In his arms, I was…worthy.
“You’re special, Beth Fraser.”
“You’re brave.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
He told me all these, and more that I couldn’t remember right now. Because, my chest was too tight, my hands too clammy and my thoughts were slipping through.
Anxiety wound itself tight around my ribs. Eyes were on me, pressing into me, everywhere and nowhere at once.
Rowan McRae wanted to stay, you know.
Rowan McRae was not a monster in the slightest.
But I was about to make him one.
“Beth Fraser?” The thick, accented voice rang across the room, settling on my skin like a cold, wet blanket.
“Yes, Principal Rozanov.” I didn’t dare to lift my head, too afraid of his piercing grey eyes that might rip the truth out of my chest.
“Look at me,” he urged, voice softening, but only a fraction.
Reluctantly, I lifted my head, my fingers picking at the loose thread of my arm warmer, my heart racing.
The skin on Principal Rozanov’s forehead was creased due to stress, or irritation, and his lips were in a thin line. He tried to smile, almost did, but it ended up looking like a grimace.
Patrick Rozanov wasn’t a tall man. But he had a very intimidating exterior, a voice that echoed like a gunshot. I heard he was once a soldier in the Soviet Union before he moved to Scotland with his family. Soldiers were cold and scary. Now, make that a Russian soldier. The man could gun anyone down with a simple eye contact. And currently, I was forced to hold his gaze and tell a few, little lies.
“I want you to know that you’re safe here,” he said, his voice calculated and controlled. “You’re not in trouble.”
But I was. Well, I would be if I didn’t act the script Mother had shoved into my hands at the hallway before I slipped into this room.
“I–” he started, then paused, acknowledging the other members of the committee that were present at the table, with a measured sweep of his eyes.
There was the headteacher, Mrs. Fallon, the president of the disciplinary committee, Mrs. Kerr, and Mr. Coker, the schoolcounsellor. “–We just want to know what really happened,” he continued. “Power dynamics can be very confusing at your age. So whatever happened, we have a good feeling it’s not your fault.”
‘It was my fault,’I wanted to say.But I simply nodded instead. Because sometimes, nodding was easier than thinking.
“Miss Fraser,” Mrs. Fallon called, her voice clipped but not unkind. “Remember, there’s no wrong answer.”
I adjusted on the wooden chair uncomfortably, my throat seeming to be packed with cotton, my heart hammering in my chest.
“We want to establish the facts surrounding your relationship with Mr. Rowan McRae.” It was Mr. Coker that spoke now, his Nigerian accent managing to slip through, like it always did randomly when he was trying to sound serious and firm. “You’re not in trouble. You’re protected here. Okay?”
Protected.
The word felt heavy, foreign now.
Mrs. Fallon leaned forward, spectacles hanging daintily on her button nose, her arms, lined with wrinkles, folded on the table. “Let’s start simple. How long have you known Mr. Rowan McRae?”
“He was my teacher,” I answered, staring at the scratches on the table, wondering who made it, how nervous the person must have been that day. “My math teacher. For a year.”
“When did the relationship begin?” someone asked. I didn’t know who was who anymore. The world around me was starting to spin out of focus. Too many eyes were on me. Too many people were judging me.
My fingers curled into the hem of my arm warmer tighter, like it had the capacity to keep me afloat.
“I don’t know,” I said.
