THE FIRST TIME I GOT CALLED INTO A PRINCIPAL’S office, I was nine. I told one of my teachers that his breath smelled like fish and that he looked like my dad, if my dad were a century older. It didn’t go over well. I remember telling the principal, “My parents always said to be honest.”
The second time, I was fourteen. I had been in a fight. The fight wasn’t mine—two girls were screaming at each other, throwing punches in the hall. At age fourteen, I’d hit six feet tall, and they were both five foot two, so I figured I could pull them apart. Stupidest mistake of my life. I ended up with a black eye and a fistful of my hair yanked out.
This time is different. No insults, no fights, no explanations. All I have is one defense: I don’t know anything. Principal Turner’s bare desk glimmers. Pictures of her in uniform dangle along the back wall, and certificates and diplomas stand in a neat row atop her shelves. This place oozes excellence. Disciplinary action from her would be terrifying.
“Did he ever try to make you do anything you didn—”
“Principal Turner, I promise, I’ve hardly talked to Dr. Norman outside class.”
“Mr. McCallum, I’m sorry to keep on like this.” She folds her hands, looking at me over the rims of her glasses. “But if there’s any chance that you’re being coerced into silence by—”
“I’m not being coerced. I have no idea how somebody could think it’s me. It’s got to be some sort of prank.” Could it be someone on the team? Last week, the guys were making fun of this whole thing, joking about which teacher would be the worst in bed. But would they take a joke this far?
No. They wouldn’t take the chance of making me miss tomorrow’s meet. And if I have to miss it because of this, I’ll burn the school to the ground. This was the hardest season of my life—our new head coach is a sadist maniac, but he makes everyone so much better that we can’t complain about his methods. He’s expecting me to place tomorrow in the 500 Free.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“Mr. McCallum, there’s no reason for you to apologize. If this isn’t true, somebody else is in serious trouble for making false accusations. And if it is true, you’re still not at fault here. I hope you trust me when I say I have your best interests in mind.”
“Yeah.” But I’m not sure, with the unforgiving gleam in her eyes. She wants to find the culprit. Of course—she should want that. But how can I convince her it’s not me?
The obvious sings at me, trying to lure me in. I could turn in Juniper and García.
But I made a promise to Valentine on Sunday morning. I swore myself to secrecy.
Could one of the others have done this? Olivia could want to get Juniper off the hook. Or Juniper—what if she wanted to frame someone else?
God give me patience. I fidget and shift, disoriented, tossed into a room with zero gravity. I am spinning. The world around me won’t slow down.
One thought grounds me: the night before last, the oasis of that memory. What I scribbled in my journal:
The stillness of the lake.
Valentine’s stiff, quiet voice.
The echoes of the night air . . .
“For now,” Turner says, “you should go back to class. Please don’t disclose any details of this conversation.”
I let out a slow exhalation. “No, of course not.”
“You’re dismissed.”
VALENTINE DOESN’T BELIEVE ME AT FIRST WHEN I tell him, but after a while, it sinks in that I’m not joking. “Well,” he says with his usual reassuring scorn, “why would they believe someone on zero evidence? Don’t worry; it’ll get dropped as soon as they remember they need proof.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, but I’m so accustomed to that by now, it doesn’t faze me.
“I’m just worried none of my friends are going to take my word for it,” I say. “I don’t want things to be weird, you know? I want them to trust me, and—”
“I trust you,” he blurts out. My heartbeat stutters.
My first instinct is to say, Of course you trust me—you were there Saturday. Or to joke, That’s a shame, since I’m hugely untrustworthy. But the way he’s looking at me—with a mixture of hesitancy and apprehension—keeps me quiet.
I wonder how many people he’s said that to before. I’m willing to guess I could count them on one hand.
I lean back on the hill, crossing my arms, still holding his gaze. I’ve noticed he’s better with eye contact when I’m not so close, but his eyes stay as piercing no matter how far away I am. Just as filled with life and thought. I’m surprised I didn’t spot him halfway across the country, from back in New York.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “I don’t know if everyone will believe me, but I’m glad you do.”
“Of course.” He swallows, making his prominent Adam’s apple bob. It’s not until he looks away that I can breathe again.