On the desk, Ms. Norton’s iMac was turned toward Abigail, cocked at an angle that allowed her to distract herself with scrolling photographs of the principal’s other life, that is to say her actual life. There were family photos in which she was, astoundingly, not the mother but the daughter, and Abigail realized she had no idea how old Ms. Norton actually was. She could be Mr. Ellison’s age, or closer to twenty-six or forty. In the photos, she sat in the shadows of two silver-haired parents, their hands on her shoulders, and then swam alone in a black one-piece, face obscured by a snorkeling mask, thighs abstracted in sapphire water. She posed in a strapless wedding dress, shoulders bared and a peacock-feather fascinator in her hair, its delicate white netting draped over her face as she smiled with mouth wide open, as if shocked by her own capacity for joy. These photos disturbed and unsettled Abigail. She had once run into Ms. Norton at the Mill Valley Health Club and felt actual physical discomfort, a twisting in her stomach, at the sight of the principal’s body in spandex shorts and sports bra, her belly crunching on the sweat-slicked mat. Abigail saw the irony in this revulsion, given her own situation, but the rules that governed student-teacher relationships were meant for other people, not for her.
Ms. Shriver, the secretary, opened the door behind Abigail. “The parents have had to drive in from the city,” she said. “They’re running late.” Some deranged helicopter set was swooping in to handle their kid’s latest hiccup, Abigail thought.
As the secretary shut the door, Ms. Norton sighed. She tapped her fingernails on the desk. “Well, it looks like we’ll have to get started just the two of us.”
“Wait, my parents are coming?” Abigail said. “Are you serious?” Fear surged through her, and yet the corners of her mouth were twitching up. The idea of not one but both of her parents leaving work in the middle of the trading day, extracting their cars from the parking garage and driving out of the Embarcadero, over the Golden Gate Bridge, and back into Mill Valley in order to meet with sweet Ms. Norton in this pathetic little office was so farfetched that the whole situation began to feel hilarious.
“Quite serious,” Ms. Norton said. “Abigail, I’m afraid there’s something we need to address.”
Abigail tried to focus on Ms. Norton’s face—she was usually excellent with administrators, appearing quietly respectful yet alert.
Ms. Norton pulled a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. After a second’s hesitation she laid it face-up on the desk. “Will you tell me what you know about this?”
Abigail caught her breath. It was a printout of the Photoshop picture Nick Brickston had posted on Instagram—Mr. Ellison as the naked David, herself as the girl with her hand on his crotch. “Where did you get that?” she asked. The account was supposed to be private.
“I know this is difficult,” Ms. Norton said. “You are such an excellent student, mature, clearheaded. Before proceeding with anything, well, public, I wanted to hear it from you. I feel we can speak as adults, Abby. I believe you will be truthful with me.”
As Ms. Norton spoke, she looked so distraught that Abigail did feel like the adult in the room—as if it were her job to protect Ms. Norton from the world’s harsh truths and not the other way around. “Sure,” she said.
“What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ellison?”
Abigail stared back into Ms. Norton’s eyes. But her mind went elsewhere, parsing the question the way she’d learned to parse reading comprehension questions on the SAT. The key word was “nature,” meaning character, type, temper, or the vast force that regulated everything in the physical world. That was it—a vast force had caught Abigail and Mr. Ellison, controlled them from the start.
Ms. Norton sighed. “Look, I shouldn’t tell you this. But I feel you need to know.”
“What?”
“Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time we’ve heard these kinds of rumors about Mr. Ellison. Nothing definitive, nothing has ever been proven. But if you are keeping secrets, if you are trying to protect him…” Her words hung in the air, and Abigail tried to make sense of them. Nothing had been proven? What had been alleged?
The office door opened and Abigail’s mother rushed into the room, her Ferragamo heels clicking furiously over the linoleum. She wore a sleek black suit and a Bluetooth headset that latched like an insect to the side of her face.
“You’re still not hearing me,” she said. “How many times do I have to go over this with you? Is it possible for a human animal to be more clear?” Then she clicked off the headset and tucked herself into the chair next to Abigail’s, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, “Principal Norton. Please, tell me everything I’ve missed.” As she adjusted her hair, Ms. Norton slid Nick Brickston’s picture back into the drawer.
Abigail’s father entered next. He wore his usual charcoal suit with a starched dress shirt and the Burberry tie Abigail had bought him for his birthday last June. With one thumb he texted into an iPhone that gleamed darkly in his palm.
“Sorry I’m late, jam-packed day,” he said. He took the chair on the other side of Abigail, patted her knee. “So what are we doing here? That secretary wouldn’t tell me anything.” He pressed a button on his iPhone and laid it ceremoniously on the desk.
Abigail focused straight ahead, on Ms. Norton, who leaned forward in her chair as if to confide a secret. Nothing definitive. Not the first time.
“We are prepared to launch a full-scale investigation,” she said. “But I wanted to hear from Abigail first. To discern what is fact and what is fiction.”
Abigail’s parents turned and stared at Abigail like she was one of those picture puzzles at the Exploratorium, narrowing their eyes to see the hidden shape within.
“Investigate what?” her dad asked.
Ms. Norton stared at Abigail as if trying to unpeel her. “Has Mr. Ellison crossed the line with you, Abigail? You really must be truthful with us. Has he taken advantage?”
Abigail gripped the sides of her chair. She didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter because in that instant her parents accosted her from both sides.