“I’m not at liberty to discuss names,” Major said. “But it comes from an unimpeachable source. As does the information that Abigail was involved in the distribution and consumption of alcohol on campus Friday night.”
On Friday night, while Abby worked the closing shift at TCBY, the Albemarle football team suited up and trotted onto home field to battle Bishop England for last place in the division. It was the final game of the season, rescheduled from the homecoming rain-out, and tensions were high.
Ten minutes to game time and Coach Toole was freaking out because Wallace Stoney, his star quarterback, wasn’t there. Someone said he was making out with a girl in his truck, but no one could find him. Then Wallace strolled onto the sidelines, cool as a cucumber, right after the coin toss; Coach Toole was so relieved, he put him in the game immediately. By the end of the first quarter, Wallace was on his hands and knees at Albemarle’s thirty-
yard line, spraying vomit out his helmet. Medics rushed onto the field, thinking he was concussed. It took one whiff to convince them otherwise.
“Get your player off the grass” the ref told Coach Toole. “He’s drunk.”
The game collapsed into chaos, ending only when Major made his way down from the bleachers and ordered Coach Toole to forfeit. Albemarle Academy was officially the worst football team in South Carolina. And it was all Wallace’s fault. His house was egged on Halloween and someone threw a rock through the back window of his truck. He hadn’t shown up for school that morning.
“What happened at that game was a humiliation for this school,” Major said. “And although Abigail was not present, I have it on good authority that she was the individual who purchased alcohol and provided it to this student.”
“I didn’t—” Abby said before Major raised his hand to silence her. She turned to her mother. “Mom . . . ?”
“Miss Rivers,” Major said, “if you cannot control yourself, you may leave and I’ll discuss the matter with your parents alone.”
Trapped in Major’s overheated office, Abby felt a trickle of sweat dribble down her chest. Even without touching the skin on her face, she knew grease had started oozing through her makeup. Her empty stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Her dad kept rubbing his hands on his thighs. Shk . . . shk . . . shk . . .
“More importantly, a student has come to me and accused Abigail of theft,” Major rumbled on, mellow and unstoppable. “The stolen item is of great emotional value to this student. Stealing is an honor code violation, subject to immediate expulsion. I will ask at this point: Abigail, do you have it with you?”
Abby knew he meant Gretchen’s daybook. Gretchen knew Abby had it and she had gone to Major. He looked at her from underneath hooded eyes, and Abby stared straight ahead at a crack in one of the cinderblocks.
“Abigail?” Major repeated.
“I didn’t steal anything,” Abby said.
Major stared at her for another moment and then sighed.
“It is our considered opinion,” he said, “that you should remove Abigail to a less academically strenuous environment where she can receive the help and guidance that she needs.”
There was creaking from the right as Abby’s mom adjusted herself.
“Where’s that?” she asked.
“Not here,” Major said.
“Are you expelling her?” Mrs. Rivers asked.
“No one would benefit from Abigail being expelled,” Major said. “Which is why I have called you here this afternoon so that you may voluntarily withdraw her. In which case I would certainly be prepared to overlook the reports of her behavior I have received and write her a letter of recommendation that would guarantee her admittance to one of the many fine public schools in the Charleston area.”
Major’s eyes darted to his left, and Abby saw that a button on his phone was blinking. Instantly, his gray tongue slicked his lips, his head retreated to his shoulders, his voice went up an octave.
“Excuse me,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“Yes,” he said and then sat in silence, listening intently.
Abby’s parents didn’t have a clue, but Abby did. It was the hospital. Nikki Bull had told her what happened in first period that morning.
“Someone stole a baby,” she’d said.
“What?” Abby had asked.
“A dead one,” Nikki had said. “At the gross anatomy lab. They had babies in a bucket, and when we were there someone took one. I guess they counted them over the weekend and came up short. Mrs. Paul has been in Major’s office all morning. That’s sick, right?”
To Abby, it sounded like more Nikki Bullshit. But adminstration had conducted a search of Hunter Prioleaux’s locker during fourth-period break, and a substitute was teaching Mrs. Paul’s class. Abby couldn’t believe it. Someone had touched one of those sad, boneless things, shoved it in a bookbag, hidden it on the bus. It made her want to cry.
Major hung up the phone. He looked at it for a long minute, then returned his attention to Abby and her parents. “So, we are agreed?” he asked. “You will withdraw Abigail from Albemarle Academy and I will write her a letter of recommendation. You should have no trouble placing her in one of Charleston’s public schools. I feel this is best for everyone.”
He reached into the paper tray in front of him, took out a blank sheet, and uncapped his pen. Abby waited for someone to say something, but nobody said anything. Major began to draft his letter. Abby’s dad started rubbing his thighs faster: shk-shk-shk-shk . . .
Abby was being thrown out of school and no one was going to do anything. Her throat closed to the size of a straw and pressure built up behind her eyes. She dug her fingernails into the inside of her wrist, hiding it in her lap, trying to keep herself from crying. Whatever happened, she would not give them the satisfaction.
“There,” Major said, pushing the sheet of paper across his desk. “If you would read that and approve it, I’ll have Miss Toné type it up on letterhead, and you can take it with you when you leave. We’ll send Abigail’s transcript to whichever school you decide is best.”
He leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach, satisfied that his work was done. Abby’s mom didn’t pick up the letter. They all sat like that for a long moment, and then Major sighed.
“In light of Abigail’s troubles,” he said patiently, “this is the least disruptive course of action. She cannot continue at Albemarle, and if you force us to resort to expulsion, there will be no letter. Any school that takes her as a transfer student is going to call and ask me for my recommendation, and I will have no choice but to share my suspicions regarding her involvement with narcotics, providing alcohol to an underage student on campus, and this theft.”
“My daughter doesn’t do drugs,” Abby’s mother said. “She doesn’t drink.”
“Mrs. Lang,” Major rumbled, “any parent would say the same thing, but I suggest that you might not know your daughter as well as you think. Abigail—”
“I asked her,” Mrs. Lang said. “You saw me, and you heard her answer. She says she doesn’t do drugs. And while my daughter is a lot of things, she is not a liar.”
“Well . . . ,” Major began.
“What was that you said she made on her PSATs?” Abby’s mom said. “Oh, you didn’t. Well, I saw her scores. They were 1520. Now I haven’t seen the scores for your other students, but I’m betting that’s a darn sight higher than some of these Middletons and Tigners whose parents’ names are all over your buildings. And I know it’s Grace Lang who called you, because she called me, too. If anyone’s doing drugs, it’s that little girl of hers, but I understand why you’re being nice to the Langs. You’re going to squeeze a damn sight more money out of them than you’ll ever get from the Rivers. I don’t judge you for it. It’s your job.”
“I do not appreciate the accusation,” Major protested.