Ms. Lynch frowns. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
I take a seat in the outer office to wait, watching the seconds tick by on the ancient clock out in the hallway. It’s the better part of ten minutes before the door opens and Mr. DioGuardi comes out.
“Marin!” he says, looking not at all pleased to see me. “Come on in. You were on my list of students to touch base with this morning.”
I bet I was, I think bitterly.
“Mr. Beckett is coming back tomorrow?”
Mr. DioGuardi frowns. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The school board investigated your . . . allegations over the break. Ultimately, the disciplinary committee found no conclusive evidence of wrongdoing, so he’ll be returning to his classes for the remainder of the year.”
“I told you about the wrongdoing,” I say, and it comes out a lot more like a wail than I mean for it to. I swallow hard, digging my nails into the armrests. Don’t be hysterical. Don’t be a crazy girl. “I just mean—”
“I understand that, Marin,” Mr. DioGuardi says. “But without any corroborating statements, without evidence—”
“No evidence—” I break off as the larger implications here start to make themselves clear. “So you think I’m lying?”
“Now hold on just a moment,” he says. “No one is saying that.”
“Well then what are you saying?”
“Marin—” Mr. DioGuardi pops his whistle into his mouth for a moment, then pulls it out again. When he speaks his voice is suddenly gentle.
“Look,” he says, “is it at all possible you misinterpreted what was happening? With Mr. Beckett, I mean? No one would blame you, obviously. He’s one of our younger faculty members, and I see so many girls hanging around his classroom, or in the newspaper office. It would be perfectly understandable if you somehow misunderstood—”
“Oh my god.” It’s out before I can stop it. I shove my chair back and jump upright. “I’m not listening to this.”
Mr. DioGuardi’s eyes narrow across the desk. “Marin,” he says sharply. “I understand you’re upset, but may I remind you who you’re talking—”
Stop using my name, I want to scream loud enough to shatter the windows. Instead, I press my lips together, remembering my manners. Swallowing down my own rage and fear.
“You’re right,” I manage, the words like gravel in my mouth. I hold my hands up, forcing a cowed smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—you’re right.”
Mr. DioGuardi nods with a thin smile—pleased, I think, to be in the position of being able to give me a pass in this trying time. “All I mean is that these things happen,” he continues. “And sometimes, once we’ve had time to cool off and reconsider a situation from all angles, we find we see things differently than we might have at first.”
“Sure,” I say. I focus on the bookcase, on that photo of DioGuardi’s sons at the campsite. I want to rip it off the shelf and hurl it directly at his head, then encourage him to take some time to cool off and reconsider the situation from all angles. “I get it.”
“Now,” he says, standing himself, “if you don’t have any further questions—?”
“Um, nope,” I say, backing up toward the doorway. What else could there possibly be to ask? “I guess that’s it. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course,” Mr. DioGuardi says, and his smile is genuine relief as he shuffles me out into the admin suite. “I’m glad we had this talk.”
Twenty-Three
“This is un-frickin’-acceptable,” my mom announces that night, slamming pots and pans around the kitchen like she’s thinking of starting a percussion ensemble.
“I mean it. I’ve had it. I’m going to march in there and stick my boot so far up that man’s ass that he’ll be able to open up his mouth and read the L.L.Bean logo in the mirror. Then I’m calling a lawyer.”
“Dyana,” my dad says from his perch at the kitchen table, sounding faintly weary. I cringe at the sight of the bags under his eyes. “Go easy, will you?”
“You go easy!” my mother snaps, yanking open the fridge and brandishing a Styrofoam package of ground turkey like a weapon. “This is ridiculous. And frankly I don’t think there’s anything wrong with showing our daughter it’s okay to get worked up over injustices.” She drops the turkey in the pan with a wet thud. “Which this is.”
“Nobody’s saying it isn’t an injustice,” my dad puts in, getting up to check the potatoes in the oven. “I’m just saying that I don’t see how violence is going to help—”
“It’s metaphorical violence, Dan.” My mom makes a face as she jabs at the turkey with a wooden spoon. “Mostly.”
“Guys,” I protest weakly. “Please. I can handle this.”
My dad scrubs a hand over his face. “Can you transfer out of the class?” he asks me. “I feel like that should be the first step, right?”
I bite the end off a baby carrot and think about that for a minute, surprised by how simple he makes it sound. And it would be simple, really: there’s a non-AP senior English class that meets at the same time, two rooms over. They’re reading The Art of Fielding. It would probably be fine.
I take a deep breath. “No,” I tell them, calm as I can manage.
My mom raises one thick brow. “Why not?”
I shrug, popping the rest of the carrot into my mouth and crunching hard. “Because then he wins.”
My parents are both quiet then, the two of them exchanging a look across the kitchen. I think it might be worry. I think it might be pride. My mom sets the wooden spoon down on the counter, then comes over and slides an arm around my waist.
“Go get your sister,” she says, squeezing once before letting me go. “It’s almost time to eat.”
I’m finishing up some homework later that night when Gracie gallops down the hallway, grabbing hold of the doorjamb and swinging her gangly body into my room. Her nails are painted a bright, sparkly blue. “There’s a boy here for you,” she reports.
“What?” I had my earbuds jammed into my ears in an attempt to block out the rest of the world entirely. I didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. “Seriously?”
“Yep,” Gracie says, popping the P delightedly. “And he’s hot.”
“Oh god.” I check my hair in the mirror—end-of-the-day greasy, but there’s nothing to be done about it now—then slick on some ChapStick and head downstairs.
Gray is standing near the front door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his oversize sweatpants as he chats gamely to my parents about We Should All Be Feminists, which we’re going to be discussing at book club on Thursday. My mom looks completely enamored. My dad looks completely confused.
“So,” I say brightly. “You’ve met Gray.”
My mom raises her eyebrows. “We have,” she tells me, in a voice that unmistakably communicates the fact that up until this moment I’ve entirely failed to mention him. I didn’t think he was for real, I want to explain to her, although seeing him standing here like a friendly giant in my parents’ tiny foyer, it occurs to me again how wrong I was.