Chapter 12 Good Friday #4
The front office secretary seems to be waiting for her. “Hello, Hannah,” she says, her smile forced. “Mrs. Shackleford would like to see you in her office. You can go on back.”
Hannah knocks and opens Mrs. Shackleford’s door to find a half-dozen people inside.
Mrs. Shackleford sits at her desk, her expression grim; Father Simon and Mr. Manceau lurk at the window, arms crossed; Ms. Carpenter leans against the opposite window, looking defiant; and Hannah’s parents hover just inside the door, their faces pale and troubled.
“Hi, honey,” her mom says quietly. Her voice is doubtful, like she’s not sure whether it’s her actual daughter she’s looking at. Hannah’s dad stands silently at her side.
“Hello, Hannah,” Mrs. Shackleford says. “Have a seat, please.”
Hannah sits in the designated chair in front of Mrs. Shackleford’s desk, hiding her shaking hands beneath her skirt. Her parents, God bless them, step forward and flank her on either side.
“Hannah, do you know why we called you in?”
“Is this about the email?” Hannah asks, trying to sound braver than she feels.
Mrs. Shackleford purses her lips. “Yes, it is. Hannah, we’ve had several students tell us that you’ve taken ownership of that email. That you told some friends that you’re the one who wrote it.”
“I told the whole senior courtyard,” Hannah clarifies. Her mom flinches behind her.
“Hannah…” Mrs. Shackleford folds her hands together. She levels Hannah with a look. “Do you understand the implications of telling people you wrote this email?”
Hannah casts her eyes to the objects on Mrs. Shackleford’s desk: the name placard, the dove-shaped paperweight, the photographs of her husband and children.
She feels acutely aware of everyone watching her.
“Yes, ma’am. Everyone will think that I’m—um.
” She swallows, unable to continue. In her peripheral vision, she sees Ms. Carpenter hang her head.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Hannah,” Mrs. Shackleford says kindly.
“How?”
“So you did write the email?” Mr. Manceau cuts in.
“Bob—” Mrs. Shackleford says.
“I think you should let her answer the question, Brenda,” Father Simon says. “She hasn’t confirmed yet.”
Before Mrs. Shackleford can protest, Mr. Manceau steps closer and thrusts a piece of paper into Hannah’s hands. “Can you confirm that you wrote this email?”
Hannah, with the force of a hammer on her heart, smooths out the paper and reads:
DATE May 11, 2012
TIME 1:03 AM
FROM strwbrryswng94@
TO kcarpenter@
Ms. Carpenter, please, I need your help.
I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m so scared right now.
I have feelings for another girl, feelings I’m not supposed to have.
We did things together that you’re not supposed to do, things I only should have done with a boy.
i’m so shocked at myslef that I feel like it didn’t even happen, like it’s not real.
Sometimes when I think about it I’m just disgusted with myself and I feel so dirty, I feel so wrong and like god hates me.
But the scariest part is I was so happy when we were togehter.
It felt so amazing, it felt like everything I always wanted to have with someone.
But I know that can’t be true, I know that can’t be what god wants for me.
But then why did he make me like this? Why did he put this inside of me?
Why did he make me feel like I’m always happiest when I’m with her?
? I don’t understand because I didn’t ask for this and I’ve tried really hard to make it go away.
Every time I get these feelings I feel like there’s a monster inside of me, an evil monster that’s trying to take me away from god and lead me to sin.
I wish I could be better. Everyone esle expects me to be better.
I’m dating a boy right now to try and make everything better but it’s not working, it’s nto working, and now I’m ruining my group of best friends too.
Everything is getting out of control, I can’t stop crying all the time, I can’t eat or sleep and I feel like I can’t breathe and now I’m drinking a lot too and I don’t know hwy.
I’m sorry to bother you with this but it’s late and I’ve been drinking and I’m crying and I’m just so scared.
Hannah blinks away her tears and raises her head to face the room again.
Mr. Manceau leans toward her, hungry for an answer; Father Simon wears that coaxing, too-kind expression Hannah has seen him wear during confession; Mrs. Shackleford stares at Hannah over her folded hands; Ms. Carpenter still leans against the window, her head down.
“Ms. Carpenter?” Hannah says.
“Yes, Hannah?”
“Where’s your response?”
Mr. Manceau laughs darkly. “Don’t you have it starred in your inbox?”
“Bob—” Mrs. Shackleford says.
“Did you write it or not?” Mr. Manceau demands.
Hannah grips the seat of her chair. She commands herself not to look back at her parents. Instead, she looks defiantly at Mr. Manceau and Father Simon.
“Yes,” she says. “I wrote it.”
Her mom makes an involuntary sound behind her. Mrs. Shackleford drops her head onto her folded hands. Mr. Manceau smirks and glances to Father Simon, who drums his fingers against his mouth and says, “Well, I think that settles it.”
Hannah frowns. “What?”
Mrs. Shackleford leans back in her chair.
She pushes her glasses onto the crown of her head and rubs her eyes.
“The thing is, Hannah,” she says, her voice weary, “until now, we had no way of proving that this email was written by one of our students. It could have been written by any random person with internet access. If that had been the case, then Ms. Carpenter’s response to the email would have been …
less of an issue. But because you’re a St. Mary’s student, and because Ms. Carpenter, your teacher, replied to your email with advice that”—she stops, clears her throat, glares at the two men by the window—“advice that some in this diocese would deem inconsistent with the views of our Church and school…” She trails off and gestures at the air.
“What?” Hannah asks again. She shifts in her chair to look at Ms. Carpenter, who smiles sadly at her.
“It means they can fire me, Hannah.”
Hannah’s stomach drops. “What? But—I don’t understand—”
“It’s okay, Hannah,” Father Simon says kindly.
“No, it’s not! Ms. Carpenter didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Ms. Carpenter gave you guidance that is absolutely contradictory to the practice of our faith,” Father Simon says patiently. “You trusted her, Hannah, and she failed you.”
“She didn’t fail me! And why are you talking about her like she’s not in the room?”
Father Simon looks over to Mrs. Shackleford. “This is exactly what I was talking about, Brenda. She inspires this misplaced passion in her students.”
“Excuse me,” a new voice says. Hannah’s dad steps forward and the faces in the room turn toward him.
“Did you know you were writing to Hannah?” he asks Ms. Carpenter.
He looks to Mr. Manceau and Father Simon.
“If we follow the logic you’re using, then Ms. Carpenter can’t be fired if she didn’t realize she was writing to a student. ”
“Actually, Tom,” Father Simon says, “just based on the fact that she was using her St. Mary’s email address, she can absolutely be fired.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eaden,” Ms. Carpenter says, still wearing her sad smile. “I did know I was communicating with a St. Mary’s student. That’s why I had to respond.”
Mr. Manceau shakes his head. Father Simon moves his mouth around as if experiencing lockjaw.
“Mr. Manceau,” Hannah’s mom says, “I’d like to see Ms. Carpenter’s response to Hannah.”
“I’d rather not get into that,” Father Simon interjects. “Suffice it to say, Anne, that the email encouraged Hannah to give in to her feelings of same-sex attraction—”
“With all due respect, Father Simon, I’d like to see for myself what Ms. Carpenter wrote to my daughter.”
Mr. Manceau reluctantly hands over the other piece of paper. Hannah’s mom reads the email slowly, her face expressionless, and then hands the paper to Hannah’s dad. He reads it fast, his eyes jumping down the page and a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Thank you,” Hannah’s dad says when he’s finished. Hannah looks at him, then at her mother, and waits for them to meet her eyes. They both stare at the carpet instead.
“Tom, Anne, please let me be clear,” Father Simon says.
“Not a single one of us in this room thinks there is anything wrong with Hannah. Every person has her own burdens—every disciple of Christ has her own cross to carry—and same-sex attraction is a particularly difficult one. But I don’t want Hannah to settle for thinking that she has to resign herself to living this way.
Same-sex attraction is something she can move past and heal from. ”
“You make it sound like Hannah has a disease,” Hannah’s mom says uncertainly.
“Of course not, though don’t forget that Christ tended to those with the meanest forms of disease. But, no, I would never suggest that Hannah has a disease. Same-sex attraction is not a disease, but rather a disorder. Counter to the natural law, counter to God’s plan for humanity—”
“A disorder?” Hannah’s mom says. “Father, with all due respect, Hannah doesn’t have a disorder.”
“Then how would you classify it, Anne? SSA is a deviation from the natural law. It is particularly sinister because many people—especially in our current culture—would have us believe that it’s normal, that it’s hereditary, that it can’t be helped and so we might as well give in to it, but the reality is that it can be helped and that people who experience same-sex attraction have a special place in the Church, either through the vocation of prayerful single life or, in some ideal cases, holy matrimony with a person of the opposite sex.
Hannah will be able to move past this. Through prayer, through choosing chastity, through faith in our generous God—”
“That’s not true,” Hannah says. She grips the seat of her chair until her knuckles hurt. “I tried to believe all that stuff. I tried to trust that God could help me move past it. He couldn’t. He didn’t.”
“Hannah,” Father Simon says gently, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder. “He can. He will. And in the meantime, we’re going to make sure you don’t have to listen to the sort of outrageous heresy that you read in that email—”
“Enough, Simon,” Mrs. Shackleford says, holding up her hand. “I’d like to speak to Hannah and Ms. Carpenter alone.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brenda—”
“I don’t give a lick what you think right now,” Mrs. Shackleford says in a loud, harsh voice.
“Personally, Simon, I don’t consider it a good idea to hack into our teachers’ email accounts, and yet here we are, so we will proceed accordingly.
But first, as St. Mary’s principal, I am going to have a word with Hannah and Ms. Carpenter alone. ”
“We’re staying, too,” Hannah’s mom says, her voice quivering.
“Of course, Anne.”
Father Simon and Mr. Manceau refuse to move at first. Father Simon clenches his jaw again, staring at Mrs. Shackleford like he would very much like to unleash certain words he would never speak from the pulpit.
Finally, after a long few seconds, he turns and walks rigidly out of the office, beckoning Manceau to follow him.
“Well,” Mrs. Shackleford says, leaning her head against her hands, “here we find ourselves in uncharted territory.”
“I’m sorry,” Hannah says.
“Don’t be sorry, Hannah. This situation has been made into something much bigger than it should be because of politics and power plays. It’s not your fault.”
“Ms. Carpenter,” Hannah says timidly, doing her best to meet her teacher’s eyes, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize what would happen.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Ms. Carpenter says. “Mrs. Shackleford’s right, Hannah—this is about things outside of your control. Whatever happens, I’ll be just fine. But you, Hannah—are you sure you want to claim responsibility here?”
Her eyes bore into Hannah’s, and Hannah cannot look away even if she wants to: She feels like Ms. Carpenter is seeing into her soul. For a fleeting second, she wants to tell the truth, wants to shrug off this burden and be taken into her mother’s arms.
But then she remembers Baker’s face, terrified beyond help as she sat in the courtyard.
“Yes,” Hannah answers. “Yes, I want to claim responsibility.”
Ms. Carpenter looks at her for another long moment, and then her eyes go soft.
“Hannah—Anne—Tom—” Mrs. Shackleford says.
“I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen here.
I will fight to keep Ms. Carpenter at St. Mary’s, but that decision might be beyond the scope of my control.
Either way, Hannah is going to take some heat from her classmates.
This community will not be happy about losing a beloved teacher. ”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hannah says.
“Hannah, you’re going to hear conflicting opinions about the content of your email. Some of them will not be kind. They may even be cruel—”
“Yes, ma’am, I know—”
“But I want you to know that I support you. Understand?”
Hannah finds it hard to answer around the heaviness in her chest. “Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
“You can go home with your parents now. I’ll have Mrs. Adler check you out of fourth block. If you need me for anything”—Mrs. Shackleford turns her eyes now to Hannah’s parents—“don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” Hannah’s mom says, while Hannah’s dad clears his throat and nods.
Hannah stands to leave, but Ms. Carpenter rests a hand on her arm. “Hannah,” she says meaningfully, “I want you to know I’m proud of you. Keep going, okay? Don’t lose faith.”
There is a great surge of emotion in Hannah’s throat. She takes a slow breath to speak around it, but the tears break free anyway. “Thanks, Ms. Carpenter.”
Then she turns and walks to the door, her parents flanking her with heavy, troubled expressions.
Hannah takes one last look as she steps out of the room: Mrs. Shackleford sits at her desk, shoulders hunched and fingertips at her temples; Ms. Carpenter stands next to her, her eyes trained on Hannah, and she is smiling and smiling and smiling.