“Emily?” he asked. “Come on, what is it?”
“I—” She lost her nerve. “I missed class yesterday. I need to know my make-up work.”
He laughed. “Uh, I think we’re good. You’ve got your A. Don’t worry.”
“But I—”
“Emily, I can’t remember what we did in class yesterday, all right? I marked you as present. You were here as far as I’m concerned. Take the win.”
She watched him turn his back as he wiped the chalkboard clean. He was in great shape because he ran all the time, but that was where the discipline ended. His pants were wrinkled. His shirt was sweat-stained under the arms. His hair was unbrushed. When he turned back around, his eyes were bloodshot because he hadn’t used the bottle of Visine on his desk.
The low lights of the dashboard. The song on the radio. The tear in Ricky’s green dress.
“Em?” He leaned his hands on his desk. “For the love of God, what’s up with you today? No offense, but you look like I feel, which is pure shit.”
“I—” She tried to recall what Cheese had said. Ease into it. Don’t be accusatory. She sat down in the front row of desks, trying to appear casual. “Do you remember when you picked me up from Nardo’s last month?”
Immediately, he looked and acted guilty. His eyes narrowed. He walked over to the door and closed it. He turned to face her. “I thought I told you that we weren’t going to talk about that.”
Emily pressed her pen to paper. Her hand started moving.
“What are you writing?” Mr. Wexler snapped. “Jesus, why are you—”
She recoiled as he ripped the pen out of her hand.
He demanded, “What the hell is going on?”
“You—” She felt like she was spinning out of control. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Don’t confront. Don’t accuse. “My grandmother saw you. That night. She recognized your car.”
He looked crestfallen as he sank down into the desk beside her. “Fuck.”
“She—she asked me about it last night. She asked why I was in your car that late because she knows you’re a teacher.”
He put his head in his hands. His voice was strained when he asked, “Did she tell your parents?”
Emily could see that he was afraid, which meant the power had shifted slightly in her direction. She needed to keep him vulnerable, so she answered, “Not yet. I asked her not to tell them, but …”
Mr. Wexler sat back in the chair. “We need to get our story straight in case she does. When she does, because you know she’ll tell eventually.”
Emily could only nod.
Like that, the power shifted back in his direction.
“Okay.” He turned toward her, leaning forward on his elbows. “What did your grandmother see exactly?”
“That I—” Emily knew she needed to strategize, but she was at a loss. “I got out of your car and it was late and I was upset.”
Mr. Wexler nodded his head. She heard the rough scrape of his unshaven face as he scratched his cheek. “All right, well, that’s not a lot.”
Emily kept her mouth tightly shut. Cheese had told her that guilty people wanted to talk. She needed to wait for Mr. Wexler to talk.
“Okay,” he repeated, picking up her pen and handing it back to her. “This is what we’re going to tell them.”
Emily pressed the ballpoint to a clean sheet of paper.
“Nardo called me for help. You were wigged out. They were all stoned. I drove over to get you and take you home. All that stuff that happened between me and Clay—” He waved his hand. “Forget about it. It’s our word against his and no one is going to believe him.”
Clay?
“And I drove you home,” Mr. Wexler finished. “End of story. Okay?”
“But—” Emily cast around for a way to elicit more information. “It’s not just Clay we have to worry about, right? Nardo and Blake were there. And Ricky. Ricky was there.”
“Ricky was passed out on the front lawn when I drove up,” Mr. Wexler said. “I don’t know where Nardo and Blake were. Could they see us from inside the house? There’s windows overlooking the pool area, right?”
“Uh—yes. Maybe.” Emily felt her mouth fill with cotton. Ricky passed out in the front yard. Nardo and Blake in the house somewhere. Clay and Emily outside by the pool. They wouldn’t have been swimming. The pool had been covered and the water was too cold anyway. Why were they alone outside? That had to mean something.
“All right, that’s settled.” Mr. Wexler tapped her notepad. “Write it down if it helps. You called me because you were arguing with Clay. I picked you up. I brought you home. End of story.”
Emily started to write the words, but she had to ask, “What was I arguing with Clay about?”
“Fuck if I know. Just pick an earlier fight and say it was ongoing. You kids piss each other off all the time.” Mr. Wexler stood up. “You should get to class. Don’t talk to any of them about this, okay? You know they’ll take Clay’s side and I don’t want you to lose your friends over something stupid.”
The cotton in her mouth turned to concrete. She had worried about losing the clique, but now she could feel the loss in a very real way. They were going to abandon her. The friends she’d clung to, the pals she’d known since first grade, the people she’d hung around with for every free moment outside of school for the last decade, would abandon her when things got difficult.
Especially if the difficult thing involved Clay.
Mr. Wexler said, “If your parents confront you about it, just stick to the story and we’ll be fine. I’ll tell them the same thing.”
Emily looked at her notebook. She had written one word—Clay.
“Emily.” Mr. Wexler looked at his watch. “Come on, go to class. I can’t write you guys any more late passes. Mr. Lampert already told me that some of the teachers are ratting me out for playing favorites. I bet it’s Darla North. God, that stupid bitch can’t keep her fat mouth shut.”
Emily packed up her notebook and pen. She stood up. She walked toward the door.
And then she turned around.
“Mr. Wexler?” she asked. “There’s just one more thing.”
He looked at his watch again. “What is it?”
“My grandmother …” Emily had to stop strategizing. She needed to open up her mouth and talk. “That night you brought me home. She said that my dress was torn. And that it was on inside out.”
Mr. Wexler’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like a piece of glass was sticking out of his face.
Emily said, “That’s what she noticed about me when I got out of your car.”
He rubbed his scruffy cheek again. She could hear the bristle scrape against his fingers.
Emily dropped the hammer. “What should I say when my father asks about that?”
He was motionless at first, and then he moved so quickly that Emily found herself incapable of reacting until he’d pressed her back against the wall and slapped one sweaty hand over her mouth and grabbed her neck with the other.
She choked for air, clawing at the back of his hand. Her feet brushed against the ground. He had lifted her just enough so that she could do nothing but gasp for air.