his arms around her again from the back and nuzzled her neck.

Blaaaaaatt!!

The loud door buzzer in the other room made them both jump. Avis gasped. Who could that be at this hour! She started for the intercom beside the front door.

Peter spit a sharp retort under his breath and then called after her, Whoever it is, tell them to butt out and come back tomorrow.

The buzzer rang again, loud and insistent. Somebody had a lot of nerve—at one o’clock in the morning! Avis pressed the Talk button. Who is it?

Mom? Mom, it’s me! And Conny! Please, let us come up!

Rochelle! Avis pressed the button that released the door down in the lobby, her heart suddenly beating faster. What was Rochelle doing out this late at night? With six-year-old Conny at that! The girl must’ve lost her mind!

Don’t tell me . . . Peter’s voice behind her was flat. More than flat. Annoyed.

Avis opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and peered over the banister. She could hear Rochelle’s and Conny’s footsteps thumping up the carpeted stairs of the three-flat, and then their heads appeared as they trudged up the last flight. Conny, bundled in a hooded parka, dragged behind his mother, pulled by her grip around his wrist.

Rochelle! What in the world—?! Conny, come here, baby. Avis bent down and wrapped her arms around her grandson. It’s all right, sweetie, Grammy’s here. She slid the hood of the parka back and kissed the top of his loose, curly hair.

Rochelle brushed past her into their front room. Avis followed with Conny and shut the door.

Peter had turned the living room light on and stood facing them, arms crossed, frowning. There better be a good explanation for this, Rochelle. Do you have any idea what time it is?

Rochelle ignored him and turned to her mother. I’m sorry, Mom. I—I lost my apartment and . . . and just didn’t know where else to go. I came by earlier, but you weren’t here. Where were you guys? You never stay out this late!

Avis saw Peter shake his head in disgust. We were out, Rochelle, she said evenly. You should have called. We had our cell. Taking off Conny’s coat, she helped the little boy lie down on the black leather couch. What do you mean, you lost your apartment?

Rochelle flopped down in the matching leather armchair. "I told you a couple weeks ago I lost my job. I’ve been looking, honest I have, but it’s a zoo out there! Everybody’s cutting back, letting people go, not hiring. She hunched forward, elbows on her knees, her thick black hair full and wavy around the honey brown skin of her face, not quite looking at her mother. We just need a place to stay until I figure out what to do. Or . . . or if I could borrow some money for the rent, I’m sure I could get my apartment ba—"

No. Peter’s sharp retort left Rochelle’s mouth open.

Avis winced. Oh, Peter, let her finish. This wasn’t just about Rochelle, but Conny too.

Rochelle jumped up, eyes flashing. I’m not talking to you, Peter Douglass! I’m talking to my mother. She turned to Avis. "Mom, please. I need some money for my meds. I’ll pay you back as soon as I—"

I said no! Peter took three strides and stood between Rochelle and Avis. This begging has got to stop, Rochelle. This is your third apartment. We gave you money for first and last month’s rent. And you have a Medicaid card for the meds. We can’t keep bailing you out.

Peter— Avis started.

I lost the bloody card! Rochelle’s voice rose. "Or someone stole it . . . I don’t know. But it takes weeks to get another one, and I need the meds now. You know that. Again she turned imploring eyes on her mother. At least let us stay here till I find another apartment."

Avis cast a pleading look in Peter’s direction. Rochelle did need her antiretroviral drugs—three times a day—to treat the HIV she’d contracted from her philandering husband. Ex-husband now. Dexter not only had played around but had become abusive. Avis shuddered. The past five years had been a series of crises getting Rochelle and Conny out of that mess, into a shelter, into a treatment program, finding an apartment, then a series of jobs that never seemed to work out . . . and now this.

Peter just stood there, arms crossed, shaking his head. It’s not going to happen, Rochelle.

With a screech the girl darted around her stepfather and ran toward the hall. Avis thought she was running for the bathroom and started to follow, but Rochelle ran past the bathroom, into the master bedroom, and slammed the door. Hurrying down the hall after her, Avis heard the lock turn.

Rochelle. Rochelle, open the door.

I’m not leaving! she yelled. I don’t have any place to go! Loud sobs erupted behind the locked door.

Avis could feel Peter’s presence behind her. Turning, she put a hand on his chest and pushed him firmly back down the hall and into the front room, out of earshot. Peter. It’s one o’clock in the morning! We can’t turn them out now. Think of Conny. Think of Rochelle too. No way did she want her daughter—still young, vulnerable, not well—out on Chicago streets at this time of night.

And let her think her tantrum is working? No way.

Avis was firm. Peter. Let them stay the night. Just for the night. We can talk about what to do in the morning.

Her husband threw up his hands. "All right. All right. Just for the night. But we take them to Manna House in the morning. They know her situation. They know better than we do what resources are available. Peter’s shoulders slumped slightly, as if giving up. Maybe they have room at the House of Hope. That’s more long-term than the shelter, and she can keep Conny with her. Why don’t you call Gabby Fairbanks in the morning?"

Avis nodded, relieved. Good idea. At least get her on the waiting list. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful to Peter for backing off or angry at him for being such a stubborn lump. Still angry, she decided, and headed back down the hall.

Rochelle? She knocked softly. Please open the door. You and Conny can stay the night. I’ll make up the studio couch in Peter’s office. But it’s late. We all need to get to bed. She knocked again. Rochelle?

She waited. After a few long moments the lock turned and the door opened. Rochelle, red-eyed and tight-lipped, nodded but slipped past her mother and into the bathroom. Avis heard the water running in the sink . . .

Avis sighed, staring at her newly manicured nails. She’d called Gabby Fairbanks at the House of Hope the next morning—Manna House’s second-stage housing for homeless moms with children—but all Gabby could do was put them on the waiting list. And we’ve got two other moms ahead of her, Gabby had said. So sorry, Avis. It might be several months.

They’d offered to keep Conny for a few days, but Rochelle wouldn’t hear of it. It’s both of us or neither, she’d huffed. So they’d taken them to Manna House. But when Avis called the shelter the next day, they said she’d checked out.

Disappeared was more like it. They didn’t hear from her for days. Days that turned into weeks. And when Avis tried to call her cell, all she got was This phone is no longer in service.

Guess she had someplace to go after all, Peter had pointed out. We can’t be jerked around by her tantrums, Avis. She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.

Avis sighed again. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about her daughter and grandson. Conny especially. Rochelle’s little boy had started kindergarten this year. Avis wished she’d helped them find an apartment here in Rogers Park so he could attend Bethune Elementary where Grammy Avis could keep a watchful eye on him. But no, Rochelle had found an apartment on the South Side and enrolled him down there. But if she’d lost that apartment . . . was she taking him to school every day?

And Rochelle used to bring him for a sleepover a couple times a month. Sweet times. But . . . they hadn’t heard from Rochelle for over two months now, not since that Valentine’s Day fiasco—

Avis’s eyes flew open with a start. That was the last time she’d worn the ruby earrings. Oh no. No, no, no. Rochelle wouldn’t have . . . would she? But her wild-eyed daughter had been in this very room that night, right after she’d taken off the expensive earrings.

Snatching up the jewelry box, Avis dumped the contents out on the bed, pawing through them desperately. She had to find those earrings! Surely she’d just misplaced them. She even dumped out her top dresser drawer, thinking they might have dropped in there by mistake.

No ruby earrings.

She heard the front door open. Avis? I’m home!

Avis quickly threw her lingerie back in the drawer and slid it into the dresser just as the bedroom door opened and Peter poked his head in.

Hey, beautiful. I picked up the mail. Got something with a South African postmark. He dangled the envelope just out of her reach for two seconds before handing it to her. Hey, you gonna wear that red dress again? Nice. Do I have time for a shower?

Without waiting for an answer, her husband disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Avis glanced at the return address on the envelope. Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durbin, SA. It’d been awhile since she’d heard from Nony! But no time to read it now. Stuffing the envelope in her purse, she snatched the dress off the bed and hung it back in the closet. She couldn’t wear the red dress, not without the ruby earrings. She needed more time to look for them. Surveying her options, she finally pulled out a black satin crepe two-piece pantsuit with flared legs and flat-tering cowl neckline. She’d add a royal blue pashmina scarf and blue onyx earrings and tell Peter to wear his black suit and blue tie.

But as Avis slipped the silky top over her head, a sense of dread sank into her belly, and she had to sit down on the bed, hands covering her face. How could she suspect her own daughter?! But if Rochelle had taken the ruby earrings and pawned them, it might explain why she’d been avoiding them lately.

Avis shuddered. She should have tried harder to contact Rochelle. Maybe it wasn’t a tantrum but guilt that kept her away. Tomorrow . . . she’d leave another message on Rochelle’s cell, ask to meet her someplace so they could talk, use wanting to see Conny as an excuse to find out how they were doing, what was going on. Surely Rochelle knew it was important for Conny to have regular contact with his grandparents.

As for tonight, if Peter asked why she wasn’t wearing the rubies, she’d just have to tell him she’d misplaced them somehow. Which could very well be true . . . right, Lord? No way could she let Peter guess her suspicions, or this could turn out to be the worst anniversary ever.

Chapter 2

Peter had said he wanted to do something special for their anniversary—and a dinner reservation at the top of the John Hancock Building was definitely a delightful surprise. The maître d’ led them to a table right by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the Hancock’s Signature Room with a panoramic view of Chicago’s skyline. April’s drizzle had spilled over to the first Saturday of May, but as dusk settled over the city, the clouds began to retreat and a scrap of moon peeked through. The lights sparking through the mist from every stately building along Lake Michigan looked like a field of diamonds.

Avis gave up her coat at the coat check but was glad for the blue pashmina that could double as a shawl, as the air in the restaurant was a bit too cool for her taste. Peter had seemed surprised when he got out of the shower and saw the change of outfits, but she’d hurriedly confessed she couldn’t find the ruby earrings, had probably put them in a safe place—so safe she couldn’t remember where—and assured him they’d turn up when she had more time to look. He’d given her a puzzled look but said nothing more about it.

She’d wrapped herself in her own thoughts as Peter drove south on the Outer Drive, Lake Michigan on their left, deepening into twilight’s indigo blue. On their right, stately high-rises sailed past, lighted windows winking cheerily, but she barely noticed. Oh Jesus, where are Rochelle and Conny tonight? Are they safe? Warm? Please, Lord, watch over them. She’d fingered the cell phone in her coat pocket, tempted to try Rochelle’s number right then, not wait till tomorrow.

You okay, honey? Peter had asked, concern in his voice. You’re not coming down with another cold from all those peewee germ-carriers at school, are you?

She’d given him a reassuring smile. I’m fine. Just tired is all. It was a busy week. Busy wasn’t the word. More like Crisis City. Three teachers were out because of the flu. The school had gone into a temporary lockdown on Thursday because a fifth grader had brought a realistic-looking water gun to school in his backpack. Then an order for supplies had been delivered by mistake to a school in Georgia, leaving the Bethune