“No, all it means is that she preyed on that poor kid and he became infatuated with her. That’s not a healthy relationship.”
She was probably right about that not being the best example. I tried another tack.
“Okay, fine. But don’t people talk about age being only a number, and don’t people sometimes fall in love with someone you’d never expect? And maybe it isn’t all happily ever after but it’s still real? They still care about each other?”
She stared at me, her eyes searching my face. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she said slowly.
“Tell you? No.”
“Because if there’s a teacher at school, or maybe a friend of the family, who is pressuring you—”
It clicked. “Oh God, no. No.” For some reason, my mind went not to Mr. Matthews, but to a visual of Mr. Richards using his potbelly to trap me against the circular saw.
“Are you sure? Because you won’t be in trouble, but if there is, then it’s very important that we talk about—”
“No.”
“There isn’t?” A sliver of hope entered her voice.
“No,” I repeated firmly. “I promise.”
“Oh, thank God.” She leaned against the sink. “Because age really isn’t just a number, Jess. Remember that, and never trust someone who says otherwise. Okay?”
I nodded, because I really wanted us to get off the subject already. Bringing it up had been a huge mistake.
“Okay,” she said. Then she glanced down at her hand. “Oh, I really should put a Band-Aid on that.”
“I’ll get you one,” I said, happy to have an excuse to get away.
As I went through the bathroom cupboard, I wondered why I’d said it. And I kept coming back to how I wasn’t so clear anymore about how I felt about the idea of Mr. Matthews and Anna. Initially, I’d thought if they’d been together, that made him a creep, a predator. Yet watching him in his house had made it more difficult for me to think of him that way. I wondered if it was possible there’d been something good between them. In a way, I hoped there had been, because there would be no do-over for her, no second chance to find someone who’d get it right.
Still, maybe it was delusional to think they could’ve had anything good together, naïve to feel differently toward him because I’d seen him cry and talk to his cat. I wasn’t sure.
I missed being sure.
POLICE OFFICERS TALKING ABOUT DARE had been a mainstay of school assemblies since middle school. Once a year, a well-scrubbed officer wearing a starched uniform would come out and give us all a speech about the perils of drugs and drinking—how taking one sip of alcohol before legal drinking age, or one hit/shot/dose of any drug ever, would lead to a rapid decline into addiction, homelessness, and (for girls) pregnancy.
I wasn’t really in the mood for this annual round of cautionary tales, but it wasn’t like there was anyone to appeal to, so after the announcement was made for everyone to assemble in the gym, I trudged along.
When I got there, Sarah waved me over, forcing the guy who’d just sat down next to her to move.
“Hey, did I mention that I passed my driving test?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Several times now.”
“Wow, you really know how to make a person feel good about their achievements,” she said. Then she frowned. “You doing okay?”
I followed her gaze and found that I was cradling my left arm.
“I smacked it on the doorframe coming in,” I told her. “I broke it once, so it’s just a little sensitive.”
“You broke it fighting crime, I presume?”
“Rope swing accident. I misjudged when to jump.”
“I prefer my explanation.” She nodded toward the microphone set up on the floor of the gym. “So, what do you think it will be this time? One of those ‘Hey, I was young once too and thought I had to drink and take drugs to be cool’ guys, or one of the tough-love ‘Let’s look at pictures of baby-faced kids and the flaming car wrecks they died in’ guys?”
“Hard to say.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I’m hoping for one without all the gruesome photos. Actually, scratch that, what I’m really hoping for is a reenactment of the time when one of the debate kids started cross-examining the guy about how bad was marijuana anyway given how a bunch of states have legalized it already.”
I smiled. “I remember that. The guy got all red in the face.”
Sarah dropped her voice. “Look, kid, it’s illegal here, right? I don’t make the laws and I’m not here to get into arguments about it. Just don’t do it.”
“Critical thinking at its finest.”
“Yep. They should just focus on meth. I mean, with meth, it’s got to be easier. One look at a photo of a meth addict, with their creepy hollow faces and their messed-up teeth, and I’m pretty much convinced to never touch the stuff.”
The principal walked up to the podium and smoothed her hair behind her ear, looking calmly out at the crowd of disgruntled and fidgeting students. The drone of conversations dimmed, and then she cleared her throat and the room became silent.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said. “Let’s give a warm welcome to Officer Myra Heron from the Birdton Police Department.”
What followed was a mixture of perfunctory applause and ironic slow clapping.
Officer Heron walked up to the front and exchanged a quick handshake with the principal. I hadn’t recognized the name, but there was something familiar about her broad face, her steady forward gaze.
When she reached the podium, she spread her hands out, held the corners, and surveyed the room. It was then I placed her. She was the policewoman who’d offered me hot chocolate at the hospital. Details from that day rushed back to me, and I had to lean forward, suddenly dizzy. I pinched my arm
