“I’m fine,” I said. I flipped her off beneath the seat.
Fifteen minutes passed before Ms. McNally-Barnes came out to call me back into the room. She took her seat with the teachers, and I took mine in the center.
“Ms. Abney.” Dean Harvey smiled at me, strangely, and I offered an uncertain closed-lip smile back. “This is a messy situation.”
I nodded.
“And we don’t want this messiness becoming public knowledge, right? Vandenberg is a proud institution, and I’m sure you have a bright future ahead of you.”
I nodded again, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t; he only smiled wider. I mirrored his smile, my mouth aching.
“Do you see what I’m trying to say?” he asked.
“I’m not sure I do.”
“We’re not going to fire you, Imogene.”
“You’re not?”
“No. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave this school.”
A beat of silence passed. “I don’t understand.”
“We want you to leave of your own volition,” he prodded.
“You want me to quit?”
He smiled sadly in answer.
“Oh.” All eyes were still on me, waiting for me to deliver a line. “Um. I guess I quit then?”
Dean Harvey stood, extended his hand. “You will be missed here.”
I stood on wobbly legs and shook his hand. I felt like a puppet, guided by strings. Ms. McNally-Barnes stood and extended her hand, and I shook it as well. Dale glanced up at me, and unsure what else to do, I offered him a shy smile. “’Bye, Dale.”
He looked away, busying himself with his briefcase.
I headed towards the door, then turned back. “So do I need to sign anything or…?”
“Just be packed up by tomorrow.” Dean Harvey sat back in his chair. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
“Okay.” I reached for the door handle. “’Bye,” I said again, lackluster parting words worthy of a lackluster parting.
No one responded, but I hadn’t expected a goodbye.
* * *
I left in a daze. The sky that day was radiantly blue, the sun a mighty beam; it reflected off the banks of snow, and I walked blindly into the light until my eyes adjusted and the world returned. I remembered after a moment that I’d forgotten my jacket in the waiting room of Dean Harvey’s office, but there was no way I was going back to get it. It was a J. Crew peacoat, last year’s Christmas gift, one of my most prized possessions, but nothing could make me go back. His secretary could have it, I thought. No doubt it was nicer than anything she owned, the cheap slut. I laughed to myself. She’d probably sell my coat on the black market for crack, the whore! Hostility burned within me, and I fed it greedily. I hated that secretary more than anyone. I wished that secretary would skid on black ice and crash her piece of shit car into a fucking tree.
A bell tolled. It must be lunch. As the building doors opened and students spilled into the quad, I felt a wave of panic, like nausea. I was an escaped convict, a mass murder on the loose; I needed to hide. What if a warning had been sent out among the student body? A word popped into my head, a word I’d never once connected with myself but that, while never voiced by anyone around me, had been implied by everyone’s eyes and tones and stares ever since this thing—this mess—with Adam Kipling had begun: Pedophile.
“Boys!” a disembodied voice called in the distance, a teacher’s voice. “Boys, settle down!”
Boys, boys, boys. I couldn’t let them see me, and I certainly couldn’t look at any of them. I quickened my pace. Of course they’d want to protect the school, the proud institution. I imagined “they” as the investors and the alums, the faceless higher powers behind the well-bred boys of Vandenberg, all standing in a line. They all knew that I didn’t belong. They all had so much more to lose than me. I turned on my heel and strode in the opposite direction. I had twenty dollars in my pocket. That was plenty to take me away from there.
At Metro-North, I got on a Grand Central Station–bound train. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I jumped, still hopeful—for whatever insane, twisted, tragic reason—that it could be him.
It was Chapin. What happened? What did they say?
I ignored her. I stuffed the phone back into my pocket. It buzzed again.
What’s going to happen to him?
Nothing, I thought. I switched the phone off altogether. Nothing would happen to Kip, and she knew it. And Kip, I was sure, knew it, too.
* * *
I walked to Bryant Park because it was close, I knew how to get there, and I had nowhere else to go. I’d never been in the city alone, and being pushed along the crowded sidewalk, big buildings all around me, gave me something like a high. It was strange to me that I’d been into the city all of two times in the nearly four months I’d been at Vandenberg—a whole world that I’d neglected to explore because I’d been so comfortable with the smallness, with Kip. It was foolish, I realized; so much had been at my disposal, and I didn’t even see it.
The ice rink had been set up for the season, and skaters with clasped hands glided around the perimeter in dizzying circles. I had enough money to buy myself a hot chocolate, and after a moment of hesitation, I bought myself a cup. Emboldened, I even asked for a dollop of whipped cream. Fuck it! Fuck it all! I’d gain fifteen pounds, maybe thirty. I’d become an alcoholic. I’d move across the country and work at an ice cream parlor. Very little seemed to matter anymore. It was a fleeting but thrilling feeling.
The hot chocolate made me think briefly of Clarence, of how perhaps I was deserving of his betrayal, but I pushed the thought away.
I’m not sure how long I stayed to watch. One couple caught my eye—high schoolers, it seemed—and I tracked them as they did twelve, then thirteen, then fourteen laps around the rink. The girl had flushed cheeks, the guy braces. I wondered if they’d kissed yet. I wondered if they’d fucked. I couldn’t imagine anyone that age wanting or knowing how to fit themselves together with another person, how to position themselves, how to thrust. How did anyone know, really? The hot chocolate scalded my tongue, even while I shivered all over, jacketless. I was ashamed of myself for speculating about the sexual experience of strangers, of kids. I was ashamed of the way my shit stank and of the stray little hairs around my nipples and the ugly blue veins on the back of my hands and down my thighs and on my eyelids. I drained the rest of the hot chocolate in one sip; it churned in my stomach.
What a waste, I thought. The hot chocolate, the round-trip train ticket from Scarsdale to Grand Central, the loss of my jacket. What a waste that I’d lived forty minutes outside a city that I didn’t allow myself to explore, that I’d had a career opportunity but hadn’t given myself a chance to succeed.
I waited for the two teenaged skaters to make one last loop before I stood. Then, on a whim, I fished my phone from my pocket, powered it back on, and called Joni.
“Imogene?” She answered with the trepidation of someone expecting bad news, and I realized that I’d probably never called her before.
“I’m in the city,” I said.
“I’m in the art studio. Is everything okay?”
No, I wanted to say. Everything is over. But I wasn’t ready to say it out loud, not yet. I wasn’t ready to tell my sister that I needed someone, that right now I needed her, because I didn’t know what happened next, and I was afraid. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m fine. I just wanted to say hello.”
“Hello, then.” She sounded skeptical and a little amused, unsure of why I’d really called, perhaps wondering, as I was, why we were strangers to each other. I hoped she knew that I called because I was trying to change that. I hoped she picked up because she wanted to try, too.
“Hello,” I echoed.
* * *
On the train ride back, I looked up Kip’s profile, something I’d resisted doing for longer than I’d thought possible. His relationship status had changed. Adam Kipling was in a relationship with Betsy Kenyon.
I knew then why I’d spent so long away from his page. The only way to make reality bearable was to construct my own.
“That fucking bitch,” I said aloud. “That slutty little cunt.”
The insults felt delicious, a temporary relief, the forbidden “c-word” like licorice. I clicked over to her page, stared at her for longer than I should have. Forget Dean Harvey’s secretary; it was Betsy Kenyon who made me feel dizzy with hatred. And I held tight to that hatred like a rock in my hand, knowing the moment that I let go, all that would be left was a dull ache.
* * *
Back at the Hovel, all the apprentices except for Chapin sat around the kitchen table. They turned all at once when I walked through the door, instantly hushed. They’d been talking about me. I stared at them, and them at me. We hadn’t been trained for this situation. There were no words in our guidebooks for what I had done.
Raj finally broke the silence. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said. I didn’t mean to sound cruel, but the irony was too great for it not to come off as insincere, angry even. I tried to smile to offset the sarcasm, but it felt strained.
“Ms. McNally-Barnes told us what happened,” ReeAnn said, hesitant.
I nodded, still paralyzed in the doorframe. I started past the table to the stairs.
“Is it true?” It was Meggy that said this, calling out after me. “Did you really do it?”
“Meggy!” I heard Maggie swat her, my back still turned. “You can’t ask her that!”
I didn’t answer and began up the stairs.
“I’m going to take your room, if that’s okay,” said Raj.
I still didn’t look back. At the top of the stairs, I heard one last snippet of conversation (“—honestly really disgusted—” Babs muttered) before I closed my door.
I lay facedown on my bed. It was dinnertime, and all I’d had all day was a hot chocolate, but the thought of procuring food was exhausting. I couldn’t go down to the kitchen. I didn’t want to order anything, didn’t want to talk on the phone or exchange money at the door—plus, I would have to leave my room, which wasn’t something I was planning on doing for the rest of the night. Maybe I could starve myself. I could get skinny—scary-emaciated skinny—so that everyone who saw me would think, Well, clearly she isn’t well. She can’t be blamed for what she’s done.
Chapin came in without knocking. I could tell it was her without having to look. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I said.
She sat on my bed. “When do you have to leave by?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“Dunno. Home, I guess.”
Just then, my phone vibrated on my bed. We both looked at the screen. My mom was calling. I ignored it.
“Does she know?” Chapin asked.
“No.”
After a minute, the phone rang again. A voicemail. Then she called again.
“I think she might,” said Chapin.
“Yeah.”
I nudged the phone so it dropped off the end of my bed, its buzzing muffled by the carpet. I’d thought about how my parents would react, of course, but up until that point I’d been thinking that perhaps they wouldn’t have to know at all. They didn’t know when my winter break began. And I could get a new job and an apartment before the next semester started up again, apply for graduate programs in the meantime. It was only for a few months. Or maybe I could just tell them I quit—that was the truth, after all. I could say the job wasn’t a good fit for me. They would understand. What they wouldn’t understand was my relationship with Adam Kipling. No one could understand it, because now that it was over, I no longer understood it myself.
I looked at Chapin. “What am I going to do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” I rolled onto my back. After a moment, I asked, “Do you like teaching?”
Chapin peered down at my face. She really wasn’t very pretty; she had acne scars along her jaw and dark circles under her eyes. I wasn’t sure why I’d ever been so afraid of her. “Of course I like teaching,” she said, surprisingly sincere. “That’s why I’m here.”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t think I do.”
“Do what?”
“I don’t think I actually like this. Teaching, that is.”
A beat of silence passed before Chapin burst into laughter. “Are you serious?”
I laughed, too. I couldn’t help it. “Yeah.”
“Jesus, Imogene. Then do something else.”
How simple it seemed, how simple it all suddenly seemed. We laughed until our stomachs ached, and then we went to go get McDonald’s because, fuck it, why not? Why not enjoy things while we could?
* * *
On Tuesday afternoon, Chapin volunteered to drive me back upstate; it was nearly winter break, and she could get away with leaving a few days early. We could rent a car, she said. We could stop over in the city and crash with a guy she knew, party for a few days. We could drive up to Canada. We could go anywhere. She was so thrilled with her plan that I became excited, too. A road trip! An adventure! But I didn’t deserve an adventure. Adventures are for those who have accomplished something. I knew that I needed to stay and contend with what I had done, that dodging reality was over for me.
“Who am I supposed to hang out with next semester?” she asked. She nodded towards my bedroom door; downstairs, we could hear the other girls and Raj watching the show about the mismatched couples raising the puppies, laughing too loud. “Them?”
I smiled. Finally, she had confirmed it; it was us versus them. I was in the cool group, with Chapin. I wasn’t one of the dorky girls. Feeling emboldened, I said, “Well, if you get bored, I hear hanging out with students is fun.”
Chapin blinked, confused, and then laughed. “Oh my god. You made a joke. That was so cute.”
She pulled me into a hug, her clavicle bones pushing hard against my chest. Like most friendships, I imagined ours was one of proximity. We’d talk for a month, maybe two. We would not stay friends. Our relationship only existed because we were both there, at Vandenberg School for Boys, and we were each other’s best option. I felt sad for a moment, but it quickly passed. There was no reason to mourn; I’d always known it wouldn’t last.
A cab delivered me to the Metro-North station, and after hauling my bags onto a car, I pulled out my phone. My mom had left three voicemails. I listened to them as the train pulled away from the station, my four duffle bags stacked around me like a barrier.
The first was relatively calm. “Imogene, someone called the house today who said he was representing Frank Kipling. Something about you and his son. Do you have any idea what that could be about?”
The next wasn’t. “Imogene, I just called that man back. He said his client is deciding whether or not to press charges against you. Frank Kipling’s son is a student at Vandenberg, but he couldn’t say anything more. Call me.”
Finally, the last message: “Imogene, I just got a call from your school. I need you to call me back right now.”
The messages had all been left the night before. I turned off my phone, tucked it into my pocket. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the seat. I thought back to my cab ride through campus to the train station, my last one. I know it was all in my imagination—or at least it probably was—but it seemed everyone I passed turned to look as I glided by, a celebrity escort behind tinted windows, an infamous prisoner’s convoy. I imagined the popping flash bulbs of old-timey cameras. “There she goes!” I imagined them all whispering. “She’s leaving; she’s gone.” I looked for one face among the many I passed. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. It hit me then, for the first time, that I would never see Adam Kipling again.
* * *
I didn’t call home right away when I arrived at the Lockport station. I arranged my four bags around me, bought a slice of pizza, and people-watched. An old man hacked and spit phlegm into a garbage can
. Two kids kicked a vending machine. I’m not sure how long I stayed. I nodded off at one point, first lacing the straps of my bags over my arms and clasping my hands together so I could protect them all at once. As it grew dark outside the windows, a police officer approached me. “Do you need a ride, miss?” he asked.
I smiled. To him, I was not a criminal for hanging out in a train station. To him, I was still pretty, small, blameless. “That’s okay,” I said. “My boyfriend is coming to get me.” I didn’t plan to say it; the word escaped from my mouth as easily as my own name.
He nodded. “Have a good night,” he said.
I felt giddy as he walked away; I forgot, momentarily, that my boyfriend wasn’t coming to get me, that I didn’t have a boyfriend at all. Another half hour passed before I finally called my house phone. My dad picked up.
“Genie?” He never answered the phone, and I was startled to hear his voice. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Where have you been?”
“Will you come get me?” I asked. I kept my voice low, as the police officer was still nearby, and I didn’t want him to know my boyfriend wasn’t coming.
“Where are you?”
“I’m home,” I said.
* * *
They were afraid of me at first. They let me stay in my room, knocked timidly on my door for meals, didn’t protest when I said I wasn’t hungry. They didn’t know what to do with their daughter, the pedophile. They hadn’t raised this person, and they didn’t know how to approach her without getting hurt.
The story came out slowly, in pieces. On the car ride home, I explained to my father that I had had a relationship with Frank Kipling’s son, and that Frank Kipling’s son was a student. My dad stared ahead out the windshield. We didn’t talk again until he pulled into the driveway, the headlights like two big eyes on the door of the garage. He turned off the ignition and looked at me.
“You could get into some serious trouble here,” he said.
I nodded. “I know.” The most personal moment my dad and I had ever shared before this was when he taught me to drive. He’d never even seen me in a two-piece bathing suit before.
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