The allegations against this teacher—that he has had inappropriate emotional and physical relationships with his students; that he has invited students into his home under academic pretexts and made advances of a sexual nature; that he has retaliated against students who have spoken up about his behavior—are true. We report this information with confidence in our sources, because our sources are each other. Both of us have experienced this teacher’s behavior firsthand.
We trusted him. We looked up to him. We found him charming and charismatic. And he took advantage of us. We were not special. We were not, as he told us, “old souls.” We were simply his students.
When one of us came forward with these allegations, Bridgewater Preparatory’s official position was that the administration did not have enough credible information to pursue further disciplinary action against this teacher. When the other of us admitted her strikingly similar situation, we could not help but question if she would be met with the same response. Would she, too, be asked if she was simply “confused” by the situation? Would she suffer the same rumors? Would she, too, be accused of looking for attention?
We write this letter today to shine a light on a dark place at Bridgewater, and also in the hope that any other student who has had a similar encounter—be it with this particular teacher, another authority figure, or someone else at this school—will feel safe and supported should they choose to come forward.
We believe you.
Sincerely,
Marin + Chloe
Thirty-Five
Our piece goes to print on the front page of the paper the following Monday, my first day back at school after suspension. I take care of the editing and Chloe somehow manages to keep the whole thing a secret from the rest of the staff, including, of course, Bex.
Newly unsuspended or not, there’s no way I can sit through Bex’s class this morning, so I head outside as the bell is ringing for the start of third period. It’s almost spring now, the cold air laced with the smell of something damp and briny. I cross the muddy field and make my way up the bleachers, climbing halfway to the top before sitting down and tilting my head back toward the weak midday sunshine, like a new plant desperate to grow.
I don’t know how long I’m sitting there, the light making patterns on the insides of my eyelids, before somebody calls my name from the other side of the field. I open my eyes and there’s Gray crossing the fifty-yard line below me, backpack slung over one broad shoulder. He’s off his crutches now, but he’s still walking with just the tiniest limp, the kind you wouldn’t even notice if you hadn’t spent the whole semester noticing things like the way he normally walks.
“Hey,” I call back, holding up one hand in greeting as he makes his way carefully up the wide metal steps. He’s wearing a Bridgewater hoodie over his uniform, his ridiculous step counter fastened securely around one wrist. “You back up to twenty thousand per day yet?”
“Getting there,” he reports with half a smile. He hesitates a moment like he’s asking for permission before I nod, and he settles himself down beside me, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“I read your piece,” he says, nodding at the Beacon sticking out of his bookbag. “I think it’s awesome. I mean, it’s shit what happened to your friend Chloe, obviously, but . . . That was really brave of you guys.”
I muster a smile. “Thanks.” The truth is, it doesn’t feel brave at all: I’m glad Chloe had the chance to talk about what Bex did to her. I’m a little nervous I’m going to get expelled. But mostly I’m just sort of numb. It’s like I keep waiting for some cinematic moment to signal I’m totally over everything that happened, that means it’s all done and dusted. But the hard, frustrating reality is that all I can do is move on one day at a time.
Both of us are quiet for a minute, watching as a couple of Canada geese totter across the field, honking irritably at each other. A chilly wind rustles the budding branches on the trees.
Finally Gray takes a breath. “I told my moms I don’t want to go to St. Lawrence,” he confesses.
“You did?” I whip around to look at him, everything that’s happened between us momentarily forgotten. “How’d they take it?”
Gray shrugs. “I mean, they weren’t thrilled,” he admits. “They lawyered me pretty hard. But eventually we made a compromise—I can take the job at Harbor Beach as long as I’m also taking college classes someplace local, Bunker Hill or UMass or someplace. So I think I’m gonna do that.”
“Good for you,” I say, reaching out to squeeze his arm like a reflex before remembering myself and dropping my hand awkwardly. “I’m, um. Really proud of you.”
“Thanks,” he says, smiling a little sheepishly. “You’re kind of the person who inspired me to do it, actually. I guess I figured if you could put yourself on the line, then at the very least I could nut up and tell my moms I didn’t want to play sports at college.”
I laugh, I can’t help it, and then my face abruptly falls. “Gray, I’m really sorry.” This time I do touch him, just the tips of my fingers against the sleeve of his shirt. “About like . . . everything. I was a total asshole to you, and you didn’t deserve it at all.”
Right away, Gray shakes his head. “Hey,” he says, “don’t even sweat it. You were going through a thing, you know?”
“I mean, I guess so,” I say, unwilling to let myself off the hook quite so easily. “But that’s not an excuse. You were a really, really good boyfriend, and I took a bunch of stuff out on you that wasn’t actually your fault. And I’m sorry.”
“Really, Marin, don’t worry about it.” Gray waves me off. “We had fun, right?”
“I—yeah.” That stings a little—both the words themselves and his casual shrug as he says them; just like that, he’s the guy I thought he was back in October, a vaguely douchey lacrosse bro only looking for a good time. I think it could have been more than just fun, whatever there was between us. I guess I thought it was. But I’m pretty sure I missed my chance now. “Yeah,” I say again, brushing some imaginary lint off my jeans. “We had fun.”
Gray nods, like he’s glad that’s all settled. “So, um, what about you?” he asks, clearing his throat. “You figure out where you’re headed in the fall?”
“Amherst,” I report, aiming for excited and mostly getting there—it’s still an awesome school, even if it’s not the one my gram went to, and I know I’m incredibly lucky to have the option at all. “Sent in my deposit yesterday, actually.”
“You’re going to be amazing wherever you go,” Gray predicts easily, like it’s just a given. “Amherst’s not too far either.”
I look over at him in surprise, not sure what he means—not too far from here? Or from him? The miracle of Gray was always how easy he was to talk to. But now it’s like I don’t know how.
“No,” I agree finally, careful. “Not too far.”
Gray smiles. For a second it feels like he’s going to say something else, or maybe like I am—like there’s unfinished business here and both of us can feel it. But the bell rings for the end of the period before either one of us can find the words.