Another teacher, Coach Gabe, starts walking from the other end of the hallway.
“Adam?” he asks. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he answers. He is the definition of not fine. And Darcy is the definition of enraged.
“Get back to class,” Coach Gabe says. “Both of you.”
Adam turns and slinks down the hall, but Darcy releases another cry. Coach Gabe’s usually calm demeanor is useless when confronted by Darcy’s raw emotion. He looks at me, his wide eyes asking for help.
“Darcy,” I start quietly. “Where are you supposed to be right now?”
“M-Mrs. Lakes,” she blubbers, trying without success to catch her breath.
“Why don’t you come in here for a few minutes,” I suggest, walking toward her. “You should calm down before returning to class.”
Coach Gabe nods, silently supporting my suggestion. Sending a student back to a class this upset would only worsen the situation. “I’ll let Mrs. Lakes know where you are,” he says, nodding at us both.
Darcy walks inside my classroom. I follow her and shut the door.
She sits on the front row and slings her purse on the ground. She immediately leans forward, placing her head on the tabletop, and sobs. I say nothing, allowing her to cry or curse or whatever she feels she needs to do to purge the gnawing feeling inside. I don’t understand her pain, but I know she has it. I’ve seen other people display it before.
After what feels like several minutes, her breathing stabilizes, and she lifts her head.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayfair,” she says, and her face sours into another frown. “I shouldn’t have been yelling like that.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, wanting desperately to push but knowing I can’t.
“It’s just—” she starts, still clinging to her own body. “Adam has been really possessive. He keeps pressing me about what happened that night.”
I roll closer to my desk and lean back, sinking into my own listening position. “The night of the dance?”
“I know people think Adam hurt me, but I didn’t believe he was capable. Yesterday, I found out Adam sent pictures of me from that night to half his contacts. Everything was finally going back to normal. Why would he do that unless he was the one who attacked me? It’s like he wants me to suffer.”
I remember Pam saying people were passing around pictures of Darcy. If she were drugged, there’s no telling what state she was in. Clearly not able to give consent. Adam wouldn’t want to further embarrass her. Even if he’s angry and hurt, I can’t imagine him being vindictive like that.
“Were the pictures taken from his phone?”
“No, but people had forwarded him pictures that night. He swears he didn’t send them out again.” She rolls her eyes and wipes her cheeks. “He said someone took his phone out of his locker during track practice. I want to believe him, but it just doesn’t make sense. Who would want to set him up like that?”
Zoey seems like the type. Being on the track team, she’d have easy access to the locker room. She’s been perpetuating the idea Adam attacked Darcy since the dance. She wants to make sure someone else takes the fall for her crimes.
“Take some time to think about it,” I say, hesitantly. I can’t tell her my real theory. “There might be some truth to what Adam says.”
“The other teachers don’t ask me directly, but they hint at that night all the time. It’s like they’re afraid of me because they don’t know what happened and they’re assuming the worst. You’ve never acted that way.” Darcy looks up, her eyes appearing empty and desperate. She wants to share her story. Perhaps she’s wanted to all along but hasn’t found the right person.
“You’ll talk when you’re ready,” I say. Unlike her other teachers, I do know what happened that night. Because I’ve read Zoey’s note.
“After the dance, Adam and I got into a fight at my house. Just the stupid stuff we always fight about. He left, and I ended up getting drunk. He keeps thinking whatever happened after he left was his fault. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten hurt if he’d stayed.” She bites her lip and looks down again. “Maybe he’s right.”
“You don’t remember much,” I say. “Right?”
She takes a deep breath. “I remember drinking. A lot. I remember hanging out with different people. And once I started to feel woozy, someone walked me outside.”
As she speaks, my mind remembers the words on the anonymous paper. How they detailed Darcy’s purple dress and her unstable balance. I remember another person who once trusted me with their story, and my regret I didn’t do enough to help. I feel my eyes water and clear my throat to gain composure.
“Do you know who was with you?” I ask.
“No,” she says, almost angrily. “My next full memory was at the hospital. Mom was making a big fuss about my leg.” She rolls her eyes, a teenager critical of her parent’s reaction even in such an unthinkable circumstance. “Within hours, everyone in town was talking about what happened. Everyone at school. I didn’t even get to come to terms with it. People were just making assumptions.”
Her fists clench, and I see her anger at being excluded from her own narrative.
“People talk, Darcy,” I say. “And it’s unfair.”
“But they don’t talk to me,” she shouts. “That’s the problem. They talk about me. They blame me. Like, maybe if I weren’t drunk, I’d be able to figure out what happened. Everybody at that party was drunk, but I was the only one who ended up getting hurt.”
“I do think Adam is genuinely worried about you.”
“I know. But I’m trying to move on. It’s like he won’t let me forget. He won’t stop searching for answers. Now he’s just mad because I’ll open up to Devon and Zoey over him.”
My throat closes in and I shut my eyes. “Zoey Peterson.”
“Yeah, she’s helped a lot. She’ll let me talk, but
