“You’re right,” I say, moving away from the podium. “I think that’s what’s great about this play. It shows that even though almost every aspect of day-to-day life has changed, our behaviors are constant.”
I close my book, a silent permission for my students to do the same. They get up from their seats and start walking to the back bookshelf. This is the loudest they’ve been all morning, as some students start talking and laughing with one another.
“Girls were clearly as desperate for attention then as they are now,” I hear someone say, but I’m not sure who said it. Most of the class is up and out of their seats. The clarity and volume of their conversations wave like a staticky radio station. I look at Zoey’s desk. She’s still seated, staring straight ahead. Staring at me.
“Did you say something, Zoey?”
“I just said…” She stops, looks down and shakes her head. “Nothing. I said nothing.”
She stands and walks to the back of the room. Did I hear her correctly? Was she actually taking today’s text and connecting it to what happened to Darcy? Desperate for attention? Like Darcy is making up this alleged attack?
I’m still standing at her desk when she returns from the bookshelf.
“You okay, Mrs. Mayfair?” Zoey asks, sliding past me to sit back in her chair.
“I, um,” I stumble, looking away. “Could you repeat what you said? Before I walked over here?”
“It was nothing,” Zoey says, securing a black strand of hair behind her ear. “Probably something really juvenile. I think I need to continue reading in order to get a better understanding.”
She smiles, and the bell rings. I stand still, waiting as Zoey and all my other students depart their daily dose of literature. I’m thinking about what Zoey said. Did I hear her correctly? If I did, it’s a remarkably insensitive comment to make after a student—a girl who only sits a few chairs away from her—was attacked. She’s pulling the wrong message from the text, just as she did with “A Rose for Emily” last week.
By the time second block begins, I’m back behind my desk. I hand down the same assignment, and the room fills again with silence as students read. I think about their stifled reactions today compared to Zoey’s callous one. I remember seeing her at the dance. She was talking with Darcy, and their exchange looked problematic. Still, why would she belittle Darcy’s situation now? Is this what other students thought, too? That Darcy was grasping for attention?
Zoey had been punished for carrying a knife last week. I know I can’t assume everyone who owns a pocketknife will turn out like Brian, but it’s awful coincidental another student was attacked days later. And now Zoey feels the need to minimize that situation. There’s much about Darcy’s attack that remains a mystery, but I wonder if Zoey understands more than she claims.
Nine
Now
By lunch, I receive an email announcing a meeting in Principal Bowles’ office after school. The email was only sent to four other employees, Marge and Pam included, so he must have made the decision to forgo addressing this weekend’s events with the entire staff.
My stomach has been in knots all day, partly because I know what happened, partly because there is still much I don’t know. As expected, memories of Brian arise making everything worse. I try to keep my memories dormant, locked away inside, unless I’m searching for cathartic release with my therapist. But various triggers unlock those memories, and what happened to Darcy is an obvious one.
I’ve spent more time than anyone should imagining what girls who’ve been attacked must go through. The fear they must feel. The hopelessness. I picture their faces, all those pretty girls Brian hurt. Those pretty girls I failed to protect. The only difference between Darcy and them is they never had the opportunity to explain what happened to them. People weren’t organizing staff meetings to strategize and help; they were conducting press conferences, offering up salacious details.
Principal Bowles’ office is spacious compared to a typical administrator’s workspace, but it feels small when six adults are cramped inside. There’s Bowles, Pam, Marge and myself. We’re also joined by Mr. Hathaway, the art teacher, and Mrs. Lakes, who teaches American history. I can tell by the looks on their faces they’re dreading what we’re about to hear but eager for an understanding of what happened. I’m not confident Bowles is going to give any useful information. He’s more about damage control.
Once we’ve all taken our seats, Bowles stands up from his desk and closes the door. “Knowing we have a small academic community, I’m sure you’ve all heard there was an incident this weekend concerning one of our students, Darcy Moore,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a heavy sigh. He returns to his seat and presses his hands together. “The Moores called me this morning. I don’t want to exaggerate the issue by addressing this matter schoolwide, but I wanted to speak with you four directly because you have Darcy this semester. Pam is here to help mediate.”
Pam nods. She’s partially seated on a table in the room and her arms are crossed. Her face looks tired. We rarely have dangerous incidents at Victory Hills. In fact, I can’t think of one other tragedy, other than my second year when a student’s house caught fire and he lost all his belongings. The entire school banded together collecting donations; I hope administration will come up with the right response for Darcy, too.
“Can you tell us what happened?” asks Mrs. Lakes. She’s sitting across from Principal Bowles, her long blonde braid falling over the back of the chair.
“I want to be very careful about how we address this issue,” Bowles says, raising one hand. “What we know is this: none of us were with Darcy after Spring Fling. All events took place off campus. Officers responded to her house for a noise complaint.
