“Well do you?” he asked.
“No. I don’t know you. Not really.” I felt uneasy, yet maintained eye contact.
He heaved a sigh and swerved to put the car in gear.
“Michael,” I said, getting him to look at me again. “I do know you, a little. You saved me. Right?” Wanting validation, I declined to believe he’d hurt me. He didn’t bite and twist my skin. He didn’t try to rape me.
It wasn’t him.
Devoid of saying a word, his eyes plundered my heart.
“Umm…and you haven’t told anyone the real story. You’re protecting me, and… And I don’t know why.”
His black eyebrows gathered over his reflective blue-enamel eyes. When he raised two hands, I shrunk, almost afraid. As Michael thumped the steering wheel, I surmised it was an outward sign of irritation.
“Also,” I continued, bestowed with gumption, “I feel it’s necessary to set the record straight.”
Confounded, his brow remained furrowed.
“You do understand when I say you saved me? Meaning from—”
“I know,” he interrupted.
“But the way you talked yesterday. I thought…you thought…because of the black and blue marks.”
“I know, Mary,” Michael drawled.
“How? How do you know?”
A mischievous smile spread over his mouth as he put the truck in gear and sped toward the school.
Michael had been right.
When I exited his truck, speculating glances were at an all-time high. The rumormongers would be wagging their tongues. It seemed an eon had passed since I had been a nerdy, unobtrusive freshman. Maybe that hadn’t been so bad.
I hadn’t anticipated Michael hooking an arm over my shoulders, clamping me to his side. “Why are you doing this? Everybody will think—”
“I don’t care what people think,” he broke in as he retrieved his sunglasses from his jacket and secured them over his ears. “By the way, your freckles are glittering today.”
I wrinkled my nose.
“And your hair is starting to curl. I like it curly.”
“Darn it.” I streaked my fingers through the thickness and tugged. “Bloome will find out we came in together. It’s not going to look good.” Not that I minded the ride or the hottest boy in school walking me into the building. “Really, why are you pretending?”
“Just causing a little anarchy.” He nudged me closer. “And who says I’m pretending?”
After second period, I flowed down the hallway with the masses and turned right into our usual lavatory. It was filled to capacity, as I dived into a residue of swirling smoke. I spotted Candy, just the girl I wanted to see. The excessive clamor reduced to peevish undertones as eyes trailed me. Gossip about Michael driving me to school had been gaining momentum.
“Have you heard the news?” Candy said.
“What news?” Knowing I didn’t carry smokes she handed me her cigarette and unpacked another. Exhaling, we blended our streaming clouds into the stanky atmosphere.
“So you haven’t heard what’s happened?”
Bafflement must’ve shown on my face.
“Gwen just heard from Tom, who’s in Michael’s first period class, that he was called to the principal’s office. Michael’s been suspended, and they won’t let him play in the game tomorrow. Then guess what?” She hesitated as if the best was yet to come. “Two cops followed Bloome down the hall. She pointed to Michael, and they escorted him from the building. Radical, huh?”
“W-why?” I was going to be sick.
“Tom tried talking to him, but Michael ignored him.” Then changing the subject as if it was no big deal, she said, “I don’t think Steve’s going to take me to Homecoming. It’s Saturday, and he hasn’t said a word. Do you think I should ask him?”
Who the heck cared about Homecoming when the police had marshaled Michael from school? I had a horrific inkling it had something to do with me. I was going to either barf or faint, and stars ignited as I backed into the wall for support.
Dee swished through the lavatory like a ghost parting the smoke. “Okay,” she said, acting like a news announcer, “found out that Bloome and Coach Sidney were also in the principal’s office with Michael. People heard Coach hollering, and he barged out looking furious. If we don’t win the game tomorrow, Lancaster is out of the play-offs. It’s been years since we’ve come this far. And with Michael suspended, it doesn’t look hopeful. Bloome was yelling, and Mary’s name was mentioned. Michael thundered out with Bloome charging after him. She ordered the office ladies to call the cops.”
Dee retrieved a pack of smokes from her purse. Lighting her cigarette off Candy’s, she took a long drag, steadying her shaky hand.
“Who cares about the game?” I declared.
They gaped as if I had a mental disorder.
“Why’d they suspend him? Did he go wild or something? Why’d they call the cops? What’d he do that was so wrong?”
“What do you think, Mary. Duh?” Dee’s chin rose as she puffed smoke through her lips. “If Bloome was there, it had to be about Putnam’s party. You and Michael being upstairs in the bedroom, and your bruises.”
“I told you, I fell. Michael had nothing to do with it?” I remembered he was sticking to the story that I’d fallen. “Candy, if anyone asks, I fell at your house, not Putnam’s.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” she said. “Wouldn’t want Putnam in trouble, or anybody else for that matter.”
I made it to class just as the bell clanged. Inclined over his desk, Mr. Carlson sorted papers and peeked at me as I lowered to my chair.
“Get out A Tale of Two Cities,” he said, “and turn to page one-hundred and two.”
A girl knuckled the doorjamb and shuffled in. She handed Mr. Carlson a slip of paper. He read it, wrinkling his brow.
“Mary, take this and go to the office.” Moving along the row of desks, he handed me the paper.
My hand trembled, clipping it between my fingers. It would be my first time being called to the principal’s.
“Mary,” Mr. Carlson’s voice seeped into my scrambled brain. “You’d better take your books.”
In a stupor, I nodded. My gaze surfed over the room as I left. A hot poker of humility blazed inside of me as the entire classroom watched. Uncurling my shoulders, I pretended to be in control. In actuality, I felt as if I were heading to the gallows.
The vacant hallway seemed to be narrowing with each step. Apprehension clutched my erratic heart, preventing me from gathering a healthy dose of oxygen. Faint dots exploded before my eyes. I could only think of one reason I was being summoned to the principal. My stomach knotted.
The main office had massive rectangular windows with two open doorways, one for entering and one for exiting. I jerkily entered through the exit. No one paid attention to the signs. An elongated counter separated the pupils from scattered desks of office personnel. Feeling disconnected, I didn’t know what to do.
A lady working at her desk appeared put out as she stood, brushed down her shirt, and then lumbered over. I handed her the paper. She signaled with her arm, similar to a traffic cop.
“Go down that hall to Mr. Rinaldi’s office. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
My tentative footfalls deadened on the carpeted aisle that expanded into a rectangular area. I noted two doors, one marked with a placard that read: Assistant Principal, Mr. Fishione; and the other with a placard that read: Principal: Mr. Rinaldi. On the far wall, picture windows looked over the students’ parking lot and the green lawns beyond. Watery puddles were in the process of evaporating beneath patchy sunlight.
Principal Mr. Rinaldi, a thickset man, looked kind yet stressed when he ushered me into his office. Dark circles ringed his heavy-lidded eyes, and his glasses balanced on a globular nose.
His office
wasn’t fancy—burgundy carpeting and an ordinary desk strewn with paperwork. Two high-backed chairs were positioned in front of the desk, and Ms. Bloome sat on one of them.
“Have a seat, Miss Monroe.” Principal Rinaldi indicated the chair adjacent to Ms. Bloome. He settled into a leather chair depressed with his figure. “Do you know why we’ve called you down?” he asked while wiggling a pen in his fingers and tapping the tip on a pad of paper. Pinpricks of sweat blossomed on his forehead. Slipping a hand into his suit coat, he withdrew a white handkerchief.
“No. Not really.” My entrails quivered like a bowl of jelly, but I wasn’t going to let them see me squirm. Willing my face to remain bland and impartial was difficult. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“It’s come to our attention,” he said, blotting his forehead, “that there has been an… incident.” He wiped the handkerchief over his mouth. “We’d hoped to settle this without involving your parents, since it occurred off school property. However, as educators and caregivers, we feel it is our duty to come to the aid of our children.”
After his speech, Mr. Rinaldi shrunk into his indented chair.
‘Involving your parents.’ Those three words panicked me. If they wanted the whole student body and all of Lancaster to know, then why not send memos to the teachers and post my picture throughout the hallways like a wanted poster?
“Principal Rinaldi,” Ms. Bloome chimed in, “maybe I should speak with Ms. Monroe alone. For just a minute or two.”
I glimpsed my gym teacher and saw a file on her lap.
The Principal metrically drummed his fingers on the desk, peering at Ms. Bloome. After a slight delay, he stacked his hands on either side of the armrests. It appeared a burdensome task as he eased from the chair and walked from his office, clicking the door behind him.
Ms. Bloome, head angled downward, scanned the papers in her lap. Her chest expanded then let loose a long-winded breath as she shook her head. “Mary, do you know what I have here?” Her benign eyes scrutinized me.
How the hell do I know? I wanted this to be over. I wanted to turn back time because I wanted to forget that damn coat.
“You can speak freely. We’re alone,” she persuaded. “I won’t tell a soul. This is between you and me. Even Mr. Rinaldi will never be privy to our little talk.” Her lips curved into an ambiguous smile, reminding me of a black widow with a lethal bite.
I interlaced my fingers and rested them on the books in my lap.
“I didn’t want to do this, but you need some background information,” she said, “about who you’re dealing with.” She thumbed through the papers in the file. “Michael Covington is highly sought after by colleges around the states for football. Did you know that?” Her eyes flitted to my face.
I shook my head.
“Did you know, in Alabama, he had an academic scholarship to a prestigious school?”
Where is she going with this? It shed a good light on him. And, if she accentuated know one more time, I just might throttle her by the neck. Picturing that scenario brought a tight smile to my lips.
“Do you know why Covington transferred to our little neck of the woods?”
Oh-my-God. She is killing me here. “No.” Cocking my elbow on the arm of the chair, I propped my chin in my hand, acting as if I was bored with her debriefing.
“Michael’s father was killed two years ago in Vietnam.”
My head perked up. The tattooed stars on his wrist.
“Michael is an only child. By these records, it appears he’s had a dramatic change since his father’s death. He’s been taken into custody on numerous occasions for fighting, drinking, drugs, and petty stuff, but got away with a slap on the wrist. Covington’s mother couldn’t handle him, and he was sent north to live with her sister and brother-in-law in hopes of reining the young man in. And…” Bloome paused as if building to a climax. “There appears to have been an altercation, still in question, with a young lady at his previous school. I believe it was the final straw that brought Michael to us.” Bloome snapped the folder shut with a definitive crinkle of papers.
A girl?
“What happened to the girl?” My voice quavered, determined not to crack into a gazillion pieces.
“Well, this is classified.”
Spit it out. Bloome didn’t give two shits about it being classified. She is condemning Michael.
“However, and to all our detriment,” she went on, “the girl denied that Michael had done anything wrong. That’s the problem, Mary. We need to nip this right here, right now.” Her eyes flared with intensity as if she wanted to stick the knife in Michael’s heart herself. “This young man believes he can get away with sexually accosting women because of his appearance.” Her eyes and nostrils tweaked, and she worked her mouth as if she had an abnormal tic. “There hides a demon inside that boy.”
Bloome was out-of-her-effing gourd. Or, did Michael crush me at Putnam’s?
No. Not him.
He might’ve been a rebel, but that was not the boy I knew.
Remain firm and in control.
“I don’t understand what you want from me,” I said, eyeing her with unsullied innocence. “Why has Michael been suspended?”
“Come now, Miss Monroe.” She tilted forward, elbows on knees, eyeing me. “I know about Putnam’s party. You were seen unconscious and being carried by Covington. Then, yesterday, your own brother aggressively attacked him on the football field. Now’s the time, Mary. I can help you.” She paused, and her mouth puckered as if she’d sucked a lemon. “Michael molested you at the party. He hurt you badly, didn’t he?”
There, she’d said it, and I loathed her insinuations. Michael had concealed my lurid secret. Why? Unless, he was guilty?
CHAPTER 11
“No.” A sneer grew on my face. I motioned to the folder, simulating confidence. “You’re so misguided by those. They don’t tell the whole story.” Standing, I let my books tumble to the floor. My hand slashed toward the file on her lap, upsetting the papers. Michael’s file flipped end over end and fluttered like paper birds around us.
The door whipped open, and Mr. Rinaldi gaped at the mess carpeting the floor.
“Michael didn’t do anything illegal,” I cried, convincing myself and triggering a font of water to fill my eyes. “He only helped. He saved me!” Dollopy tears spilled over. “Please don’t make me explain. Please don’t. Michael didn’t hurt me. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. Not him.”
I’d said too much.
“Okay, Miss Monroe. It’s okay.” Mr. Rinaldi awkwardly petted my shoulder. He guided me to the chair and plowed his handkerchief into my hands. I looked at the soiled cloth in disbelief.
“Ms. Bloome,” Mr. Rinaldi said in an implacable tone, “go back to your students.”
“I don’t believe we’re done here.” She sounded frantic. “Mary is hiding a despicable secret. She’s defending that boy and practically admitted it. We must find out—”
“We’re done here,” he said firmly. “I think we’ve tortured Miss Monroe long enough.”
She skulked from the office, leaving us alone.
“Miss Monroe. May I call you, Mary?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Mr. Covington informed us that you’d fallen at a friend’s house. Is that statement correct?”
Unable to speak, I gulped a harsh breath and nodded.
“Well, then. If we are in agreement, I feel there’s no need to involve your parents about a situation which they more than likely have already been informed.” His scholarly eyes studied my reaction. The man wasn’t easily deceived.
Snuffling, I nodded again and crunched his handkerchief in my hand. Then I remembered my father always said, “You can’t trust someone if they don’t look you in the eye.”
“I’ll retract Michael Covington’s suspension. Although...” His gaze skated over the littering pa
perwork. “I hope we don’t misplace any of his records.” He knelt to the floor and commenced cleaning up the chaos.
I knelt, scooped the papers into a tidy pile, and deposited them on his desk. Heaping my textbooks into my arms, I noticed the time on the clock hanging on the wall.
I should be in lunch. Out of the blue, a buffeting wave tossed my belly like a marooned dingy. Reflecting about being ogled and put under a microscope by my so-called friends didn’t bode well.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” My hand clutched my stomach as my face tingled. “Can I go to the nurse?”
Alarmed, Principal Rinaldi lunged for the wastebasket. Whether it was for my sake or for his or for both of us, I’m positive tolerating the putrid stink leaching from the carpet would make for a terrible day.
Just in the nick of time, he handed it to me, and I blew.
Later that night, when my family was asleep, I unharnessed my mental block and replayed the repulsive attack. Enduring through a convulsing cry-a-thon, I realized it was all in my head, but I still smelled the guy. He’d reeked. Obnoxious fumes of liquor, beer, weed, and sweat. A frigging space cadet, and he had to have been stoned to the max.
Did that make me feel better? No and yes. No, because I’m a basket case and wanted the guy’s balls hacked off. And yes because I prayed the asshole wasn’t a natural born rapist.
I also remembered Michael. While in his truck, waiting for Stevie to drive by, he’d been somewhat lucid.
It wasn’t him.
CHAPTER 12
The grapevine abounded with outlandish stories when the supposedly suspended Michael moseyed into school on Friday, wearing his trademark cowboy boots.
“Hey, Covington, are you playing tonight?” asked a boy.
“That’s the plan.”
“We heard you were suspended.”
“Nope, guess not.”
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