I knew girls like her. There was a time when I thought like this, too, and it made me irrationally angry. That she should act surprised by the twist of events. That she believed enough in the we shouldn’t have to worry to present it as a defense, as if the world owed it to her. As if she didn’t know it was all for show.
I was an adolescent when I first started to see myself as two people. The feeling that you are at all times both subject and object. That I was both walking down the hall and watching myself walk down the hall. Surely, Izzy Marone, of all people, knew this. She held herself as if she knew it. She must’ve thought there were certain rules that still applied.
But then you learn. Your backbone was all false bravado. An act that was highly cultivated, taught, and expected of girls now. The spunk that was appreciated and rewarded. Talk back to the professor to show your grit. Wait for his slow smile, his easy laugh, the tilt of his head in acknowledgment. Flip off the asshole who whistles on the street. There’s no harm in it.
These were the facts of life I had believed, that Izzy still believed. The danger had not yet made itself apparent, but it was everywhere, whether she wanted to believe it or not.
I flipped her essay over, marking it with a check, as I had all the others, and found a slip of paper stuck between the next two sheets. It was folded in half, a piece of lined paper like all the others. The note was written in pencil, in all caps: IT WASN’T COBB.
The handwriting wasn’t immediately familiar. Maybe it was just the capital letters and that there wasn’t much to go on.
I stuck it in the second pile, of those pro-Cobb, and figured I’d go through at the end to find who the nameless writer was, working backward.
But by the end of first period’s pile, everyone was accounted for. Even JT. This was an extra paper, a note someone wanted to slip me. In warning, or as a joke—or because they knew.
I kept it. Left it in the middle of the table, where it would catch me anew each time I passed.
Sources come from everywhere. They used to turn up in my public email account at the paper, but you had to really weed through the shit to find it. Most people were coming at me with an angle already. Some of the tips would turn out to be lies or gross overstatements. Facts twisted and laced with a malicious undercurrent or self-righteous indignation. Facts that didn’t stand up to closer inspection.
You had to come at things like this with skepticism. You had to figure out whom you were dealing with first. The information and the source, they come hand in hand. One means nothing without the other.
* * *
THE POLICE HADN’T CALLED by the time school rolled around on Monday, and I didn’t see any sign of them in the front lobby. The hallways were empty, and I caught Mitch’s gaze through the glass windows as I passed. He quickly looked away.
My key stuck in the classroom lock, wouldn’t turn, and I realized it was already open.
I moved my hand to flick on the lights, then froze. A scent, movement in the corner of my eye, a gut feeling.
I pivoted around to find Theo Burton at his desk, hands folded on top, smiling. He had dirty-blond hair and thin lips, features that would have bordered on feminine if not for the sinew working its way down his neck and over his exposed forearms.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. The door was unlocked.” But I was pretty sure I’d locked up after I’d left Friday.
“What can I do for you, Theo?” I remained near the door, remembering my orientation training: Don’t be in a room alone with a student and the door closed. There was too much that could be said or implied.
“Nothing. I just wanted to get some homework done before class. I hope that’s okay?”
It wasn’t, really. The first bell hadn’t rung yet, but I was a stickler if I called him on it. It would ring in three minutes, anyway. He would have every right to be here then. And I was supposed to be open to students coming in before or after school for extra help. I was graded, as my students were graded, by somebody else. Even the school itself was graded.
I didn’t answer. Instead I unloaded my bag and got ready for the start of class.
I sat at my desk against the side wall, but the green monitor light of the computer was already on, the tower humming. I moved the mouse, and the black screen came to life. The computer was set to the sign-in page, awaiting my user name and password. Impossible to tell whether someone had gotten in and signed out again. I thought of the email address I’d given Kyle—wondered if it was just the police who’d been here, checking the hard drive.
But Theo was sitting here, in an unlocked room, with the computer on.
I stared at the side of his face, watched the corner of his mouth tick up, like he was waiting for me to accuse him. Everything was a game here, and I was coming in late, learning the rules as I went.
I opted for silence, as if I didn’t notice, as if I didn’t care. If I said anything, he’d deny it, and then he’d know he’d shaken me. I logged on, scrolled through my email. Could see no indication that anyone had been in there. I even checked the sent message log, the trash, but everything looked as I’d last left it.
I pretended to work, as he was obviously pretending to work. I shuffled papers on my desk, listening to the footsteps in the hall. Wanting out of this room but not wanting to leave him with free rein over the space. I was never so grateful for Molly Laughlin’s early entrance to class. I think even she was taken aback by my overly cheerful greeting.
As the rest of the students funneled in, I handed back their responses from Friday. When the bell rang, I wasted no time. “It seems you all have strong opinions on the events of last week. So we’re going to write anonymous letters. It should be a persuasive argument to address a new proposed safety measure in our school. We’re starting in class, and it will be due, final copy, tomorrow. Type it up, print it out. Whether you sign your name or not is up to you. I’ll check off your name when you turn it in.”
Someone in this class was talking to me. I had to let them speak. Listen without pushing, without nodding in encouragement, lest they get spooked. This was the type of source you had to let lead the way.
CHAPTER 11
There was an unmarked car in my driveway when I pulled in after school let out, and Kyle was waiting on my front porch, sitting on the top step. I parked beside his vehicle—the difference between the driveway and the yard was practically indistinguishable—and he stood as I exited the car.
My heart was in my throat and I was thinking, Emmy, barely deciphering what he was trying to say—
“Sorry,” he said as I approached. “I should’ve called first. Didn’t know what time you got home, and didn’t want to interrupt if you were in the middle of class.” He started down the steps. “Didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Nothing?” I asked, stopping mid-stride.