Like It Never Happened (25 page)

Now Mary stared at me. “What's the matter?” Then, remembering the shambles my life was in: “It's going to be fine, Rebecca. I swear you didn't do anything wrong.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

“Of course.” As if she had absolutely no memory of me standing in the backyard, going on and on about kissing my teacher.

Blinded by tears and still kind of laughing, I confessed, “I miss him.”

“Yeah.” Mary's eyes darted to the rearview mirror. “I can imagine.”

O
n Monday morning our teacher began
,
“
For today's activity, you will work in groups of two.” Heads swiveled as everyone made eye contact with their preferred partner. I could have sworn I saw Tim shift in my direction. Then our teacher clarified, “
Which
I have taken the liberty of selecting.”

I had probably imagined it anyway. Tim's loyalty to Charlie was evident.

An odd number of kids meant I was partnerless, which figured. Lately teachers were having a hard time acknowledging me. Probably they worried if they showed me even the slightest bit of attention, I would attempt to bed them.

I left the classroom to get a drink of water. I took my time walking to the farthest drinking fountain, near the office. I wasn't exactly feeling better, but my constant panic had sort of assumed its own shape. It felt almost separate from me, like a guest. Maybe it would leave someday and maybe it wouldn't.

After taking a long drink, I leaned against a row of lockers, letting the cold of the metal seep through my shirt. The play would have opened this week, and I still had to remind myself that it wasn't going to happen. I still had to stop myself from whispering lines under my breath. I had never cared so much about a role.

Now I realized I would never play Blanche DuBois—not even years from now, on a stage in New York City. Because in my mind, the play included entire scenes Tennessee Williams hadn't written: Stanley yanking on Blanche's sweater in a dark bedroom. Stanley and Blanche fuming in the foyer, attempting to extinguish the truth with a kiss.

Slowly, I made my way back to class. Rounding a corner, I practically crashed into Principal Gladstone.

“Rebecca!” Gladstone threw a hand to his chest, like the shock had affected his heart.

I looked up at him, unable to keep the desperation out of my eyes. The investigation had to be almost over. I would have explained how my entire life hinged on the verdict, if that wasn't exactly what he feared.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “Do you have a hall pass?”

“Uh.” Was he really going to pretend like it mattered? “I was thirsty.”

“Well, get back to class,” he said briskly.

I almost reached out to stop him. I almost lost control, like I had with Detective Bunt, and later with the secretary, and most recently with Charlie. But Gladstone shot me an authoritative look over his shoulder, and suddenly I understood: He wasn't looking at me like I was the victim of an unspeakable crime.

He was looking at me like I was a student, late for class.

At home, my parents stood in the kitchen, identical cups of tea abandoned on the counter behind them. Dad handed me my cell phone. “Your laptop is upstairs,” he said. “On your desk.”

“It's over?” I asked, sliding the phone into my hip pocket. Dad was strangely calm, but my heart was going a million miles an hour.

“Your principal called this morning and asked us to come down to the school. There was no evidence.”

I let myself sink into his arms. It's not that I was overjoyed or anything. I knew things were still far from normal. But I felt a massive wave of relief—like someday, maybe, everything would be okay.

“Your teacher resigned,” said Dad.

“He did?” I tried to sound nonchalant and not at all devastated.

“The school will assure everyone the evidence was fabricated, but of course, that won't be enough for some people. Mr. McFadden didn't want to cause any more trouble.” Dad patted my shoulder blades tentatively. My mother remained slumped against the dishwasher, looking vaguely upset.

“What's wrong?” I asked, feeling an absolute lack of patience for her.

She looked pointedly at a thin file folder on the counter. With a sharp intake of breath, my father said, “Linda. Honestly?”

I grabbed the folder. Quickly, Dad explained, “The school provided us with the only instance they found of your director crossing any student-teacher boundaries.”

Inside the folder was a single page printed from my school e-mail account. But the e-mail wasn't from Mr. McFadden. It was from Charlie, dated September, back when things were good between us—at least as good as things ever were. The first paragraph referenced an awkward moment from rehearsal: Mr. McFadden asking Liane not to “gasp with such euphoria.” When she had looked confused, he had said kind of tactlessly, “Try to avoid turning the scene into a Herbal Essences commercial.”

Liane had blushed, but I hadn't even understood the joke. Charlie had refused to explain at the time, but he had gone home and sent me a link to a clip on YouTube. He had compared the lady's moans to a noise I made involuntarily the first time he slid his hand inside my pants.

For the record, my noise had been of surprise and encouragement. Not euphoria. But Charlie could interpret things however he liked. The e-mail really had nothing to do with Mr. McFadden. It was just a dumb note from my boyfriend, back when he still kind of liked me.

Which apparently both my parents had now read. My mother looked completely disturbed—like it didn't even matter that I hadn't slept with my director, because
this
had happened. I was mad. Humiliated, but mostly mad.

Crumpling the page and throwing it in the trash, I faced my mother. “I can't apologize for this,” I said.

Her eyes focused passively on the floor.

“I never thought you would read it.” I raised my voice. “I didn't even
write
it.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better,” she said primly.

This was the same woman who had bragged to her friends about my perfect relationship, and forced me into a perfect yellow dress, and practically begged me to be a better girlfriend—like Charlie's attention was worth so much.

“I didn't even have sex with him!” I shouted. “I've never even had sex with
anyone
!”

My father's cheeks were blazing. I felt sorry for him, but I couldn't stop. “Did you ever think about
not
reading my e-mail? Like when the school said, here's a private letter that this kid sent to your daughter before he ruined her fucking life—did you ever think,
No
thanks,
that's
not exactly
something
I
would
like
to
read
?”

I was closer, physically closer, to my mother than I had been in days. I could feel her heat and smell her sage-scented deodorant. She tilted back her head to stop the flow of tears.

“I hate you!” I screamed so loud I expected the windows to rattle.

My father grabbed my arm. “You may not speak to your mother that way.”

I screamed again. I channeled Mary Rivers, the night she ran away from home. Every muscle in my body went tense with defiance. Flaring my nostrils and widening my eyes, I was practically daring him to hit me.

“Apologize to your mother,” he commanded. My anger did not infect him. He stood steady and placid—like he understood the worst was over.

“No,” I whispered.

He released my arm. “Then go to your room.”

What I really wanted was to build a nest of blankets and invest in a week's worth of Rolos and watch the trashiest stuff on television.

The list of things I
didn't
want was much longer. I didn't want to hear the inevitable knock on my bedroom door. I didn't want to do my homework. I didn't want to go to school in the morning, where everyone would be whispering. They would try to explain Mr. McFadden's resignation, insisting
something
must have happened—a kiss, a hug, a risky compliment—and I would be forced to remember that nothing had. Not even once.

Most of all, under no circumstances did I want to see Charlie Lamb ever again.

School would be out for winter break at the end of the week. Mr. McFadden was not coming back. Why should I? Did the general wisdom behind graduating and getting a diploma really apply after the entire school proved its capacity to turn against me?

Besides, there were other high schools in Portland, the kind with thousands of kids and security guards in every hall and low academic standards and no funding for the arts. In a place like that, nobody would notice a new girl. They would think I had been there the whole time.

For now I climbed into bed, still wearing all my clothes, and fell asleep. It was a weird thing I did sometimes when I couldn't deal with the present circumstances. I would just fall asleep.

Downstairs, my parents were still fighting and the sound pervaded my dreams, but in a meaningless way, like flies buzzing. Sometime after dark, when we would normally be eating dinner, Dad knocked on my bedroom door. I knew it was him. Linda Rivers didn't knock.

I sat up in bed and croaked permission. Dad entered the room—not unbravely: The room smelled like a week's worth of panic—and perched on the edge of my desk. I felt an unlikely surge of affection for him as he crossed his arms and shifted his weight. His hair was whiter than ever. He hadn't abandoned me like he had Mary, all those years ago. In a strange, practically condescending way, I was proud of him.