We pass the Wall of Fame outside the office – a corridor of photos and trophies. There’s a section for North Hampton, stuff moved here after the school shut down. Mr. Vaughn knuckle-taps the glass as we pass, and he says, “Fine boy. An all-around fine boy.” Jesse tenses, and the look that passes through his eyes is one I do recognize from my Jesse, and I know who Mr. Vaughn is referring to even before I glance over.
Inside the display is a photo of Jesse’s brother, Jamil, surrounded by athletic awards. A memory flashes. I’m walking past the park with Jesse, and Jamil’s shooting hoops. The ball slams into Jesse hard enough to knock him to one knee.
I grab the ball, and Jamil strolls over, saying, “Still can’t catch, bro?” Then he looks me up and down, in a way that makes me want to hug the ball to my chest. “Your friend here doesn’t have that problem. Maybe she could teach you, in exchange for helping her with her homework.”
Jesse says, “Skye doesn’t need homework help,” and Jamil smirks and says, “Then why’s she hanging out with you?” and I whip the ball back, knocking him off-balance when he catches it, but he only grins and winks at me as he saunters back to the court.
No, Jamil Mandal was not a fine boy. I shouldn’t say that about the dead, but it’s true.
I try again to catch Jesse’s eye, to offer some sympathy. Then I realize that’s entirely the wrong response from entirely the wrong person.
We get to the main office, and Mr. Vaughn waves me into a side room. It’s not much bigger than a broom closet, with a single chair, like a movie interrogation chamber, and as I sit, I expect him to follow and loom over me, saying, We have ways to make you talk.
Instead, he stays in the main office, leaving the door between us half open as he says, “I hear you refused to sit near Miss Gilchrist.”
“I asked to be allowed to sit elsewhere.”
It takes me a moment to realize it’s Jesse speaking. Until now, I’ve only heard a few words from him, more grunts than sentences. His voice is deep, unfamiliar.
“Ms. Distaff tells me it was a little more forceful than asking to be seated elsewhere. You disrupted the class. You caused Miss Gilchrist to run out, and now I need to discipline her for that.”
I’m at the doorway before I can stop myself. “It’s not Jesse’s fault. Ms. Distaff didn’t know our history. It was awkward, and I’ve had a long first day, and I overreacted. I take responsibility.”
“No one is asking you to, Miss Gilchrist. I am well aware of the history, as you put it, and my advice to Mr. Mandal?” He turns to Jesse. “Get over it. Miss Gilchrist had nothing to do with what happened to your brother, and by reacting the way you did, you give fodder to all those students who want to be outraged for no reason other than that they enjoy the adrenaline rush. I would like you to lead by example, Mr. Mandal. I know that isn’t your natural bent. Your brother was the leader.”
Jesse tenses.
Mr. Vaughn plows on. “But I am going to ask you to lead in this by not treating Miss Gilchrist like she was the one holding that gun.”
I cringe. I understand what Mr. Vaughn’s saying, but the way he says it…
I back up quickly, close the door and sit down to wait my turn.
Skye
Five minutes later, Mr. Vaughn comes in.
“As you overheard, Miss Gilchrist, I have no choice but to discipline you for leaving class. I am not unsympathetic to your situation, but if I exempt you from the usual punishment, students will complain that you have received special treatment. You will remain in here, on detention, until I return. You may contact your aunt to tell her you’ll be delayed by approximately thirty minutes.”
There’s no need for that. Mae won’t be home until five. So I pull out my homework, finish physics and move to English. When I’m done, I realize it’s gone silent outside. I check my watch. Nearly an hour has passed, and Mr. Vaughn hasn’t returned.
I push open the door to ask the secretary if I can leave. Her desk is deserted. The whole office is deserted.
I slip out carefully. If I’m in trouble for fleeing class, then fleeing detention sure isn’t going to help, but there’s no one here.
I walk to the main office door and turn the knob and… it doesn’t open. I keep twisting as panic sets in. Heart-pounding, can’t-catch-my-breath panic. That pisses me off. I used to be the girl who’d find herself locked in the main office and think, Cool. Never had this happen before, and then snoop around before looking for a solution. Afterward, I’d go home and write it as an even more interesting scene for a story. Not just locked in the office, but locked in on a Friday… right before the school is due to be demolished!
I’d started working my way back to being that girl. And now, one accidentally locked door reignites all my anxieties, and I’m hyperventilating as if I am indeed locked in a building about to be demolished. As if I don’t have a cell phone with a full battery and full service.
I will not be that girl. I won’t even be the girl who telephones for help. That’s just embarrassing.
I examine the knob. It’s a double-sided keyed lock. After a few minutes of searching, I find a key in the secretary’s desk.
I congratulate myself on my keen detective work as I put the key in and…
Nothing. The key turns, but the door won’t open.
I bend and look through as I turn the knob. The plunger withdraws, and I see nothing else to stop the door from opening. But it won’t.
When I push, the door gives a little. Okay, it’s not locked – just sticking. By pressing various parts of the doorframe, I determine that the bottom is jammed somehow. The door opens outward, meaning something external must be blocking it. A prank, then, kids figuring they were locking in the VPs.
I push and pull and jiggle until the door’s open an inch. Then two. Crouching, I squeeze my hand through and find a doorstop, one of those brown rubber ones. I wiggle it out, and the door swings open.
The hall is empty. Silent, too, except for the distant clomp of footsteps. Was someone trying to prevent me from leaving? That seems like paranoia, and it’s too easy to fall down that hole. For the sake of my mental health, I’m going to presume that whoever put the doorstop in was just playing a prank on whoever happened to be in the office.
As I walk, I hear the swish of a broom. I turn the corner to see the custodian. It’s a young guy, college age, tall and muscular. He looks familiar. When I walk over, he stops and watches me, his face expressionless.
“Hi, I’m —”
“Skye,” he says. “I know.”
“Right. Um, so —”
“I helped coached your Little League team about five years ago.”
It clicks then. “Owen,” I say with a smile. “I remember.”
He doesn’t smile in return, and as I process his name, I remember we have another connection. His cousin Vicki was injured in the shooting. No, not “injured.” That sounds like she tripped and twisted her ankle. Vicki is in a wheelchair now. Will be in a wheelchair for life.
“So, I, uh…” I resist the urge to take a slow step back. “I… was in detention and Mr. Vaughn seemed to forget me so I’m… I’m just going to leave now.”
I start to go, and Owen says, “He does that.”
I glance over my shoulder, and Owen is leaning on his broom.
He says, “I swear you’re the third kid Vaughn has forgotten this term already. He just split with his wife. He has a lot on his mind.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks. And, um, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but when I tried to leave the office, someone had stuck in a doorstop. I’m sure it was just a prank. But if Mr. Vaughn is known for forgetting kids on detention, it might be something to watch.”
Owen’s brows knit. “A doorstop?”
“One of those brown rubber ones. I can show you.”
He follows me. We round the corner to the office, and I say, “It’s right there on the…”
It’s not there. I pick up my pace, until I’m at the office, looking around.
“It was right here,” I say. “Brown rubber. Like they use in classrooms.”
“We don’t use doorstops.”
“Then someone brought it in.”
His frown deepens. “Brought a doorstop from home?”
I’m breathing harder now, anxiety rising. I want to say I know what I saw, but I hear myself saying, “M-maybe I made a mistake.”
“All right.”