“Sawyer,” Principal Chappie said, arm extended. “This is Ms. Alum, the grief counselor.”
Sawyer swallowed hard, looking from Principal Chappie to the tiny, dark-haired grief counselor who couldn’t have been more than five years older than she was. She had heavy black lashes over wide, eager, brown eyes and a pin-tucked charcoal suit that was all at once businesslike and sexy.
“I don’t need to see a grief counselor, Principal Chappie. Sorry, Ms. Alum. They already make me see a psychologist twice a week. I’m really kind of grief-counseled out.” Sawyer hiked her backpack up her shoulder and turned to go, but was stopped when she came chest to tweed-coated chest with a mustached man, his stubby fingers clutching a black leather notebook.
“And this is Detective Biggs.”
Sawyer’s breath hitched. “Oh.”
Heat washed over her cheeks and Sawyer fought to stay cool, thinking that the detective could somehow sense her guilt, her confusion over the night, over the muddied shoe underneath her bed.
“Hello, Sawyer.”
Sawyer forced her muscles to move and felt her head bob in a semblance of a nod.
Detective Biggs offered a smile that wasn’t really a smile, his teeth a faded, nicotine yellow. “I’m sorry we have to meet again this way. Under these kind of circumstances.”
“Yeah,” Sawyer said, licking her bottom lip as her pulse started to speed. Up until Kevin’s death, she had never even seen a detective that wasn’t on television. Now, she seemed to have her own personal one.
Detective Biggs stared at her, and Sawyer felt the insane urge to bolt. She didn’t want any of this to be happening. She wanted to be normal again, to be staring at the clock in biology class, deciding which dress to wear to prom.
“Can you take a seat, please, Ms. Dodd?” Principal Chappie’s voice was kind.
Sawyer took a small step back, the detective’s eyes still on her. His face broke into what passed as a smile for detectives, Sawyer guessed. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Sawyer.”
Sawyer didn’t like the way the detective used her name when he spoke to her, holding it in his mouth and then pressing out the syllables. Sawyer sank into a chair opposite Ms. Alum, and Detective Biggs sat down next her, pulling out the same leather notebook he’d had at Sawyer’s house. Sawyer vaguely wondered if he bought them by the case. “This is just some routine questioning, you understand.”
Sawyer looked at the ring of faces around her: Ms. Alum’s was pretty but pinched with an attempt to look both serious and sympathetic; Principal Chappie’s lips were pressed together and he kept rubbing his thumb over the face of his watch, his impatience evident; and Detective Biggs looked as though he’d just waddled out of a cop show with a few crumbs of powdered sugar at the edge of his mouth, his caterpillar eyebrows sharp Vs.
“Routine questions about what?” Sawyer wasn’t sure she’d actually asked the question. The voice that came out was subdued and strange, and though she couldn’t understand why, she felt herself flush, felt her knees weaken and the all-too-familiar salivating that came before vomiting.
“Oh God. I’m sorry but I think I’m going to be sick.”
Ms. Alum patted Sawyer’s back soothingly. “Shall I take you to the ladies’ room?”
Sawyer shook her head, and Detective Biggs pushed a Styrofoam cup of water into her hands. She took a small sip, her eyes flashing behind the cup.
“I think I’m okay,” she said finally.
Seated there in the school conference room, Sawyer worked the rim of a Styrofoam water cup with her fingernails for a full minute. No one said anything. Finally, Ms. Alum broke the silence. “Are you feeling better?”
Sawyer nodded.
“It’s perfectly normal to have visceral reactions to emotionally charged situations.”
Sawyer nodded again, letting Ms. Alum’s textbook conversation drift over her. “There’s just been a lot going on.”
“You mean because of Kevin.”
It had become the stock answer and Sawyer gave the stock response: a mute nod followed by a watery-eyed stare—a broken-hearted teenager mourning the death of her first love.
Ms. Alum reached out her hand as if she wanted to pat Sawyer’s, but she thought better of it, or remembered the litigious nature of school parents, and folded her hands in her lap. “Do you want to talk about him?”
“No.”
“Then how about Mr. Hanson?”
Sawyer swallowed heavily, feeling the need to vomit again. “Why are you asking me about him?”
“We’re asking everyone. I understand that Mr. Hanson was a popular teacher among the junior class. You had him for Spanish sixth period, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“His death must come as quite a shock and especially to you, after what happened.”