“What does she mean, honey?”
“Which one is Mr. Ellison?”
“Abby-girl, what is she talking about? Did somebody hurt you?” Her father’s voice lowered and gentled. His small gray eyes mirrored her own and she wanted to say yes. She wanted to fold herself into his lap as she had not done since she was six and feel the power of his arms and his money and his ability to sue. She wanted to cry like a baby and tell him, Yes, it was all his fault. That horrible man. That teacher. And please hold me and love me and remember that I was your girl first.
Instead she lied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ms. Norton cocked her head. “Abigail, are you sure?”
Her father’s phone buzzed and shuddered on the desk and he made no move to answer it.
“Mr. Ellison is my teacher. That’s it,” Abigail said. “Plus he’s, like, super old. You actually think I would do something with him? I mean, talk about gross.” As she spoke, she hated herself for how the words sounded—the ditzy singsong of the syllables. She was thankful Mr. Ellison wasn’t there to hear it.
Abigail’s father exhaled. He reached over and squeezed her palm, a gesture meant probably to reassure her but which seemed to reassure himself: Abigail was the same predictable, reasonable daughter he’d always known. She was still a girl, not a woman, judgment sound and body undiscovered, whose desires—a collection of objects, pretty things—were easily paid for and contained. He wouldn’t have to think of her in any other way.
He released her hand. “Principal Norton, my daughter always tells the truth. I think we’re done here.” He plucked his iPhone from the desk, and both he and Abigail’s mother stood up. Abigail stood too.
Ms. Norton nodded. She got up and walked around the desk and opened the office door to show them out. “Well,” she said, hesitating with one hand on the doorknob, staring at Abigail. “Thank you for coming in. I’m sorry to have taken your time.”
Abigail’s father was turning something over in his head. He said, “You know, Ms. Norton, I have lost half the workday, as has my wife”—Abigail’s mother nodded in solidarity—“but that’s fine. I don’t care about that. I’m just not sure what you were thinking here. Pulling my daughter out of class, accusing her? Like she’s some kind of juvenile delinquent?”
Ms. Norton closed the door again. She steepled her palms. “Mr. Cress, no one is accusing—”
“Where is this teacher, anyway? I’m just wondering. Why don’t you drag him in here for questioning?”
“I have spoken to Mr. Ellison.”
“And what does he say for himself?”
“His statements align with Abigail’s.”
“He denies it?”
“Yes.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“I don’t think that would be a wise course of action at this time—”
“I don’t see why not. I’m here already.”
Ms. Norton looked miserable, out of her depth; Abigail almost felt sorry for her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cress. If Abigail said nothing happened, if she is telling us the truth—”
“Of course she’s telling the truth,” Abigail’s mother said. “Do you know our daughter at all? She doesn’t even care to date boys her own age. The fact that she even has to hear about something like this—”
“Get your things, Abigail, we’re going,” her father said, and opened the door himself.
Ms. Norton trailed them to the hallway, prattling uselessly. “Let’s no one leave angry,” she said. “I feel we should pause for a moment, reflect…” Abigail couldn’t believe the principal was so na?ve as to think everything would be so easy to fix, like “I Statements” were actual problem-solving strategies and not just the nonsense that the Conflict Mediation Club posted on its Facebook page.
Ignoring Ms. Norton, Abigail and her parents hurried down the hallway toward the exit. The fluorescents formed a tunnel of light. Abigail’s father’s phone buzzed again, and this time he sped ahead to answer it.
Abigail’s mother walked close beside her, pressing at the small of Abigail’s back. They were silent except for the clicks of her mother’s heels, which echoed through the hall. She wore the same Chanel perfume she’d worn forever; its jasmine mixed with the sharp scent of the damp silk blouse beneath her suit and Abigail could not remember the last time she’d been close enough to her mother’s body to smell this smell.
Mr. Ellison’s classroom was the fifth door on the left. Three doors from where they were. The door was open.
Abigail slowed her steps. She could run back to Ms. Norton’s office, lead her parents down a different hall—but no, it was too late. Mr. Ellison’s voice carried far. He was talking to someone—a boy. What was he saying?
As they came closer, she recognized the voice of Dave Chu. It sounded desperate.
Mr. Ellison was reassuring him about something. He was gentling his voice the way he used to do for her. And suddenly she hated Dave, who still got to be soothed by Mr. Ellison, who still got to believe in love and teachers the way that she did not.