“Your daughter is fine, Miss Hessington. I’m reaching out about a matter of… ah… disciplinary nature.”
Disciplinary? I must’ve heard wrong. In ten years of schooling, Tegan has never had a single detention. Has the dreaded teenage rebellion phase I thought I’d get to skip altogether arrived? Given how perfectly balanced and poised Tegan has grown up to be, I felt in the clear. But I shouldn’t have counted my chickens before they hatched.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The matter and its consequences would be better discussed in person, Miss Hessington. Could you come to pick up your daughter?”
I check my calendar for today. I have another appointment just after lunch, and I can’t make it to the Upper West Side and back in time. Thankfully, it’s not a hearing. I can reschedule and be at Tegan’s school in… “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I say to Mr. Wentworth.
“Very good, Miss Hessington. I’ll see you then.”
***
At Tegan’s school, the same institute I attended, the walk to reach the principal’s office puts me on edge, even if long gone are the days since I was a student here. Still, the halls of TAG High—short for “talented and gifted”—have remained eerily unchanged, with the same dark-red lockers and white tiled floors. The hall becomes darker as I approach Mr. Wentworth’s office. A deliberate choice probably set in place to intimidate wrongdoers—or the poor parents who’ve come to collect them, and who will surely be lectured on their lack of parenting skills.
I turn the last corner of this ominous journey and find Tegan seated on one of the gray plastic chairs lining the wall, waiting alone. Her head is bowed low, and when I stop next to her, she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I stomp my boot loudly to get her attention, and she jerks her head up. “What did you do?” I hiss.
Before Tegan can answer, Mrs. Lewis, the Head of School’s secretary, hurries out of her cubicle to greet me. “Miss Hessington.” She’s a chubby woman in her late fifties with gray hair collected at the nape of her neck in a low chignon and dressed in a dark green granny dress. Her only stylish note is the black-rimmed, cat-eye glasses perched on her nose. Underneath the lenses, her gaze is shifty and she’s visibly embarrassed. “The principal is waiting for you.” Mrs. Lewis addresses Tegan next, “You should both get in.”
Like the rest of the school, Mr. Wentworth’s office is straight out of a time capsule. Same dark wood décor, books-filled shelves, metal cabinets, and, yep, same old coffee stain on the carpet in the lower-left corner of the principal’s desk.
I sit in the empty chair on the left while Tegan sits on the right, the big desk the only thing separating us from the principal’s disapproving stare. If I had to describe Mr. Wentworth, I’d say: bald, thin, severe, and with impeccable taste for stuffy tweed suits that belong in the previous century.
“Good morning, Miss Hessington,” the principal says. “Sorry we had to rush you here, but the circumstances are quite dire.”
I brace myself for whatever is coming next, and the bad news arrives pronto.
“Your daughter, along with several of her peers, was caught consuming alcohol on the school’s premises—vodka, to be precise. This not only goes against TAG’s policies, but, as I’m sure you’re well aware, underage drinking also constitutes a crime.”
I turn an incredulous stare on Tegan, but she’s too busy staring at her feet to notice.
“Now, if it were only a matter of consumption,” the principal continues, “we could let your daughter off with a simple suspension. But since Tegan instigated the drinking and procured the vodka, I’m afraid we have no other choice other than to expel—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “How do you know the alcohol belongs to Tegan?”
I can picture my daughter getting roped into a wrongdoing because of peer pressure—but bringing a bottle of vodka to school and being the instigator of a lunch-break booze fest? Nuh-uh. Not my daughter. Where would she even get the vodka in the first place? I don’t keep alcohol at home—not even wine.
“A few of the students involved in the… ah… mischief, indicated your daughter as the one responsible for smuggling the bottle into the school.”
I might want to strangle Tegan for how reckless she’s been, but my role right now is to do everything in my power not to have her expelled and her life ruined by a stupid mistake. And that’s when the lawyer in me takes over.
“Other than this testimony, do you have definitive proof my daughter brought the vodka to school?”
“As I said, a few witnesses have stated—”
I begin my cross-examination.
“How many students were caught drinking?”
“Six. Three boys and three girls, including Tegan.”
“And all five of these students claimed Tegan provided the alcohol?”
The principal shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. I imagine he’s used to parents being intimidated when he charges their children with wrong-doings. But my attorney-at-law persona is formidable, and the tables have turned on poor Mr. Wentworth. He’s no idea what’s about to get to him.
“No,” he admits. “The boys refused to name any names. But the two girls clearly stated in separate interviews that your daughter—”
“And were the suspects kept apart at all times before these interrogations?”
“No, of course not, we don’t have the facilities for—”
“So it’s possible they agreed beforehand to blame my daughter?”
“Yes, but—”
“Have you asked Tegan if she’s responsible for bringing alcohol to school?”
“Yes, and Tegan has denied it. But she’s also refused to reveal the culprit, which is highly suspicious.”
I stare at my daughter now. She looks mortified, but her lips are locked in a tight, stubborn line that tells me she’s not going to rat out her friends to get off the hook. Not the smartest decision, but I’m aware of how complex high school social hierarchy can be. And since boys are involved… I remember what it was to be fifteen and have a crush—the stupid things one could do to impress a boy.
Even
