“I’m not on Twitter,” I say.
Coleman stirs. “Ethan—”
“This isn’t mine,” I say.
Byron says, “The faculty handbook says teachers will not friend or engage with students on social media.”
“I’m not even on social media,” I say. “I mean, I have a Facebook account, but I don’t go on it hardly at all.”
Teri says, “You’ve got students responding here, Ethan.”
I look at the Twitter page and see that the post has comments.
LOL Mr Faulkner crazy assignment from scubadood, which is apparently Mark Mitchell’s Twitter handle.
You know it, EthanF8 responds.
Is this real? asks ChristyNewmanCheer.
TMI, writes Solomon_Sarah.
EthanF8 replies: Life’s hard, girls—get a helmet.
“Marisa,” I say.
“What?” Coleman says.
“Marisa Devereaux,” I say. I look at Teri. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We dated, and then I broke it off, and she reacted … badly. And now she’s doing this.”
“You’re saying Marisa did this?” Teri says. “That’s a serious charge, Ethan.”
Well, it’s a good fucking thing we have a lawyer here, I want to say, but I manage not to. “I didn’t write any of these,” I say. “Even if I had a Twitter account, I wouldn’t post this. And even if I did, I sure wouldn’t tag Archer in it. Come on, Teri. This … this isn’t me. You know me.”
Teri presses her lips together and pulls open a desk drawer, removing a file folder and putting it on her desk. She flips open the file folder, and inside is my grade book. My name is neatly printed on the cover.
“Where’d you find that?” I ask. “I was looking for it in my office on Friday.”
“Someone turned it in to us,” Teri says.
“Was it Marisa?” I ask. “Did she take—”
“It was a custodian, Ethan,” Teri says. “He found it on the floor near the senior commons.”
I sit back. “Oh,” I say. That’s not good. While this is just a hard copy of the grades I post into our website, it’s still bad that it was found where students could have seen it and potentially read all of my students’ grades. “I don’t know how it got in the senior commons, but if I … dropped it there or left it, I’ll take full responsibility.”
Teri gives me a look I can’t read, then flips open the grade book. Inside, between two pages, is a photograph. I bend my head to look more closely. It’s a picture of a woman, naked from the waist up. I recoil. “What the hell?” I say.
“That was my reaction as well,” Byron says.
I stare at the picture. Whoever the woman is, the picture shows her torso, from midthigh up to her neck—there’s no head, so no face. It’s not Marisa; that I know. It looks like it might be a selfie, given the angle—a digital photo printed on regular computer paper. “You … found this inside my grade book?” I say.
“Yes,” Teri says.
“I didn’t take that picture,” I say. “I’ve never seen it. And I sure as hell did not put it in my grade book.”
Teri looks at me steadily. I gaze back. It’s not me, I think.
“I believe you,” Teri says.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Byron makes a displeased sound.
“I believe you,” Teri says again, but now she glances at Byron before looking back at me. “But I’m afraid that’s not enough.”
“Not enough for what?” I ask.
“Ethan,” Byron says, “the school needs to conduct an investigation into this. I’m putting you on leave, with pay, effective immediately. If we determine you had nothing to do with any of this, you will be welcome back with open arms. But in light of this troubling evidence, I’m afraid I have no choice but to ask you to stay off campus until such time as we determine you can return.”
I GET INTO my car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. I’ve been suspended from my job. A job that I love and am good at. Because of Marisa. I slam my fist down on top of my dashboard, then swing my arm and whack the passenger seat, causing my car to rock slightly. I start flailing, kicking the floor, nearly breaking off my rearview mirror. For a few seconds, I must look like I’m engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the interior of my Corolla. When I punch the steering wheel and the horn gives off an alarmed bleat, I’m startled enough to stop, my breathing ragged and heavy.
My phone rings. It’s my home number—Susannah.
“Do you need me to come rescue you?” she says.
“Meeting’s over,” I say. “Marisa fucked me.”
She pauses for only a second. “Well,” she says, “technically that’s true—”
Rage floods me, a white-hot neon light. “Shut up, Susannah,” I say. “She fucked me. She stole my grade book and put a picture of a naked girl in it and dropped it where someone would find it. She opened a goddamned fake Twitter account in my name and posted crazy shit. The school’s put me on leave, Susannah. I’m going to lose my fucking job because of her.”
I hang up and throw the phone at the passenger seat, where it bounces off and hits the dash before dropping to the floor. I want to sob, I want to scream, I want to lie down and go to sleep and wake up to find this was all just a nightmare that’s now over. Instead I close my eyes and will my heart rate and my breathing to slow down, and once they do I start the car and drive away.
AT HOME, I find that Susannah is gone. No note on the TV this time, or anywhere else. Her duffel bag is still here, so there’s that. She’s gone to ground to hide, which she always does in times of crisis. Wilson does a happy dance around my feet, and I take him outside to poop and pee,
