Squeeze us back to normal.
Dad’s on his feet. Has he hurt you? I swear, if he’s hurt you—if he’s forced you to . . . to do anything you didn’t—
Of course not. I’m on my feet, too. I told you, we didn’t sleep together, I told you, Dad.
His face is stained violet and red. A watercolor terror. I can’t believe this. I am calling the school right now.
No. You can’t—
Oh, yes I can. I can and I will.
He goes for the phone. I dive for it, smack his arm away— He yells something—
Mom’s yelling, too—
(it’s everything I thought it would be)
and the doorbell freezes us all with a crystal note.
We shut down. The color slides from our cheeks like cheap dye.
Mom hurries down the hallway, answers with a dazed smile.
It curdles on her lips.
Horror drips cold down my back.
David?
These couches are as stiff as court benches, a guilty verdict clutched in our fists.
So, says the voice that sounds more like a judge’s than my father’s. So, you’re him.
David García. Hi. I would say it’s good to meet you, but under the circumstances I’m guessing you feel differently.
You’re right. You think you can prey on my daughter and—
Dad. He didn’t prey on anybody.
I’m not finished. Young man, you have a responsibility. You’re a government employee, for God’s sake. You have a responsibility to the children of this country—
I’m not a child, I point out, childishly.
My mother barrels over me. I agree one hundred percent. You should be ashamed to call yourself a teacher.
I know. Something’s quiet in David’s eyes. Which is why I turned myself in.
somebody has taken a hammer to my voice box a broken sound collapses out of me.
teaching was his first love,
his greatest love.
(david? you—
you shouldn’t have—
should you have?)
i’m wordless.
my parents sit wordless, too.
So, with that in mind, he says, I don’t know where we go from here. I understand your anger, of course. And I’ll be shouldering the consequences. I’ll do everything I can to keep Juniper’s name out of this. I’m sure the police will be investigating, and they’ll want to interview her, but that’s not . . . since we never . . . it shouldn’t be a legal . . .
whispery sounds slip from my lips. yeah, um, i told them that part.
Right. Good.
david, why did you—you didn’t have to—
I did. his hand flexes. he could slip it into mine but he knows better. I had to.
the fight has fallen out of the air.
my parents look to me. they all look to me.
i stay motionless, mind churning.
he’ll be fired. disgraced.
my mother’s voice is low. You will leave this house. And then, when you leave your job, and when you leave this city, you will leave our daughter alone.
that tone of command once made millions.
he sits tall under it. stoic.
but i—
i flatten a sob beneath a fist. my voice is an explosion, spraying shrapnel carelessly. no—Mom, don’t—please, please . . .
She’s right, June, david says.
i stare at him. splintering under the surface in betrayal. even my mother blinks her confusion.
I was wrong, he says. I should have been more . . . I should have made sure from the beginning that we—that this . . . that it wouldn’t have to be like this. That was always my responsibility, and I neglected it for five months.
with every word i fracture a little more, a new hair-fine line in a ceramic surface.
with every word i am more fragile.
with every word, older.
the tears abate. so this was a mistake?
No, that’s not—I made a mistake, June, but you weren’t a mistake. You are, I swear, the best thing in my life. My not waiting was the mistake.
my mother stares at david like he is a painting she is beginning to understand.
Juniper doesn’t graduate for a year and a half, she says slowly. And so help me, if you get in touch before then, I will file a restraining order.
(Before then?)
The words ring in my ears, making me dizzy with hope.
My father’s balding head bobs. He takes over. If, anytime in the future, she has any interest in contacting you, you’ll hear from us. Us first. You understand?
Yes, David says.
He meets my gaze. Our eyes are lifelines. In his eyes I see myself holding him. In mine he knows I love him.
He stands.
Can I say good-bye? I ask.
No, my father says, but my mother rests her hand on his wrist.
They meet eyes, a brief and silent battle.
My mother half lifts him to his feet. They leave us.
· · · · · · ·
Juniper—
I fold myself into his arms, and he holds me so tightly so tightly
I could merge into him, skin into skin and heart into heart. It’s okay, he murmurs. It’ll be okay. A clean break is going to hurt less, I promise.
It’s . . . I pull back. I mean, I can’t help thinking you’ll find someone else in an infinitely larger, more interesting city.
Yeah, no way. He brushes my hair back from my forehead. There’s only one of you.
Well. As far as you know.