With one last scan of the auditorium, I give up my search, and preoccupation sneaks into my head. God knows what percentage of the student body skips assemblies, but I see a hell of a lot of empty seats—and I can’t help thinking that my sister’s supposed to be in one of them.
We keep getting calls at home about my sister skipping class. It’s the most bored-sounding voice mail of all time: “This is a recorded message from the Republic County School System. We are calling to inform you that Katrina Scott missed one or more classes today. Please send an excuse note within three days.”
The messages baffle me. What is Kat doing when she skips? She doesn’t have a car or as far as I know friends she could skip with. Not that I know much about Kat these days—she seems determined to delete me from her life by whatever means necessary. If it keeps going this way, I should watch out for snipers.
The lights dim, and the auditorium doors clank shut at the back. Teachers close in, standing guard on either side of the exit, as if they’re trying to discourage a revolutionary uprising. The stage lights glow as Principal Turner approaches the podium.
It’s a nice gesture, the podium and the microphone and all, but Ana Turner doesn’t need any of it. Our principal is a pearl-laden Air Force veteran in her mid-thirties, with the glare of a guard dog and the bark to match. Every time she opens her mouth, everyone under age twenty within a mile has a minor panic attack.
She clears her throat once. Silence drops like a bomb.
“Good afternoon,” she says, wearing a weirdly upset expression. I say “weirdly upset” because Turner has always done a stellar job of convincing the school that she does not, in fact, feel feelings.
She folds her hands on the podium. “Faculty and students, I’ve called this assembly to address a serious issue that has been brought to the administration.”
“This ought to be good,” I whisper to Juniper, rubbing my hands together. “You think they caught the guy who’s been pooping in the third-floor old wing?”
Juniper grins, until Turner says, “We’ve received word that a teacher at Paloma High is having romantic relations with a member of the student body.”
I blink a few times before it registers.
I look over at Juniper. Her mouth has fallen open. Noise swells back to life around us, and Principal Turner clears her throat again, but this time, the chatter doesn’t subside. Appearing to resign herself to the chaos, she talks over it. “The message we received was anonymous, submitted via our website. While it didn’t include names, we take such accusations seriously. If you have any information whatsoever about the matter, please come forward to myself or a guidance counselor. In the meantime, we’ve mailed a letter to your parents. It should arrive within two to three days.” The talk buzzes higher. Her voice booms out to compensate: “These measures are for the purpose of complete transparency. We can and will resolve this matter soon.”
I fold my arms, glancing around. The expressions in the sea of faces vary: shock, nervousness, and excitement. Normally I might wonder why anyone would get excited about a teacher-student sex scandal, but hey, even rumors of regular sex get our delightful peer group stirred up.
Turner brushes sweat off her forehead—apparently, even she isn’t impervious to the heat—and glances back down at her notes. “Unsubstantiated allegations like these are worrisome, but they serve as an important reminder that the student body’s safety is our first priority. We’ve called this assembly to reiterate our code of conduct and ensure a safe learning environment. I’ve asked Mr. García to prepare a brief presentation on how to handle unwanted sexual advances.”
Turner nods toward the wings. Our English teacher, Mr. García, wheels out an overhead projector and slides a transparency sheet onto it, a nice little throwback to the mid-1990s. García’s whole vintage obsession turns from quirky to exasperating whenever technology’s involved. Seriously, who gets nostalgic for overhead projectors?
As Turner exits the stage, García launches into a lecture. The longer he talks, the less sense any of it makes. I’ve seen shit like this on the news, but it always seems to be a crazy gym teacher and a pregnant fifteen-year-old. The idea of our gym teachers impregnating anyone makes me want to throw up—they’re both, like, sixty-five. It makes even less sense to look at it from the kid’s perspective. What person my age would get themselves into this? Wouldn’t they realize how life-ruining it would be if their name got out?
There are a few teachers young enough for a hookup not to be that gross. I always catch guys drooling over the econ teacher, Dr. Meyers, who’s short and curvy and in her mid-twenties. The calculus teacher, Mr. Andrews, is handsome in a super pale, vampire sort of way. And Mr. García’s definitely hot. Not my type, though. With the way he gets all swoony when he talks about Mercutio, I’m ninety percent sure he’s gay.
God, though, I can’t imagine any of them hitting on a student. Sometimes girls make eyes at Andrews or García, but if the teachers notice, they don’t let on. As for Dr. Meyers, she sent some kid to the office last year for saying she looked “real sexy today, Doc.” Points for her.
Half an hour later, the Powers That Be release us from the brick oven of the auditorium into the November afternoon. The chill air tastes crisp. As the sun’s harsh glare assaults my eyes, part of me feels as if the assembly weren’t real. A heat hallucination, maybe. Juniper and I head down the hill toward the junior lot. She seems just as dazed.
A voice jolts us out of our stupor. “Hey, guys!”
We stop at the edge of the parking lot, a few paces from Juniper’s Mercedes. Claire jogs up to us, her frizzy red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail for tennis practice. She elbows me. “Missed you at the assembly, lady.”
“I looked for you—promise,” I say. “Couldn’t see you. There were, like, you know, a thousand people in there.”
“True.” She clears her throat. “Where are you guys going?”
Shit. That expectant tone means I’ve forgotten something. “Um,” I say, shooting Juniper a frantic look. “To, uh . . .”
“Nowhere,” Juniper says. “Dropping off our stuff before the meeting.”
Right—student government. Juniper and I both promised Claire we’d run for junior class president, so she had at least two people guaranteed to be on the ballot.