“Ava.” Granger seemed suddenly earnest. “I didn’t give you a C because your work was bad. I gave it to you because I know you can do better. You’re special—I expect more from you than I do from the other kids in class.” He cocked his head. “Do you write anything aside from school stuff?”
“I’ve written a few, um, essay-type things,” Ava admitted. “About things that happen to me. You know, stuff about my mom. Stuff about my family.” She shrugged awkwardly. “Not that anyone’s seen it.”
Granger nodded. “If something is weighing on you, writing is a great way to relieve the tension. So you like narrative nonfiction?”
“I guess so,” she said. “But I guess I see it more like a diary. It’s really just for me—no one else has ever read it.”
“Not even your boyfriend?”
“Not yet,” Ava said. Was that weird, that Granger was bringing up Alex? She tried not to let it bother her. Maybe he was just trying to be cool, show that he knew some of the school gossip.
“Well, I’d really like to read them.” Granger crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve got a fascinating mind, Ava. You’re beautiful and brilliant.”
“Thank you?” Ava said uncertainly. A teacher shouldn’t say she was beautiful. A teacher shouldn’t even notice what she looked like. But the way he was looking at her, Mr. Granger definitely noticed.
“So, um, my paper?” she blurted out, her voice squeaking.
“Of course.” Granger blinked as if coming out of a trance. “Let’s get to work on that.” But then he leaned forward. “Listen. If you don’t mind me asking, was everything okay with the police the other day? I was worried about you.”
A sour taste welled in Ava’s mouth. “Um, everything was fine,” she said in a small voice. “Just routine questions.”
Granger sniffed. “The cops shouldn’t be questioning kids. It’s scary and intimidating, and they’re never going to get anyone to talk that way.” His smile was kind on the surface, but Ava sensed another emotion below. “But enough of that. I just made a pot of Caffé Vita coffee. Best in all of Seattle. Can I get you a cup?”
Ava was still jittery from her earlier espresso, but she felt like it would be rude to say no. “Um, sure.”
She followed him into a kitchen with white ceramic countertops and a long, rough-wood table covered in camera parts and developing equipment. Pulling the coffeepot from its warmer, Granger poured two mugs and brought one to Ava. “I’m sorry about the mess.”
“What is it for?” she asked.
“Oh, hobby stuff. Let me just go ahead and move all this, okay? I need to remember to bring it to school for photography club anyway.” He scooped boxes labeled B&H PHOTOGRAPHY SUPPLIES into his arms. “Then we’ll get to your paper.”
“Sure.” Ava sat down on the edge of a chair when Granger stepped out of the room. She looked around his clean, efficient kitchen, noting the line of canisters by the sink, the red-and-yellow-striped dish towels hanging from the oven door, and a picture of Marlene Dietrich looking particularly mysterious.
Beep.
Granger’s iPhone, which he had left on the table, lit up. Ava looked at it and froze. On it was a picture message . . . of someone’s boobs.
She glanced in the direction of the front door, then slowly slid the phone toward her and looked again at the photo. It was a boob shot, all right . . . and there was a familiar poster of Casablanca on the wall. Ava felt her stomach turn.
This picture had been taken in their film studies classroom.
She unlocked the screen, and the icons flooded into place. With shaking hands, Ava clicked the Messages icon. Dozens of texts, most of them pictures of topless girls, filled the screen. Ava flicked through sext after sext, horrified. The numbers hadn’t been saved as contacts, and the girls never showed their faces, but Beacon was small. She recognized Jenny Thiel’s Texas belt buckle in one of them. There was Mimi Colt’s beloved Chanel tote on the desk behind her in another. There were Polly Kramer’s henna-tattooed hands, which she had meticulously redone every few weeks. She recognized seniors from last year, when Granger had started teaching at Beacon High.
Ava’s mouth was agape. He’d gotten all these girls to send him these pictures? What else had they done for him?
There was a small clicking sound, and Ava’s head popped up. Granger’s front door was still shut, but he was bound to come out any minute now. She was about to set the phone back down and get out when something else caught her eye—a number that she recognized.
What had Nolan Hotchkiss texted Mr. Granger?
Ava clicked open the text thread and saw that it consisted of only one thing—a video. She pressed play.
The video started in Granger’s classroom. Justine Williams, a brunette senior with puffy bee-stung lips, sat on the edge of his desk. Granger stood in front of her, between her slightly parted legs, and stroked her cheek. “Have you ever seen La Dolce Vita?”
“No,” said Justine in a slightly wavering, innocent voice.
He took her hands. “There is a scene where a couple wades into the Trevi Fountain in Rome. It’s so romantic. I can see us doing the same thing.”