Various Positions (29 page)

Ms. McGuinness looks at her watch and tells us to pack up. I follow Sixty out of the classroom and lean against a locker as she fills her Evian bottle at the drinking fountain.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

There are girls passing to our left and I signal with my finger to hold on a second, wait for them to go. I move in a little closer.

“I need you to do something for me. It’s going to sound strange, but I need you to do it anyway.”

She says nothing, but in her silence is a solemn pledge and she nods slowly.

“I need you to go to Roderick’s office and take something from his desk.”

“What?” she whispers.

“You’ll know,” I say. “It’s in the top right drawer.”

“How will I know?”

“You just—you
will
. It’s all wrapped up together.”

“And you want me to steal it?”

“No,” I say. “It’s mine.”

Her face brightens. I know she wants to ask more but I witness a silent decision to suppress her curiosity, help me out regardless of the cause.

“Okay,” she says. “Of course.”

*   *   *

When I get home from school, there’s a car I don’t recognize in the driveway. It’s wider than a car needs to be and the seats look oversized too, like they’re executive class on an airplane. The exterior is that type of sickly beige that exists only on cars, and in the falling afternoon light it looks deader than the sky. I walk around the car and peer in the window. There’s a leather folder on the passenger seat and beneath it a canvas bag, the kind they give away at nice supermarkets. I try to see what’s in the bag and make out the heels of running shoes, two puffy rubber soles like glazed meringues.

I’m careful putting my key into the front door. If there are visitors, they’ll be seated in the living room, and any noise will tip them off that I’ve walked in. I unlock it slowly and slip inside. The first voice is my father’s. It’s only five in the afternoon and he shouldn’t be home from work yet. I slip off my knapsack in the vestibule and step on the heels of my sneakers so that I can wriggle my feet out of them one by one. I take a single step into the hall, keeping my body close to the radiator so that I’m not visible, and listen.

Suddenly there’s nothing to hear. The whole room has turned off and I can only imagine what it looks like on the inside, three or four bodies like marble sculptures. They’ve heard me, whoever they are. I rise onto
demi pointe
and take one tiptoe step toward the kitchen.

“Georgia?”

It’s my dad’s voice. He comes into the hallway.

“We’d like to talk to you.” His voice is full of something terrible. He motions with his hand toward the living room.

I look at him and don’t move. I recognize something in his expression, a displeasure that hangs from his eyebrows. I’ve seen him look at my mom this way but there’s a difference in it now, a disgust that makes it worse.

“We need to talk to you,” he repeats.

Isabel and my mom are sitting on the sofa and Pilar is in the Morris chair with the worn leather seat. Pilar’s hands are folded between her legs, fingers interlaced and elbows on her knees, just as she faced me this morning. I look at my mom. Her face is white, maybe as frightened as mine is, and her hands smooth the fabric of her skirt.

“I understand that something very serious has happened between you and your teacher, Georgia,” my dad says.

My heart starts to drop. It’s a long, numbing descent, like sinking in cold water.

“Can you please tell us what happened?”

“Larry.”
My mom’s voice sounds stuck in her throat. Her eyes flick toward Pilar.

“Dad, maybe—” Isabel sits up a little straighter. “George, we know how … difficult this is. But let us help you. You’re not in trouble, we just … we need to understand.”

“Why don’t you start with what you told Isabel on the phone,” Pilar says.

In front of me are the knees of my jeans, fibers of white, cobalt, and navy woven together so tightly that they swoosh into a single blue. They’re the only thing I can look at; nothing else feels real.

“Georgia?” Pilar says.

“It’s okay,” my mom says to me. “If you’re not ready to talk yet, that’s okay.”

Pilar inhales sharply, a sound that’s almost an
um
, and my mom turns to her. It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve ever seen them together. My mom fiddles with her pearl but she meets Pilar’s stare, matches it.

“I think she’s ready,” my dad intervenes. “I think Georgia recognizes how serious this is and she’s going to pull herself together and explain.”

Something about his tone, the anger tucked into its corners, makes me turn my head. I look at him, the heavy folds along his forehead, and have a feeling like the one I had staring at Isabel. Who is he now that I know new things about him? I look down at his hands, mottled with brown egg spots. They’ve touched his students.

“Okay?” he asks.

I’m barely listening. The story of what happened is a million miles away. When I don’t say anything, Isabel sighs and Pilar moves forward in her chair.

“We’re really trying to be gentle with you,” Pilar says, “but maybe we’re not being clear enough. If anything of a sexual nature happened between you and Roderick, we are dealing with something criminal. It means that it’s vital that you’re honest with us so that we can protect you and all the other girls at school. You have a legal responsibility here.”

“You’re threatening her!” My mom stands up. “This is ludicrous.”

“Lena, please sit down,” my dad says. “Pilar’s just trying to help.”

“If Georgia isn’t ready to talk about it, then we need to give her time.” My mom turns to me. “It’s okay if you need time.”

“I don’t think that’s the right way to deal with this,” Pilar mutters.

My mom stares at her. Then she turns to Isabel. “I really wish you had come to me with this
first
, Isabel.”

“I don’t think we need to point fingers,” Pilar says. “I’m not sure what that’s going to accomplish.”

“Do you want some time to yourself for a bit?” my mom asks me. “Would you prefer to go upstairs?”

“This is—” Pilar speaks to my dad. “Georgia needs guidance. You need to tell her what to do.”

“Okay!” My mom’s hands fly up. “Thanks for that suggestion, Pilar. I think we can just about take it from here now.”

“Really?” Pilar’s eyes jump around the room. “Well … I can’t say you’ve made a very convincing case for yourself yet. You have a fourteen-year-old running around having …
sexual
relations with her teacher and you’re telling her that’s fine by you.”

My dad tries to interrupt, says, “Lena, Pilar.
Please
—”

“Shall I get your coat? Remind me what color it is.” My mom marches toward the alcove.

My dad mutters, “Jesus, Lena,” and pinches the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head and stares at the floor. I look at all of them. My mom is motionless with rage and Pilar looks to my dad for a second, hoping he might defend her. When he doesn’t, she gets up and storms out to the hall. Only Isabel is looking at me. I meet her eye, just for a moment, and it fills me with a deadness I can’t handle. I run out of the room, past Pilar, and pick up my knapsack and parka from where I dropped them on the landing, squeeze my feet back into my shoes. I rush out the front door.

At first I don’t know where I’m going. A February wind cuts my face, so I pull on my hood. I jog all the way to Avenue Road. It’s past rush hour and the bus schedule will be erratic now. I keep moving to stop my toes from going numb and only then do I realize where I should go. Sixty will have found the photos by now and I’ll feel so much better when they’re mine again. Then I can just crash in Chantal’s empty bunk. I hold on to the straps of my knapsack so that the whole thing doesn’t thud against my lower back as I run. There’s still a lot of traffic on the road, and I wonder what I look like to all the drivers approaching me from behind. There’s nothing very sexy about what I’m wearing, but I know some guys can find sexiness in anything. Maybe the tightness of my jeans over my bum makes them want to grab me. The thought sends a charge right up my groin. It’s like I’m them, looking at me, and their desire becomes a desire I can share. I watch the sides of the cars as they whiz by. I imagine male eyes in the blur of black windows.

It takes me half an hour to get downtown. When I get to the academy, I walk through the alley that leads straight to the residence. I press the buzzer beside the double glass door and speak into the plastic grate, give the supervisor my name. The door beeps and I go up to the second floor. I’m not in the mood to run into anyone right now, can’t imagine dealing with Anushka’s giggling or Veronica’s looks. I walk as quietly as possible, tiptoe almost, as if this will encourage people to stay in their rooms. I get to the end of the hall. On the wipeable board someone has used magnets to spell the names Laura and Chantal, in orange, yellow, purple, and red. I knock on the door.

“It’s me,” I say.

Sixty opens it. It takes her a moment to say hi. I follow her into the room and we sit on the lower bunk.

“Did you find it?” I ask.

She hums as though she hasn’t quite heard me. She gets up and moves to the mini-fridge by the closet. There’s a bag of SunChips on top and she pinches the plastic and rips it open.

“
Did
you?” I repeat.

“Did I what?”

“Find the
thing
?”

She’s facing the corkboard and she doesn’t do anything. Finally she nods a little. She turns around and there’s a strange look on her face. Her lips harden into an awkward rose and her eyes dart sideways, like they’re unsure where to go.

“Georgia—” She hesitates. “Who took those pictures?” Her voice is thin, a notch above a whisper.

“No one. You don’t understand.”

Sixty shakes her head. She comes over and sits beside me, her body skittish and compact. “Why did Roderick have pictures like that?”

“It’s not like that. You’re misunderstanding things.”

“Did something … did he do something to you?”

“Oh god!” I roll my eyes, try to laugh. “Of course not.”

I wait for her expression to change. It doesn’t. She brings her hands to her chin in a prayer shape. “What happened, Georgia? Are you okay?”

“Yes!” I stand up, let my hands slap my thighs. “I’m okay.
Look
, I’m okay. Can I just—can I have the pictures now?”

“You have to tell someone about them. Someone who can help you.”

“Can you please just give them to me?”

She looks down at her hands. “I don’t have them.”

I bolt up straight. “You said you found them!”

“I did. But I don’t have them anymore.”

“Where are they!”

Her head is down, eyes on her lap. “Please don’t be mad at me. I was so worried when I saw them.”

“You promised you’d give them to me!”

“I know. But when I saw them … I didn’t know what to do.” She looks up at me, her eyes huge, frightened. “What happened to you, Georgia?”

“Nothing! Nothing happened! Just tell me where they are.”

She takes a deep breath. “I gave them to someone who can help.”

“What!” The beat of my heart is crushing. “Who?”

She gets up and walks across the room to the door. She unzips the top compartment of her hanging toiletry bag. “Just someone. Someone who will really be able to help you.”

I watch her pull out a tube of toothpaste and a soap case. My eyes burn with tears. “Tell me who you gave them to!”

She opens the door, steps into the hall, and before she shuts it behind her she says, “I gave them to a staff member. Someone trustworthy who’ll do the right thing.”

The door starts to close. I get my foot in the crack. I’ll chase her down the hallway if I have to.

“Who?” I yell.

She doesn’t flinch. I reach out to grab her shoulder and Sonya Grenwaldt steps out of the bathroom. I must look like a monster because I feel like one, oxygen cinching in my throat and my skin flaming red, purple. I go back into the room and let my body drop on the floor. I bring my forehead down, let it lie flat on the scrubby rug. I imagine all the blood going to my head, torrents the color of ketchup. Even when Sixty steps back into the room, I don’t move. She slinks around me, opens her set of drawers, and then her cell phone twitches diagonally in the corner of the desk, bursts into song.

“It’s you.” She’s picked it up. “I mean, your number.”

I ignore her. She answers and addresses my mom as Mrs. Slade, tells her that I’m here and that I’ve already gone to sleep. My mom must push further, maybe demand that I be woken up, because Sixty insists that I’m safe and exhausted and will call her first thing the next day. The phone claps shut in her palm, is discarded back on top of the desk.

“Are you just gonna sit there like that?” She looks funny upside down, her frown inverted. Then something gives a little, softens her sternness, and she adds, “I did the right thing.”

This sets me off more than anything. “No you didn’t!” I yell. “You broke your promise. You have no idea what you’ve done!”

“You’re not being normal, Georgia. Those pictures … it’s not normal.”

“You promised me. You’re supposed to be my friend and you promised!”

“You’re not thinking straight!” she yells back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you but I’m just—I’m going to bed now.”

And in an instant she’s flicked off the light switch and my eyes press into darkness. I blink at the void, hear her climb up to the top bunk. I consider running out the door, maybe out of the building, but when my eyes have adjusted a bit, I just start to take off my clothes. I leave them in a pile beneath me and get under Chantal’s blanket in my underwear. If I were someone else, someone stronger, I would take the sourness coursing through me and do something with it. I would get up and shove Sixty against a wall, pin her arms behind her body, punish her for what she’s done. What staff member has she given my pictures to? The fear stabs the middle of my chest. I curl into Chantal’s sheets and let the sourness stay in my body, let it feed on my heart while I try to sleep.