20
The whole place smelled of furniture polish and old money.
A woman behind the reception desk looked up, her expression already sympathetic.
‘They’re just through here,’ she said, standing to guide her. ‘Principal’s office. Second door on the left.’
Blake nodded, her mouth dry. She followed, already imagining the worst. Morgan wasn’t hurt. They’d said she wasn’t hurt. But what the hell had happened?
The staff member gave a small, sympathetic smile as she opened the door.
Blake stepped into the room. For a second, it felt like she was fourteen again.
That same tight, high ceiling. That same institutional atmosphere, though here it was wrapped in expensive wool carpet and oil paintings of former principals, not the motivational posters of her public school.
The pressure in her chest that said whatever happened next, it probably wouldn’t be good.
The principal’s desk dominated the room. Behind it, a woman in a sharp navy suit was rising to her feet. Polished, professional, hair slicked into a perfect low twist. She looked calm, composed, the kind of woman you didn’t want to piss off.
Morgan sat in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, her spine straight, eyes fixed forward, arms crossed tight across her body, bracing her ribs. Still. Too still. Her shoulders shifted, just a fraction, as Blake walked in.
Morgan’s right index finger tapped against the arm of the chair. Once, twice, three times. But the rhythm was off, too fast, too sharp.
Blake had never seen her like this. Urgent, desperate, giving off a distress signal she didn’t know she was sending.
The next chair stood empty, waiting.
To its right sat a man with sandy-blond hair, a little overgrown at the collar. Neat shirt, rolled sleeves. Something nagged at Blake, a sense of recognition she couldn’t place.
Who was he? What had Morgan done? What had someone done to Morgan?
The principal stepped out from behind the desk, reaching across the short distance to shake Blake’s hand.
‘Ms Blake,’ she said. ‘I’m Priya Sharma. Thank you for coming in. I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.’
‘Of course,’ Blake said, her voice scraping out dry.
Priya gestured towards the man. ‘This is Mr Harris, Morgan’s science teacher. He intervened to break up the fight.’
Fight?
Blake’s gaze snapped to Morgan, scanning quickly. Red knuckles. Blazer askew. An icepack melting on the desk in front of her. But no blood, no swelling, no obvious injuries.
A movement in her peripheral vision tore her attention away from Morgan.
The man was standing, extending his hand across the space between them.
The familiar features clicked into place slowly, like a photograph developing. The slight crook of his nose. That jaw. The way he tilted his head when processing something unexpected.
Her stomach dropped before her brain caught up.
The pasta. Spro & Co. The text meant for his housemate.
Fettuccine Guy.
He looked at her, and she watched the exact moment he recognised her too. His face stayed composed, but something in his eyes shifted fast. Surprise. Then guilt. Then a rapid, carefully composed blankness.
Blake’s breath stuck.
He was a science teacher.
Her daughter’s science teacher.
He’d broken up the fight.
The fight her daughter was in.
The daughter he couldn’t have known was hers.
Mr Harris nodded, voice quiet. ‘Good to see you again.’
Blake sat in the empty chair between them. She couldn’t look at him again. Not yet.
Priya returned to her seat behind the desk, folding her hands on the blotter in front of her.
‘Ms Blake,’ Priya began, ‘your daughter was involved in an altercation this morning. Multiple students witnessed a verbal escalation between Morgan and another girl in the courtyard before classes. The other student, Lucy Pemberton, reportedly said some…highly inappropriate things.’
Blake caught the tightening of Morgan’s jaw.
‘In the midst of that,’ Priya continued, ‘Lucy grabbed Morgan by the hair and pulled her to the ground.’
The image hit visceral and sharp. Morgan. Her brilliant, quiet daughter. Pulled to the ground like prey while others watched. Blake’s hands curled in her lap, nails pressing into her palms.
Priya continued. ‘Mr Harris was the staff member on duty. He intervened. I’ll let him tell you what he witnessed.’
Mr Harris leaned forward. ‘There were four girls,’ he said. ‘Morgan was trying to leave when I arrived. Lucy called after her. Loud enough that the whole group stopped. Morgan turned back. I saw her hesitate. She stayed silent.’
Blake’s heart twisted.
‘She kept walking,’ Harris continued. ‘That’s when Lucy grabbed her by her hair. Yanked her back. Hard.’
Blake sucked in a breath.
‘Morgan turned,’ he said. ‘One punch to Lucy’s face. Clean. Reflexive. If I hadn’t stepped in when I did, I think the other girls would’ve joined in.’
He looked at Principal Sharma.
‘I wouldn’t call that a fight,’ Blake said. She leaned forward in her chair. Voice low. Controlled. ‘That sounds like self-defence.’
The principal’s gaze held steady. ‘Violence on school grounds is taken very seriously.’
‘And what’s the school doing to protect my daughter?’ Blake snapped, her restraint gone. ‘She’s already called me this week to be picked up early. She’s been bullied. Outnumbered. Physically grabbed and pulled to the ground. What’s being done about that?’
Priya folded her hands tighter. ‘Ms Blake.’
‘Has Lucy Pemberton been suspended?’ Blake pressed. ‘Have her parents been called in? Is there a plan to stop this from happening again?’
‘The other student is currently in the emergency department awaiting X-rays on what may be a broken nose.’
Blake paused. But her voice stayed firm. ‘My daughter was pulled to the ground. If she stood up and hit the only girl in that group who laid a hand on her? I’m proud of her.’
Priya sat back. ‘Our usual policy for physical retaliation is a one-week suspension.’
‘No,’ Blake said.
Priya raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘My daughter has the right to feel safe at school. What you’ve described is an unsafe environment.
And as a fairly prominent media personality, I think there are plenty of people in this city who’d be interested in how one of Melbourne’s top-performing schools handles a situation like this.
Where a young girl is bullied, assaulted, and then punished for defending herself. ’
Morgan spoke for the first time. Her voice was quiet. ‘I just got moved up to advanced maths. I missed the first week of term. If I’m not there for another week, I won’t catch up.’
Blake turned, surprised, but Morgan was still looking at the carpet. A slight flush crept up her neck.
Mr Harris cleared his throat. ‘Morgan’s one of the most promising students I’ve seen this year. It would be a shame to knock her off track.’
Principal Sharma exhaled through her nose. ‘Two days then. She can return to school on Tuesday morning.’
Blake waited a beat, then nodded. Relief rolled through her, but she kept it hidden.
‘I’d like an incident report as well as an action plan on how Morgan will be protected moving forward,’ she said.
The principal straightened. ‘Of course.’
‘If that’s all,’ Blake said, ‘I’d like to take my daughter home now and assess whether she’s been injured.’
She stood up and extended her hand to Priya, shaking it firmly. Then turned to go.
Morgan stood up too, silent, slipping her bag onto her shoulder.
‘Ms Blake,’ Mr Harris said, rising from his chair, ‘I’ll walk you out.’
They moved into the corridor together. The air cooler. Quieter.
Morgan looked up at him as they walked. ‘Thank you for stopping them,’ she said.
Mr Harris gave a small nod, touched by the honesty in it.
‘Blake,’ he said when they reached the front doors. ‘I’m really sorry. About the other night.’
Blake met his eyes. Held them. ‘I think we’re even now,’ she said. Then, quieter, ‘Thank you. For today.’
He nodded, and Blake stepped outside into the bright Melbourne sun, holding the door for Morgan without looking back.
Morgan walked steady and small down the concrete path towards the staff car park, her shoulders slightly hunched, holding her bag like armour against her body. Blake unlocked the car, and they climbed in.
She gripped the steering wheel but left the engine off.
Neither of them spoke.
Morgan stared out the window. Hands folded in her lap. That controlled stillness again. Her schoolbag on the floor at her feet.
The silence stretched between them, but Blake could feel something building in Morgan, something that would come out in its own time.
Then, without being prompted, Morgan spoke. ‘She called me “the pathetic results of a dumb slut”.’
Blake’s breath caught.
‘She said that my dad clearly didn’t want me and you reek of desperation asking on radio.’
Morgan’s voice stayed flat. Just precision. Like listing facts for an exam.
‘I tried to walk away,’ Morgan said, her voice steady. ‘I really tried.’
Blake waited, knowing there was more.
‘She pulled my ponytail. I was on the ground. Everyone was watching.’ Morgan studied her knuckles where they were starting to take on a purple tinge.
‘They all heard it this morning, everyone at school has been talking about “finding Leo” all week, then when Mack said my name…’ She took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want to be that girl,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really mean to punch her like that. It just happened.’
Blake’s throat felt raw. She could see it now, Morgan surrounded, humiliated, Lucy’s words cutting deep into every insecurity her daughter carried about not having a father, about being different.
She reached for words. Found only truth. ‘You don’t owe me an apology for protecting yourself,’ Blake said.
Morgan stayed still. After a moment, she asked, ‘Am I in trouble?’
Blake turned to look at her. ‘Not from me.’
Blake reached for the ignition. ‘Let’s go home.’
Morgan nodded. Her shoulders eased, just a little, as they pulled away.