Chapter 18
AFTER BEING BUZZED INTO BUTLER HIGH SCHOOL, I pull open the glass-paneled door to the administrative offices.
A pungent smell hits me first. I’m used to a wide variety of olfactory experiences on the streets of Manhattan, but this sweet, musky burn must be the Axe body spray Erika complains the boys spray liberally in lieu of showering.
I suck in my lips before parting them to take a breath.
A large wooden desk structure, a relic of decades-old architecture, dominates the space.
Stacks of papers, folders, and old notices about spring formals and choral concerts cover most surfaces.
Positioned in each quadrant of the large built-in desk, three older women and one young man sit doing the business of teen education. None of them look up when I walk in.
We toyed with the idea of sending the kids to private schools, but being in one of the most affluent school districts, Clint and I both thought a public education the best way to prepare them for the world they will inherit. At the start of every new school semester, I plan to join the PTA.
“Excuse me. My name is Meredith Hansel. I’m here for a meeting with . . .” The principal’s name escapes me. Oh, Clint, why are we here? We should be talking to her at home.
The young man points to the door behind him. “Erika’s grandfather is already here. You can go right in.”
Hitching my breath, I glance toward the office. Clint is looking right at me. The room is loud with phone calls, kids goofing off on the bench behind me, and a low rumble from some air-handling unit in the far corner. Maybe he didn’t hear what the guy said.
Clint’s eyes close slowly, and he turns away.
Not the way I wanted to start this. I don’t bother correcting the oblivious young man, who has already picked up his telephone handset.
I used to. I’d snuggle up to Clint and try for a joke or talk about his incredible sense of direction or the way he can fix just about anything.
How proud I am to be his wife. Never worked. My verbosity only dug me in deeper.
I’ve learned to wait him out.
I slide in behind my husband, who has yet to look at me again, and then lay a quick hand on Erika’s shoulder. As I settle into the last of the three chairs, a man in a blue button-down and tie but no jacket strides in after me and takes his seat behind the desk.
“Thanks for joining us. I’m Dr. Amit Singh.
” The principal’s voice has a hint of a lilting accent.
His thin lips smile briefly as he knits his fingers together and lays his clasped hands on the desk.
Piles of multicolored folders and papers line the left and right of him, but nothing inhibits our view of his steady gaze.
Even the brass plate engraved with his name is shoved to the side.
“I’ll dispense with the nonessentials. There was a substitute teacher in Erika’s Honors English class today.
Mr. Doward is new to our school. He was provoked and filmed.
As you might imagine . . .” Dr. Singh continues to convey his disappointment, but I barely listen to his words.
My heart bangs in my chest. Why are we starting with this story about a substitute?
I stare at our daughter slouched between us.
Erika’s head is bowed. Her pale-blonde hair, which is just starting to darken, curtains her face with a silky fringe.
She hasn’t spoken. Erika is compassionate.
She’s a tutor for kids struggling in math and an advocate for neurodivergent learning environments.
Since she was a baby, she has been sweet and compliant.
Beyond the normal surliness, mostly to me, and the too-frequent tears, she’s a good girl.
I glance up when I realize the room has gone quiet.
No one is speaking. I sit perched on the edge of my seat.
I’d like to scoot back but fear the movement might indicate my desire to contribute to this conversation.
Clint made it clear through texts during my ride north that he wants to be the one to begin.
I wait but no one says anything.
Finally, I wiggle back in my wooden chair. Perhaps the movement will prompt Clint to begin.
The silence stretches.
“Do either of you have any questions?” The principal widens his dark eyes in an obvious effort to prompt us.
I steal a glance over at Clint. He looks a bit green and is staring down at his lap.
Perhaps talking about the picture is a lot harder than he imagined.
Is he going to be sick? I’ve never asked that question of my husband before.
He is the man you want when the night closes in.
I scan the room for a trash can and see the lid peeking from behind the steel side of the desk. Should I grab it just in case?
“What’s the punishment?” Erika’s voice is stronger than her posture.
My head whips around. “Wait, I don’t think I understand.” My gaze shoots to Clint, who has the same shocked expression on his face as I likely have on mine.
“That’s why we’re here. Right? To punish me.” Erika tucks her hair behind one of her ears.
I startle. Her upper cartilage has two thin gold loops.
When did she do that?
About a month ago, we talked about her getting another piercing. I said it was unnecessary, and I thought she agreed. Apparently, one was not enough.
I squeeze my own platinum stud, skewering the rear post into the pad of my thumb.
The sting of pain dulls the anger working its way through my stomach and up through my chest. One issue at a time.
Frankly, we’re not even here to listen to some messy business about a substitute teacher.
We’re here to talk about the picture. Clint hasn’t been able to get more than a few words from Erika.
He pushed to set up this meeting with her principal just to get her to open up, and she called his bluff.
I didn’t agree to the plan and wanted him to wait until I got home.
She shouldn’t be forced to talk, but I have lost my voice with Clint lately.
“Who pressured you?” Dr. Singh’s words are slow and cautious.
Erika shakes her head.
“I know you. You’re a National Honor Society student. You’re respected by the faculty here. I know you didn’t do this on your own.” Dr. Singh leans farther over his desk. “I want names.”
“You don’t have to answer that.” Clint’s arm shoots over the back of Erika’s chair.
His hand grips her opposite shoulder. He’s regained his bearings.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should not have insisted on this meeting.
I apologize for wasting your time, Dr. Singh.
We need to let Erika share with us what’s been happening with her and, uh, her friends.
I let my frustration get the best of me. ” He starts to rise.
“I did get your call, Mr. Hansel, about wanting to meet, but that is not why we’re here.” Dr. Singh shifts his focus. “Erika, I don’t want to punish you.”
“Punish her?” Clint barks.
“No, Daddy.” She hasn’t called him that since American Girl dolls claimed a prominent corner in her room. “I did this. I called out the substitute and shared the video.”
Video? The story Dr. Singh shared with us was about Erika?
I blink back the tears in my eyes. Frustration is the worst emotion.
There’s a purity to fear or rage. Not pleasant, but easier to parse and then lean into.
Frustration is anger, confusion, and the inability to understand my daughter all rolled up into a soggy mass inside me that is now threatening to drip down my face.
I plunge my hand into my bag and scramble for the small pack of tissues I always keep tucked inside, but Dr. Singh beats me to it.
He slides a previously hidden box toward us.
“Erika, why don’t you tell us what happened in your own words.” He gives our daughter a small smile.
“It’s as you said. I wasn’t thinking.” She retreats back into her curved spine.
“But I think you were. You had something very specific in mind when you lashed out like that. What was going through your head when you taunted him?”
Taunted him? Our daughter may throw teasing jabs at Reid and vice versa, but we’re not a family that ridicules or hassles one another, even in jest. In fact, we’re more likely to say nothing at all.
A lump settles in my throat. Do I even know who we are as a family anymore?
Erika raises her face to Dr. Singh. “I’m not—I’ll never be . . .” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Then she shrugs, like none of it matters.
“Never be what?” he prompts. At least he’s no longer demanding names. Maybe he has a legitimate chance to get her to open up.
“Beautiful.” A single sob escapes her lips. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t need to be beautiful. I just want to be . . . normal.”
My heart breaks at Erika’s inability to see herself the way I can.
She is beautiful. There is no doubt, but her maturing body feels like a betrayal to her.
She’s a soccer, track, and lacrosse girl.
A curvy figure is an albatross. I’ve seen her wear two sports bras to try to look more like her friends who have retained their athletic shapes.
Is that why she took the picture? Some attempt to make peace with her own body?
“I don’t see the connection,” says the principal.
“It doesn’t matter.” She grabs the back of her neck. Her fingertips whiten as she presses in.
“It does. It does matter.” Clint lowers his arm so he can shift in his seat to look at her.
“He lied, okay?” She snorts. “He told me. He said I was beautiful.” Her spine straightens, and she sets her features in icy detachment.
I begin to see the girl who could do the things Dr. Singh described.
“Who?” Dr. Singh’s brows furrow and he flattens back in his chair as if he doesn’t want to know her answer.
“Danny. Danny Doward.”
“Doward? The substitute teacher?” Dr. Singh shuffles through a folder on his desk.
Erika grabs two tissues and presses them against her face. Clint leans over and whispers something to her I can’t hear.
“It’s okay, I can do this.”
Yes, yes you can, I want to shout.
Erika looks straight ahead, addressing her principal, whose eyes are still scanning the paperwork in front of him. “A month ago, I went to a par—a gathering after the first football game against Essex.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. What party? We all went to that game, the season opener. Erika had gone home with Cicely, her friend since third grade.
She continues. “I met Danny. We hung out. He was older. He was talking to a bunch of the seniors.” Suddenly, she whips around in her seat and faces me. “I know what you’re thinking. It was nothing. At first, I just thought he was interesting.”
I gingerly lay my hand on her arm and, against my better judgment, nod for her to continue.
She faces forward again. “He wasn’t a nice guy. He bullied some of the less confident underclassmen and . . . Never mind.”
“This is one of your substitute teachers?” Clint barks.
“I don’t know anything about this. This was his first day here and evidently his last.” Dr. Singh shuffles some papers on his desk, unwilling to make the easy eye contact he’s made through most of our meeting.
“I saw him this morning in the hall. He walked by me and whispered I was beautiful. The way he said it creeped me out.”
“What do you mean? Is he the reason you took that picture?” My confusion is starting to lift. He must have played on her insecurities.
“No!” she shouts.
“What picture?” Dr. Singh straightens and stares at Erika. This narrative—where she’s in the wrong—he seems much more comfortable addressing.
“There is no picture. Just the video. My mother’s confused,” Erika says sharply, leaning toward her dad before continuing.
“I did what I did to stop Danny. I was upset, and then he used that same bullying tone with Ethan. I just snapped. Ethan’s brilliant, but he struggles getting his ideas out.
Danny was riding him and making him stutter.
I had to make him stop . . . I don’t know.
Let’s just get this over with. What’s my punishment?
” Erika purses her lips as if she is clamping down on words she dares not say.
Clint stands. “We’re leaving.” His navy-blue T-shirt ripples over his shoulders. “Dr. Singh here needs to clean house. And we need to take our daughter home. I’ll be in touch.”
Dr. Singh is the only other person who stands. “I think we should continue—”
“I said we’re leaving.” Clint’s voice is soft but has the power to lift both Erika and me from our chairs.