“We’ve had a report of some disturbing behavior,” Karen explains quietly. The principal is a short woman, tinier than many of the students walking the halls. Her hair is curly, and she wears glasses that were fashionable a decade ago. Having matriculated from the school herself, she often speaks candidly to the parents about her experiences, good and bad.
A large cherry oak desk overwhelms the office, which is filled with pictures of students past and present. Karen’s diploma from the high school hangs on the wall right below her degree from Wellesley in education and her master’s from Princeton.
“Drugs?” Marin’s voice rises in contrast to Karen’s, anger lacing it. Her father’s constant fear when they were growing up. “They are becoming too American,” he would complain to Ranee. He was sure that somehow, even with the strict regime they lived under, they would stray and humiliate him. Whether it was from dating, drinking, or substances, he was convinced they would lose sight of their way. They never did, but that never swayed his belief they would. That same fear now grips Marin. “Has she been found with some?”
“No,” Karen says. She sits back, assessing Marin. Her halo of hair covers the back of the leather chair. “How close are you to Gia?”
“Excuse me?” A shift in energy permeates the room. Karen is suddenly the protector and Marin, unsure what is going on, stands on the outside. “It’s time you told me what this meeting is about.”
Karen nods, accepting Marin’s demand. “During gym class, the PE instructor noticed bruises on Gia’s body. Your daughter thought she was alone in the locker room.” Karen waits before saying the words that will shift Marin’s world on its axis. “They were clear signs of a beating.”
The room begins to spin. Marin grasps the handles of her chair. She glances sideways, trying to focus on something. Her blood pressure drops, leaving her dizzy. Images of Brent invade her thoughts. For just a moment, she wonders if he woke up and is responsible. The fear grips her until she reminds herself she just saw him in the hospital, immobile and lost to the world.
“How? When?” The words echo in the room but she can’t promise she spoke them. “I don’t understand.”
“We don’t know.” Karen softens, seeming to get the answer she was searching for. “We hoped you could give us some insight.”
“You think I did this?”
Marin spent many afternoons in college reading about violence. The propensity to repeat the pattern. All the fancy verbiage to explain a simple rule—when you are beaten, you beat. You repeat what is familiar, what is programmed into your psyche as normal.
“You think I could beat my own daughter?”
“There are no accusations,” Karen says, drawing Marin back. “It is my responsibility to understand what happened.”
“My daughter was beaten. Apparently that’s what happened,” Marin says, trying to find her footing in a changed landscape. “Someone used her as a punching bag. Decided she wasn’t worthy of being treated with care or kindness.” She drops her head, trying to gather strength but finding none.
“Are you all right?” Pouring a glass of water, Karen sets it in front of Marin.
Marin tenses. Pushing her chair back, she stands. In a heartbeat she changes, returns to normal. The principal’s pity is fuel on a fire that has burned from childhood.
“Where is she?” Marin checks her watch. A little before noon. “Her morning classes just ended. She should be at lunch, right?”