“I’m afraid Ms. Adamik has gotten into some trouble, and you need to come get her.”
“What kind of trouble?” I ask, and then repeat, “Physically, is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” he replies disdainfully. “But I can’t say the other girl who she punched is. I need you to come immediately.”
Oh shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Yes, of course,” I reply hastily. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
♦
Riggs had sent written instructions to the school that I would be taking Mrs. Blair’s place as Janelle’s temporary guardian when he was out of town. It’s how Mr. Cresten knew to call me.
In the one discussion Riggs and I had about my care of Janelle, we talked about what his rules were as far as friends and curfew. We talked about medical care should she get sick and where he keeps EpiPens because she’s allergic to bees—not that we get many in downtown Phoenix—but it worried me enough that I stocked one in my purse and at the store too.
But never did we discuss what to do if Janelle got in trouble at school. I’m not sure if it’s because it never crossed our minds or because we’re horrible caregivers not to anticipate such a thing, but my stomach is roiling as I traverse the school halls to the principal’s office.
I find Janelle first, sitting in the outer lobby with a matronly but kind-looking receptionist. Janelle is slumped down in her chair, a defiant look on her face as she stares at the opposite wall, an ice pack on her right hand.
Her head tips up at me, and the defiance slips away. She looks on the verge of crying.
Before she can say a word, I squat down and place my hand on her knee. “Whatever happened, it’s going to be fine. I promise.”
Her lower lip trembles, but she takes a steadying breath, nodding at me.
A door opens and I straighten, turning to see an imposing man in the doorway of what looks to be a plush office beyond. He’s tall, built wide, and about fifty years old. His iron-gray hair is cropped close and his eyes are small and beady.
I instantly dislike him, and he hasn’t even said a word.
“Ms. Woodley?” he asks snootily.
I walk over to him, holding my hand out. “I assume you’re Jim Cresten. Nice to meet you.”
After we shake, he looks over my shoulder to Janelle. “Ms. Adamik, in my office, please.”
Turning his back on us, he walks into his office. I wait for Janelle to reach me, touching my hand to her lower back as we follow, so she knows I’m right by her.
We take seats in two large leather chairs opposite his ornately carved desk. The walls are dark-wood paneling, the carpet a rich burgundy. It screams old money.
Mr. Cresten takes his seat behind the desk and folds his hands upon it. He gives a disdainful look at Janelle before giving his regard to me. “Ms. Adamik was in a fight and punched another girl. This sort of behavior is, of course, not tolerated, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Actually, I’m not willing to agree until I know what the other girl did to Janelle first.”
Mr. Cresten blinks and I don’t dare look at Janelle, but from the corner of my eye, I see her jolt from my proclamation.
“That’s hardly the issue,” Mr. Cresten says imperiously.
“It’s the only issue I care about,” I reply smoothly. “You see, I know Janelle, and she’d never just walk up to someone and punch them without provocation. So I’d like to know the full story. What did the other girl do to Janelle, and have her parents been called in to handle this the way I’ve been called in?”
“How I choose to handle the other girl is none of your concern,” the principal blusters.
“I’m guessing the mere fact my curiosity offends you so much tells me you have no intention of calling the other girl’s parents.”
“Ms. Woodley, this is beyond impolite—”
I cut him off by looking to Janelle. “What happened?”
Her skin is pale but her cheeks flush red. Janelle says, “I’d rather not discuss the details right now.”
Her eyes cut to Mr. Cresten, and I get that whatever happened, she doesn’t feel comfortable with him knowing about it.
“Were you provoked?” I ask her.
She nods.
“Was it something awful?” I press.
She nods again, eyes falling to her lap.
I give my attention back to the principal who looks livid that I’ve taken control of this conversation. “It’s clear something more has happened than you’re aware of, and it would behoove you to investigate further.”
“Ms. Woodley,” he thunders as he stands from his desk and slaps his palms on the top. Janelle jumps but I stare up at him placidly. “You are not in charge here. I run this school, and I decide what needs looked into and what doesn’t. In this situation, we have a very clear, zero-tolerance policy for violence. It doesn’t matter the provocation. Ms. Adamik is in the wrong here.”
“Well, I think your policy is intolerant and too black-and-white, and it’s unfair to your students.”
Mr. Cresten’s face flushes beet red, and I can tell no one has ever dared question him before. He points a finger at me, then to Janelle. “School policy requires at least a three-day suspension in these cases, but it’s clear that Ms. Adamik has no remorse over the situation—”
“No remorse?” I exclaim, standing up angrily from my chair. “How would you know? You haven’t even talked to her about what happened.”
“—and it’s clear that by your example, you don’t have any intention of her suffering consequences. As such, I’m suspending her for a week and—”
“Are you crazy?” I practically screech. “You’re clearly punishing Janelle more than what’s necessary because I dared question you.”
“I don’t see it that way.” He sniffs, tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket. “Now, I have a very busy day left before me. You may take Ms. Adamik home, and she can return one week from today.”
I’m furious that he’s not even willing to listen to Janelle’s side of the story. I don’t know what it is—and it may be that she’s completely at fault—but to be dismissed so out of hand is appalling.
“Come on, Janelle,” I say softly, motioning for her to get up. We head toward the door and I open it. Janelle steps through, but before I leave, I turn back to look at the wretched man. “I hate to say this, Mr. Cresten, but you’re a poor role model for your students, unwilling to hear all sides of a story. I’m guessing the other girl involved comes from a wealthy family who gives generously to your school.”
It was a shot in the dark, but the way his eyes dart left even as he denies my accusation tells me all I need to know.
I hit the nail on the head.
Janelle and I leave the school and walk to my car. When we reach it, I take her wrist, lifting her hand for inspection. I remove the ice bag and grimace at the scrapes and slight bruising on her knuckles.
“You punched her in the mouth,” I murmur.
“How’d you know?” she asks in astonishment.
“Scrapes,” I say simply. “Her teeth.”
“I meant to hit her in the nose as I know that hurts the worst,” she says.