“If you must know,” she starts, darting her eyes at the door, “I’m trying to defend another classmate.”
I shake my head, not believing her story. “Defend another classmate how?”
“Darcy. Adam won’t leave her alone. He’s smothering her like some creep. The whole school knows he’s the one who hurt her.”
I’m not convinced Adam is the one smothering Darcy. For whatever reason, Zoey has taken Darcy under her wing. They’re becoming friends. Maybe she’s trying to protect herself from future suspicion, although that seems unlikely; I seem to be the only person who has concerns about Zoey. Perhaps she likes watching the aftermath up close. I know Brian did.
“Why are you getting involved with Adam and Darcy?” I ask, trying to keep on topic.
“I don’t know,” she says, uncrossing her arms. “I thought that’s what we were encouraged to do when we see bullying. If you see something, say something.”
As usual, Zoey is taking a positive concept and spinning it to fit her needs. Brian used to do the same thing. “Zoey, that’s not the complete meaning of that phrase. If you see something, yes, you should say something. But not to a student in the middle of a crowded cafeteria or by bumping someone in class. All that does is create a spectacle. If you think someone is being bothered, tell a teacher.”
“Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” She tilts her head to the side, and a strand of ebony hair falls by her nose. She grabs it, starts twirling. “The way he treats Darcy is bullshit.”
“Zoey—” I start but she interrupts.
“Sorry, Mrs. Mayfair. Sorry. I just think Darcy has been through enough, don’t you? It’s not in my nature to sit back and let someone hurt women.”
There it is again. That knowing tone. Like she’s trying to dig into my wounds and open them. She looks at me, studying my reaction as closely as I’m studying hers. She wants to rattle me by hinting at Brian, so I throw her off with a question of my own.
“Were you at the party?” I ask, locking my eyes with hers. I’ve been instructed to avoid the topic with students, but I can’t keep my professional mask on around Zoey. I think she’s lying. I think she’s playing me, and I’m going to play back.
Her pupils enlarge, and she sucks in a quick breath. She’s smart enough to know I shouldn’t have asked her the question, and yet I broke protocol anyway. “No,” she says. “And I don’t know why it would matter if I was.”
She crosses her arms again, trying, a little too hard, to appear at ease. I know I should let the incident go, tell Zoey to head to her next class. My second block students are standing in the hallway, waiting for me to open the door. But I can’t dismiss Zoey yet. I’ve had to bury my concerns for more than two weeks. I have Zoey alone, and I’m not going to waste the opportunity to figure out, for myself, what might have happened that night.
“The other day in the computer lab,” I start, whispering even though we are the only two in the room, “someone turned in an essay. Do you know anything about that?”
She shifts her weight. She looks confused, but I can’t tell if she is. “Mrs. Mayfair, I turned in my essay. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t type anything else that day?” I ask, taking a step closer to her. “You didn’t write anything about the party?”
Her eyes grow large and she steps back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, raising her hands. “I turned in my essay. The essay I wrote for your class. That’s it.”
“And you’re sure you weren’t at the party?” I finally have the chance to question her, and it’s making me high, feeling for once like I’m the one in control. Inside, I’m all flutters.
“I already told you. No!”
“I don’t know why you’re being so defensive, Zoey.”
“I’m not,” she says, brushing the hair off her shoulder. “I just don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions. It’s like you’re interrogating me.”
The word interrogating snaps me out of my trance, and I suddenly look at this situation in a different light. I’m a teacher questioning a student about a non-school incident without cause. It doesn’t matter if I think I’m in the right when it comes to Zoey, anyone else walking into this conversation would say I’m out of line. I clear my throat, taking the opportunity to back away. One… two… three.
When I speak again, my professional tone is back. “I was only asking about your involvement, given you are defending Darcy.”
“It’s not easy being new this late in the year,” Zoey says, looking at the floor. “Everyone already has friends and connections. I’m just trying to fit in, you know? Darcy seems like she needs a friend as much as I do.”
Zoey suddenly seems younger. Gone is the student who excels in every avenue. Now she looks as insecure and desperate as her fellow classmates. This is typical with teenagers. Under all the cool and tough is a thick layer of uncertainty.
“I understand you want to help. But if you think someone is being unfairly targeted, speak to Ms. Pam in guidance. Her job is to mend situations like this one.”
“All right,” she says, lifting her backpack off the floor. “Can I go to second block now?”
“Yes,” I say, walking to my desk. “Let me write you a note.”
She swings the bag over her shoulder and follows me to the desk. I hand her an orange Post-it with my signature. The paper sticks to her finger. She walks toward the door, then stops and turns.
“Mrs. Mayfair,” she starts, slowly. “Do you like
