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.
I have a million problems with this, none of which I’ve voiced, since Claire’s so rabid about the whole thing. But Juniper and me running against each other is a hilarious farce of an idea. Juni could ask the whole school to jump off a bridge, and they’d be like, “Brilliant! Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”