“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she asks softly, and everything wakes up again. The something leaps to its feet and prowls.
I untangle myself from her.
“Didn’t you have proof that you didn’t cheat?” she asks. “Did he name the person who said you did? When he had to file the paperwork about you failing?”
I blink at her, stupid little bitch echoing in my head.
“He . . . I don’t know,” I say. “Administration called in my parents a few days later, told them what happened.”
“And your parents never questioned it?”
I swallow. “I . . . I don’t . . .” But I can’t get it out. I can’t say I never gave them a reason to, even though it’s true. In Empower, Charlie has seen me speak out for so many issues, so many girls and queer kids. But never myself. Not directly, at least. I’ve lumped myself in with my labels—?girl, bi, queer—?but I still can’t seem to really apply any of it to the person I see in the mirror every day. That girl is still voiceless, still scared.
“Mara, you have to tell them now,” she says.
“What? No.”
“Why not? You need . . . god, Mara, you need to tell them. They need to know, get that asshole fired and locked up.”
“I—”
“Oh my god, does he still work there? Does he still teach?”
I press both hands to my forehead, trying to calm my thoughts.
“Does he?” Charlie asks, and all I hear is stupid stupid stupid. The fact is, I know he still works at Butler. He teaches prealgebra and coaches the boys’ basketball team, and I caught a glimpse of him through the velvet curtains last spring when all the middle schools in the county were bused over to watch Pebblebrook’s production of Guys and Dolls. He looked exactly the same and was talking with a smiling female student as they filed into the auditorium. During the show, I lost him in the crowd and lights, and I’d never been so glad to be denied a principal role in the musical as I was that day.
Now all I can think about is that smiling girl. His student. I’m sure she trusted him, liked him, thought he was cute. She had wavy brown-red hair. It was long, coiling more than halfway down her back. Just like mine.
I wonder if she was in summer school this past June and July.
“Mara.”
I wonder if she was scared.
“Mara, look at me.”
I wonder if she fought back.
“Mara, you have to—”
“Charlie, shut up!”
She blanches, her mouth falling open. A mom and her young son walk by the tent, shooting us alarmed glances, their arms piled with stuffed animals and buttery bags of popcorn.
Charlie leans in closer, lowering her voice. “I’m just trying to—”
“To help. I know. To do the right thing. I know that too. But it’s not that easy—?it’s not black and white.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . Mara, I’m worried about you. This is huge and you’ve been dealing with it alone for three years. And yes, it is black and white. He’s a scumbag and a child molester.”
“I know he is. And I know he’s the asshole here. What he did is black and white, yeah, but dealing with it isn’t. Did you know he was awarded Teacher of the Year that spring? Teacher of the fucking Year. It never even entered my parents’ minds that he might be lying about my cheating. Because why the hell would the teacher of the year lie about a stupid little girl’s tests? No one would believe me. They wouldn’t have then. They sure as hell won’t now.”
“I believe you. And I believe Hannah. Belief does happen.”
I know she’s right. But no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, my own belief is so mixed up with my brother, I can’t see the situation clearly. Can’t see what to do about it. Can’t help Hannah, can’t hate Owen, can’t say anything that matters. Anywhere I turn, I’m betraying my own—?my friend, my brother, myself. Belief isn’t easy, it isn’t black and white.
“I just want to move on,” I say. I shove my hands through my hair, fingers tangling in my curls. “I just want to let it go. I can move on.”
