Big Girl Small (37 page)

I tried to nod in a way that looked grateful.

“First of all, do you have any questions? Is there anything you’d like to ask or tell me now? About anything at all.”

I shook my head no.

“Well, feel free to interrupt at any time.”

We both waited.

“You may know already that there was a hearing held to determine accountability and suitable disciplinary action against Christopher Arpent, Kyle A. Malanack, and Alan Sarft, and that the school has expelled all three young men.”

I wondered if it was because her job required her to do a lot of paperwork that she listed them like that, in alphabetical order. She kept talking like a recorded court document.

“You may also know already that there was a thorough investigation into what happened.”

I said, “Oh,” and looked at her questioningly.

She smiled comfortingly. “In a case like this one, where what happened didn’t happen at school—and because force and consent are always murky areas—we, and especially your parents, were unequivocal in our desire to protect you from . . . any further suffering.” She gathered herself, sighed. “Everyone, even the prosecutors, frankly, agreed that a trial would be unlikely to lead to a punishment more severe than the school itself was able to dole out—and would benefit no one, least of all you, Judy. Because as unfair as it is, you would have been on trial too. And your parents urged strongly that this be dealt with as privately as possible, by the school community. In fact, they were quite forceful.”

I had an image of my dad shoving cops and reporters down onto the lunchroom floor and stepping on their heads.

Mrs. O’Henry had put her glasses back on and been peering down through them, but now she took them off again. A nervous habit, I guessed. Her eyes looked suspiciously red. “I have a daughter,” she said, and I glanced helplessly over at the photo of the grown-up on her desk. “I hope it isn’t presumptuous for me to say how brave and loving I think your parents have been.”

“What about the video?” I asked, partly out of curiosity and partly because I realized suddenly that I could ask Mrs. O’Henry certain questions with an impunity I didn’t think I’d ever have around my parents. “I mean, wasn’t that—I don’t know, was it a—” I couldn’t muster whatever was required to articulate the word
crime
.

“Honestly, Judy, two years ago, the state might have leveled pornography charges against the boys for making that video. But these days, this kind of thing is deemed an ‘educational issue,’ and schools have to assess each case on an individual basis.”

“Why?”

“Mainly because of sexting,” she said, sighing, and then we both sat there, grossed out that she even knew that word. She waited to see if I would ask why just because these days lots of teenagers send naked pictures of themselves and their friends over cell phones means that making that video wasn’t criminal. But I put a blank face on and out-waited her, so she continued. “We did feel it was essential in this case to notify the colleges the young men were planning to attend, of their behavior and expulsion. We have also required that Christopher, Kyle, and Alan issue formal apologies.”

At this, I thought I might drown. I forced my mouth open, felt the water rush in against my words: “To me, you mean?”

“Yes, dear. Each will write a—” Kyle’s letter had been part of his punishment. Part of his punishment. I thought of this clause several times, imagined saying it into a microphone, popping each
p
. Maybe he had meant some of it. Maybe he was sorry, and glad they’d asked him to write, because it allowed him to say he had cared about me.

Mrs. O’Henry was talking, but I had tuned out entirely until there was a knock on the door. I jolted up in my chair, turned to see Mr. Grames standing there, sweating.

“Good morning, Caroline,” Mr. Grames said to Mrs. O’Henry. “Good morning, Judy.” He paused, perhaps wanting to acknowledge that “good morning” didn’t suffice since I’d been missing for weeks, but unable to think of what else to say.

“Hi, Mr. Grames.”

He said, “Well, Judy, I’m so pleased to see that you’ve returned to school.” He seemed to mean it, even cleared his throat once while he was talking. Then we all sat there, dying. I started chewing on my bottom lip like it was a piece of gum. I wished desperately that I had put some in my mouth before this horrific meeting happened.

Mr. Grames, seeing that no one was going to come to his rescue, continued: “I hope you will feel free to ask me any questions you need to in the coming weeks, and that Mrs. O’Henry has helped you understand our response to the events of recent weeks, as well as the options Darcy Arts Academy will continue to make available to you.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grames.” I was thinking, two more letters on the way. Two more fake letters. What would they say? “Dear Judy, Sorry! From, Alan. P.S. See you at Fuller Pool in our bathing suits this summer”? Maybe Chris would write his as yet another dazzling scene in his screenplay: “Chris:
Sorry, Judy
. Judy:
No prob,
Chris, thanks for the great letter!
Blackout.”

It was typical that Kyle had already written his and those two other deadbeats couldn’t even get their letters done on time—he was always a better student. I was glad for the letters, in a way, though. I mean, at least I would have it in writing that they’d been wrong, and now if I ever wanted to, I could write back. Or call. And say whatever I decide I want to: Fuck you. Or: I forgive you. Or: I’ll never forgive you. Or I could not reply for the rest of my life. Because if someone writes to you, even if D’Arts makes them do it, then never responding is a meaningful gesture. It will be up to me forever now whether to give them any relief or forgiveness. Any words.

Mr. Grames was nodding at Mrs. O’Henry and me. He turned to leave, unable, even from behind, to hide his relief at escaping. Mrs. O’Henry and I looked at each other in a moment of odd intimacy at having been interrupted and then left alone again.

She started up. “We would like, if it’s agreeable to you, Judy, to have you evaluated. And we will offer as much counseling as you feel you would benefit from, either at school or with a professional of your and your family’s choosing. But it’s our hope that you will take us up—at least once a week. And if you’d like, you can meet with me once a week as well.”

Maybe I looked like I might faint, because she added, “You don’t have to decide anything now. You may take your time and come back to me whenever it suits you.”

“Evaluated for what?” I asked.

Now Mrs. O’Henry looked at me evenly. “What you’ve been through would be—well, difficult for anyone, Judy. Darcy—and I—care first and foremost about our students’ health and wellbeing. And we want school to continue to go well for you. All of your teachers are ready to have you back, and prepared to discuss strategies for how you’ll make up any work you missed.”

Had they had a meeting to talk about me? My life snaked out hideously on the horizon, an endless series of weekly meetings with shrinks and Mrs. O’Henry, forced forever to talk about what had happened, when my plan was to forget about it or file it in the folder in my mind marked, “Consider when you’re thirty and can potentially tolerate.”

Mrs. O’Henry seemed to be waiting for something, so I said, “Thank you.”

“Do you have any questions for us?”

I tried to pause long enough to appear to be thinking it over. “Not right now.”

Mrs. O’Henry put her glasses back on. “Are you okay going to class this morning?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What do you have next?” she asked. We both looked up at the clock. It was too late to walk into precalc.

“American lit,” I said.

“Oh, good,” said Mrs. O’Henry. I smiled, thinking, “Oh, good,” too. She stood up and I practically leapt to my feet. She kept talking as she came out from behind her desk to open the door for me. “I will check in again tomorrow; perhaps we can schedule your evaluation session for this Friday and your first counseling session for the following Monday? And maybe a sit-down with me to check in either next Wednesday or Friday. In the meantime, please come by my office anytime, even if we have no meeting scheduled. My door is always open.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. I was thinking—if Chris and Alan were about to write me letters, then that meant they were alive. This felt oddly surprising. If they were alive, then they would work it out, maybe spend a year sorry, and then be okay, go to college, have lives. We’d all grow up, and this would have happened, but someday it wouldn’t even be recent—for any of us, including me. Maybe they’d even have daughters some day and—“Judy,” I could hear Mrs. O’Henry saying as I turned to go, “I hope you’ll let us help.”

I nodded without looking back, walked out of the office with my eyes pinned to the floor. The hallway felt full of oxygen, and I was breathing thirstily when I looked up and saw that Ginger was standing outside the door, waiting, against the giant rainbow zebra mural. I looked up at her. Her eyes were watering, and she made no move to wipe them. A tear actually dropped on the floor. I imagined it splashing, as if our lives were happening in a slow motion close-up.

“I heard you were—so I—” She was wearing a gray zip-up sweatshirt with a picture of a bridge on it, and black running tights that had a pink band around the waist. Her hair was a mess. Dozens of people were walking by in a colorful blur, but I couldn’t make out any of them individually. I was watching Ginger cry, her shoulders folded inward like origami. I wanted to put my arm around her or something, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m glad you’re—” she took a breath and put her hands out, palms flat down, as if to steady herself, or maybe break a fall. “I should be asking you—are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, emboldened by how not-fine she seemed. Someone had to pull it together; maybe it would be me. “Hey, Ginger, so thank you for, uh, for—” I didn’t know where I was going with this. For fucking Kyle too? For getting humiliated a little bit less than I did but still badly enough to have diluted my humiliation? For letting everyone see whatever degrading video there was of you, too? For defending me?

I settled on “Sarah told me.”

Ginger nodded and put one of her raggedy, bitten hands on my arm. She had stopped crying. “So, hey, do you and Sarah want to, you know?” she made a little smoking gesture with her index finger and thumb.

I smiled, hoping someday we’d talk about what happened, thinking she had probably loved Kyle too. I could certainly forgive her that. Maybe Ginger and I would keep each other company, long after it no longer felt so incredibly terrible to have loved him.

“We could do it at your house again,” she suggested, still holding the imaginary joint, and I thought wow, had she liked coming to my house, eating the dinner my mom made us, watching Sam do his ridiculous dance on the rug? Maybe she wanted to share my family.

I was about to say that would be great when a pack of girls crossed the hall between Ginger and me, and the shape of Rachael Collins emerged from among them. “Judy!” she said, turning and peeling off the circle. Everyone else gave me lingering, interested glances, but kept walking. Except Jessica Lambkin, who hung back with Rachael. I thought immediately of everyone saying Jessica Lambkin had made out with her dad. I wondered how long it had taken her to feel like people weren’t thinking of it anymore, and tried to put it out of my mind, so I could be one of the people who didn’t imagine it every time I saw her.

“Well, I have to—see you soon, Judy,” said Ginger, wandering off.

“Hey, Rachael. Hi, Jessica,” I said, even though Jessica Lambkin and I had never talked, and I worried that even saying her name would be evidence that I was thinking about the story of her and her dad, keeping the lie alive. Of course, she could have used my name with impunity even though we’d never talked, just because I’m famous in this school. I mean, everyone, even in the impossible event that they haven’t seen the video, knows who I am anyway. Everyone’s always known who I am. I guess I’ll never have the benefits or drawbacks of being invisible.

“Hey,” said Jessica.

“How’s Cletus?” I asked Rachael. Jessica looked confused.

“He’s good,” Rachael said, smiling. “Our fetal cat,” she said to Jessica, who nodded vaguely. “More important, how are you?” Rachael asked.

“I’m good, actually,” I said, feeling for the moment like it might be true. “Thanks. Hey—listen, I’m really sorry about leaving you in the lur—”

She cut me off. “I totally understand, of course. I saved all my notes. Do you wanna hang out sometime and go over them so you’re ready for the AP?”

“That would be great,” I said.

“Anytime,” she said. “Just text me when you’re free.”

“I will,” I said, and we stood there for an extra second, smiling at each other, maybe because we both knew that I would text her. Or maybe we hoped for even more—that we would end up super close and stay friends for the rest of our lives after we both aced the AP and placed out of college freshman biology. It all seemed possible. I mean, I had been back at school for only half an hour and had already secured a lifetime of free, incredibly awkward counseling with Mrs. O’Henry, a pot date with Ginger, and a nerd date with Rachael. Maybe life would be fabulous from now on.

Upstairs, I peered into Ms. Doman’s room. She was sitting at her desk, writing something: grades, maybe, or an idea she wanted to save for later. I had the fully articulated thought “Please let me be like her. I don’t even have to be a singer. I can be something quiet, a writer, a teacher, Ms. Doman. Please. Just let me recover from this enough so that someday I can be the one waiting calmly while a girl like me stands in the doorway.” But when Ms. Doman looked up and saw me standing there, she didn’t seem at all calm. She almost knocked her chair over, getting up and rushing over to me. Then she crouched down in the doorway and did a whole full crazy tall-person-hugging-dwarf hug. She smelled like spring.

When she let go, I thought I heard her sniffle, so I moved away from her and set my books down—on the first desk in the first row.