Tell on You Page 7

  “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Tell me about your school.”

  Heather hesitated. “It’s kind of hard. The classes, I mean. The school’s pretty expensive, my parents said.” She made a face. “It’s supposed to help us get into a good college. Harvard, or something.”

  Mrs. Wolfe regarded her. “Is that what you want?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  The social worker asked her some more strange, pointless questions. Becoming more bored than scared, Heather jerked back to full attention when Mrs. Wolfe asked: “When did you begin to feel uncomfortable with Mr. Barrett’s behavior toward you?”

  Heather took another sip of water. “Umm, around the time we started studying The Great Gatsby in class, I guess.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “A few weeks.” Heather thought for a moment. “Around the end of last month.”

  “What was it that made you uncomfortable?”

  What should she say? “Like I told the other lady yesterday, Mr. B kept looking at me when he was talking to the class.” He had, hadn’t he? Heather wrung her hands in her lap. Her palms felt sweaty.

  “When you say he looked at you, Heather, can you describe how? What was his expression?”

  “I dunno.” Heather reached for her water glass again. Empty. She spun the glass around on the table, wanting something to do with her clammy hands. “Like, I’d look up from the book, or my notes, and see him staring. Sometimes he’d be kind of smiling.”

  “Smiling at you?”

  Heather looked away. “Yeah.”

  The social worker paused. “And what did you do?”

  Heather shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

  “Did you smile back at him?”

  Her face felt warm. Had she? “No. I don’t remember.”

  “How did you feel when he did that?” Mrs. Wolfe sounded curious.

  “I don’t know. Weird.”

  “Weird, how, Heather?” The social worker looked at her intently, like she wanted to understand. People seldom looked at her that way.

  “Embarrassed, I guess.” No, more than that. She swallowed. “Kind of flattered.”

  “Flattered?” Mrs. Wolfe echoed.

  “I mean…” Heather slumped in her chair. “There’s lots of prettier girls in the class.” She winced in embarrassment. “You know?”

  “I understand how that is.” Mrs. Wolfe’s eyes softened. “So when Mr. Barrett looked at you, did it make you feel—special?”

  “Kinda.” That was true. No nice-looking guy had ever noticed her before. She’d been scared, but excited, too. And now it was all over. Everything was ruined. A wave of sadness washed over her.

  “What is it, Heather?” Mrs. Wolfe asked in a soft voice.

  Heather’s lip trembled. “I—I thought he liked me.”

  The investigator nodded slowly. “So you wrote that note to him? On your paper?”

  “Yeah.” Heather wiped her eyes. So much longing, such hope when she’d written those words. She’d never done something that brave before. Tears blurred her vision. “But I was wrong,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to the table. “I got it wrong.” She sensed the social worker’s eyes on her and looked up. The sympathy in the woman’s face made her tears flow even harder. “I’m sorry,” Heather murmured, covering her streaming eyes. “I’m really sorry.”

  Mrs. Wolfe’s chair rasped against the carpet. A moment later she returned and placed a box of tissues on the table in front of her.

  “Thanks.” Heather pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes, then took two more and blew her nose.

  “Heather?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” She wadded up the tissues in her hand.

  “Did Mr. Barrett ever touch you?”

  The social worker asked the question in a matter-of-fact way that made it somehow more powerful than all the drama from Heather’s mother. She couldn’t bear to meet the woman’s eyes. “No.” Enough lying. She sucked at it, anyway.

  “Did he ask you to touch him?”

  “No.” Heather took a breath. Finally enough air reached her lungs.

  “Did he ever ask you to meet him outside of class?”

  “No,” Heather admitted. “He never did any of that.” At least, maybe Nikki and the other girls wouldn’t be her enemies, now that she wasn’t getting Mr. B into trouble.

  “So you made up those things you told your mother about Mr. Barrett.”

  Her mother! Maybe the girls at school would spare her, but what would mom do? Heather lowered her eyes. “Am I going to be arrested?”

  “No, Heather. What you did was seriously wrong,” Mrs. Wolfe said. “I think you know that. The important thing is that you’re telling the truth now. You got Mr. Barrett into terrible trouble.”

  “I’m sorry! I really am.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Honest, I never did anything like that before. I know it was wrong.” She raised imploring eyes to Mrs. Wolfe. “I freaked out when my mom saw my paper. I—I told her all that stuff so she wouldn’t get mad at me.”

  “What does she do when she gets mad at you, Heather?”

  “Nothing, really.” Heather squirmed in her chair.

  “Does she punish you?”

  “You mean, like hit me or something?” Heather shook her head. “Oh, no, never. Neither of my parents does anything like that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Wolfe said. “Tell me, Heather, what’s your father like? I haven’t met him.”

  Heather shrugged. “Busy. He works really hard.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Wolfe said. “So, what does your mother do when she’s unhappy with you?”

  Heather’s hands rose to her temples. It hurt to think about the question. “If she’s really mad?” She lowered her hands, shading her eyes. “She—um—makes me write her a letter.”

  Mrs. Wolfe frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I have to write an apology—by hand, no email or anything—and say exactly what I did wrong.” Heather’s face flushed. “And how come I did it.” The rest of her words came out in a rush. “And if she doesn’t like what I wrote? I have to do it over again.” Shame burned her face. “She keeps all my letters in this binder.”

  The social worker remained silent. When Heather dared look up to meet her eyes, she saw sorrow in them. “I see,” Mrs. Wolfe said.

  Suddenly aware of all she’d revealed to the woman, Heather’s eyes widened in dismay. “Oh, god,” she exclaimed. “Are you going to tell my mom I said all that stuff?”

  “No, Heather.” Mrs. Wolfe smiled. “That won’t be necessary. What I will do is see about getting you some help.”

  NINETEEN

  THROUGH HER OPEN BEDROOM door, Heather heard her parents’ raised voices coming from the kitchen. Arguing about her.

  “They agreed to leave her in the class, but I actually think we should take her out of that school altogether!” Her mother’s voice, shrill as a dentist’s drill. “Those girls are a bad influence.”

  “What’s the evidence of that?” Her father, as usual, the logical one.

  “She’s never done this kind of thing before! Lying? Writing love notes to teachers?”

  Alone in her room, Heather burned with shame.

  “She was never sixteen before.”

  She smiled a little, in spite of her distress. Nice of dad to say that.

  “And I still don’t trust that English teacher, either.” Her mom’s voice grated, nails on a blackboard. “We should change schools.”

  “Out of the question.” Her father assumed his I’m-The-Breadwinner-Here tone. “She’s in the best private school in this area. You want to jeopardize her college applications?”

  “No, but—”

  “Listen to me. You think the Forrest School is going to refund her tuition under these circumstances? You know how hard I worked for that money? She stays there, period. End of discussion.”

  Silence for a few moments, then her mother’s voice. “We have to punish
her.”

  Heather’s spirits sank.

  “Have you done anything yet?” Her father sounded tired.

  “She’s writing him a letter of apology.”

  “Another one of your letters.” Getting annoyed, Heather thought. Probably hadn’t had his drink yet. “Please,” he said, “no major rewrites for a change.”

  Yay, Dad! He so rarely used his authority on her behalf.

  “Do you want to be the one to check it over?” Mom demanded.

  “Not really. But don’t get into a big thing with her about it, okay?”

  “Fine!” her mother snapped. “But no way is she getting a car for her birthday after this.”

  “All right,” her father said. “Whatever.”

  So much for his sticking up for her. She should have known.

  “And just so you know…” That was Mom, trying to get the last word. “You’re going to have to pay for her to see a therapist.”

  “The insurance will cover it.” A pause. “Does she really have to do that?”

  “The woman at Protective Services said they wouldn’t pursue charges if she does.”

  “All right. Find her a therapist, then.”

  “She said we should all go for family therapy, too.” Her mother said it like an accusation. Maybe Heather wasn’t the only one who wanted more of Dad’s attention.

  Her father sniffed. “Are you crazy? Someone around here needs to work for a living. You go, if you’re so keen on the idea.”

  Heather hoped that wouldn’t happen. Ice cubes clinked into a glass.

  “Maybe a shrink can help her make some friends,” her father said.

  I wish.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” he asked.

  Softly, so they wouldn’t hear, Heather closed her bedroom door. Pretzels scurried around his cage, eager for her attention. She opened the cage and removed him, snuggling the soft guinea pig to her chest.

  “You’re my friend, right?” she crooned. “Even if I don’t get a car.” She stroked the animal’s silken fur. “And you’ll forgive me for what I did to Mr. B, won’t you, Pretzels?”

  TWENTY

  FOUR DAYS INTO HIS suspension, Jeremy had taken to sleeping late, a consequence of restless nights and a way to kill off most of the morning. At first he’d put on a cheery façade, offering to whip up pancakes or omelets for brunch, until Melissa’s ashen-faced refusals made it clear he’d be on his own for such fare. Jeremy cleaned the kitchen after he cooked, hoping that Mel might follow his example and straighten up the living room, strewn with her discarded clothing. By tacit agreement, they’d steered clear of such charged topics as houses, suspensions and lawsuits.

  Without work to occupy him, images of Nikki suffused his mind. He’d been inspired to write a few lines about glaciers and fire, the first poetry Jeremy had written in ages. Today, with Melissa out grocery shopping, he opened the file in his laptop and reread the poem he’d been working on. Not half bad. He tinkered with it until Melissa’s key turned in the door.

  “Hon?” She opened the door, a brown bag filled with groceries cradled in one arm. “Can you get the other bags?”

  “Uh, sure.” Closing the file, Jeremy trotted downstairs and out into the cold, without a jacket. The Escape’s trunk stood open, and he reached in for the two remaining bags. Shivering, he closed the trunk with an elbow.

  His principal, Mr. Donnelly, stood on the sidewalk in front of him.

  Startled, Jeremy lost his grip on one of the bags, which slid to the ground. He regained his hold, but not before a loaf of bread and a package of toilet paper slipped out.

  Mr. Donnelly bent to pick them up. “Help you with that?” He reached for one of the bags.

  “Huh? Yeah, thanks.” What the hell was Donnelly doing on his doorstep? Jeremy handed him the bag, then relieved the principal of the bread and toilet paper, replacing them in the sack. “Uh—sir, what brings you here?”

  “We need to talk.” Donnelly angled his head toward the apartment building.

  Too cold to argue. “It’s upstairs,” Jeremy said.

  “Lead on!” The principal sounded jovial, like they were embarking on an adventure together.

  Jeremy led the way upstairs. “Mel?” he called out, opening the door. “We have company!” He hoped she still had her clothes on. She tended to shed them and walk around half naked. Jeremy reached for the groceries Donnelly held. “Please, have a seat while I take these into the kitchen.”

  The principal passed him the bag and glanced over at the living room. Jeremy flushed with embarrassment. Melissa’s clothing covered half the sofa and her sneakers lay in the middle of the floor. Magazines and dirty glasses littered the coffee table. She’d promised to clean up. Should he take the bags into the kitchen, or drop them and tidy up? Before he committed to either course, Melissa appeared from the kitchen—still clothed, thank god.

  “Jeremy?” She stared at their uninvited guest. “Oh. Hello.”

  Holding the groceries, Jeremy gestured introductions with a tilt of his head: “My wife, Melissa. My principal, Mr. Donnelly.”

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Barrett.” Donnelly shook Mel’s hand.

  “Here, Mel.” Jeremy passed her the bags. “Why don’t you put these away while we talk in here?”

  Hoisting the heavy bags, she asked: “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Donnelly? Some coffee, or water?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  As Melissa left the room, Jeremy scooped up her discarded clothing and dropped everything into a heap at the side of the sofa. He kicked her sneakers off to the side. No time to do anything about the coffee table.

  “Would you like to sit down?” he asked the principal. “Can I take your coat?”

  Donnelly held up a hand. “No need. I won’t stay long.” He lowered himself onto the sofa.

  Jeremy removed some books from a chair, put them on the floor, and sat, waiting for the principal to explain why he’d come.

  Mr. Donnelly leaned back, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Jeremy, I’ve had a call from the Protective Services people.”

  Jeremy caught his breath. God, what now?

  “I wanted to come and tell you face-to-face,” the principal continued. “Heather Lloyd has recanted her accusations against you. The investigation has been closed.”

  Jeremy sat, frozen, as if the news were a mirage that might vanish if he moved.

  “I’m sure DCPP will get in touch with you directly,” Mr. Donnelly went on. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, removed his glasses and began cleaning them as he spoke. “It’s quite sad, really. They wouldn’t go into much detail, but I gather Heather’s mother gave her some grief about that paper of hers and she made up a story to cover herself.” He studied his glasses. Apparently satisfied, he put them back on and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.

  “I see,” Jeremy said, humbled by his good fortune. The cosmos had answered his prayer.

  “Of course, the best thing about this is how quickly the whole matter’s been resolved,” Donnelly said. “By DCCP standards, at least.” He smiled. “Jeremy, we want you back on the job.”

  The royal we.

  “First thing tomorrow,” Donnelly continued. “Unless…” He held out an open palm, as if extending an offering. “Unless you’d like another day or so to get your bearings. But I think the best thing all around is to get everyone back to normal, soon as possible. Wouldn’t you agree, Jeremy?”

  “I—uh, sure.” Normal. He’d almost forgotten what that looked like.

  “After all,” Mr. Donnelly said, “The official line is that you’re on leave, which can mean whatever you want it to.”

  How magnanimous. “But I cleared my things out of my office,” Jeremy pointed out. “People probably noticed. And I was locked out of the computer system.” A note of resentment crept into his voice.

  “No worries,” the principal assured him. “I have a proposal. We’ll move you into a new office. A bigger o
ne! That will explain your things being removed. You can say you were sick, or had a death in the family, or… is something wrong?”

  Jeremy had been thinking of his father’s recent passing. “Uh, no sir.”

  “Good. Now, there’s a second part to my proposal,” Donnelly said. “It’s about Bob Jacobs.” One of the teachers in the lower school. “He broke an ankle skiing last weekend.”

  “Too bad.” Jeremy wondered what this had to do with him.

  “It’ll be a couple of weeks until he’s up and around,” Donnelly continued. “And I was hoping you would cover his English Comp class.”

  “The sixth graders?” Jeremy’s voice rose with surprise.

  “You taught that class when you first came to Forrest, right?” the principal reminded him.

  “Well, yeah, but it’s been a few years.” Little kids?

  “Bob’s got his lesson plans in place. It’ll be a breeze,” Donnelly assured him. “It’s the period right before your AP class, so you have it free.”

  So the big office came with a catch. The lower school classes were way over on the other side of the Forrest campus from the upper school. “Why not move Bob’s students into my classroom, since it’s empty that period?” he said.

  Donnelly looked as if Jeremy had suggested airlifting the sixth graders by helicopter. “That wouldn’t do. We want to keep them in familiar surroundings. Besides, the upper school girls wouldn’t like the little ones parading around in their territory, would they?”

  “I guess not.” Jeremy resigned himself to a cross-campus dash between classes.

  Donnelly gave him a light smack on the thigh. “Good, then. Settled.”

  “Sure,” Jeremy muttered. Quite the politician, his principal. “Is there—uh, will there be a salary increase along with the extra teaching load?”

  Donnelly’s eyes narrowed. “For teaching one course for a few weeks? No, your compensation stays the same.” He smiled. “But you keep the office.” The principal’s expression sobered. “Jeremy, we don’t want any further unpleasantness, right? It’s been a difficult few days for all of us. For the good of the school, we need to move on. Agreed?”

  Jeremy stared at the principal, torn. He doubted that Donnelly had lain awake worrying at three AM all week, as he had. But he’d dodged a bullet. Been spared the unthinkable. He’d get his life back. And a bigger office.