For Better and Worse

by Margot Hunt

  “I’ll message her and ask.” I sent the text, which Marissa responded to almost instantly. “She says it’s fine.”

  “Then I guess let’s go. I could certainly use a drink right about now.”

  * * *

  The B-Side Lounge was a hipster wine bar that often had a jazz band playing in the courtyard on weekends. But there wasn’t any live music that night, a Monday, and only a light crowd grouped at the bar.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Will asked.

  “I’ll have a glass of sauvignon blanc,” I said.

  Will went to order our drinks, and I headed outside, where a small group of school parents were already congregating on the patio. It was a relaxed, pleasant space, with iron tables set up around a burbling fountain and lit by strings of twinkle lights that hung from the brick walls and encircled potted palms. Mandy and her husband, Dan, were there sitting at one table with Grace and Ryan Carpenter, as well as Shannon Davis. Kyle Anderson was pulling another table over to make room for more people, helped by Jason Farraday. Jason’s wife, Tish, looked intense as she talked to Ann Marie Delgado and—my heart sank—Ellie Jones. I should have known Ellie wouldn’t miss an opportunity to insert herself further into the drama.

  “I just felt like I had to stand up and say something,” Ellie informed everyone loudly. “These are our kids who are at risk, after all. If we don’t advocate for them, who will?”

  “I agreed with every word you said,” Ann Marie told her. “But I could never have spoken in front of everyone like you did. I would have been too nervous.”

  “I’m never afraid to speak up,” Ellie told her. “I’ve always been very brave when it comes to standing up for what I believe in.”

  I managed not to roll my eyes and sat down next to Mandy.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said, patting my arm. “I’m so freaked out.”

  “I know. It’s all a lot to take in.”

  Will appeared and handed me a glass of wine.

  “Try not to chug it,” he said.

  “Don’t tempt me.” I took a sip of the wine, then turned back to Mandy. “So why are we meeting up? Is this just to rehash what Naomi told us at the school meeting?”

  Mandy shook her head. My normally lighthearted best friend looked more serious than I’d ever seen her. “No, I think we’re about to find out what’s really going on.” She turned to look at Grace. “I think this is everyone.”

  “Good, we should probably get started,” Grace said. “I know some of us have babysitters waiting at home.”

  “Do you have information beyond what we were just told at the assembly?” Will asked.

  “I heard that this isn’t the first time Principal Gibbons has been accused of molesting a student,” Ellie announced.

  We all flinched at how loudly she spoke. The bar wasn’t crowded, but there were some patrons there not affiliated with the school, and this didn’t seem like a subject that should be discussed at full volume.

  “It apparently happened at the last school he taught in. I don’t know where, apparently somewhere out of state. That’s why he moved here, and apparently may have changed his name,” she continued.

  “That’s not true,” I said quietly. “Robert has lived here for twenty years. Before he took the job at Franklin, he was the assistant principal at one of the local public elementary schools.”

  “And the school board does a thorough background search on everyone the school hires. If there had been even a whiff of something like this in his past, they would never have hired him,” Mandy said.

  Ellie flushed. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  “Grace has heard some information, too,” Mandy said. She turned to Grace, who had sharp features and a long neck, like the subject of a Modigliani painting. “Why don’t you tell them what you told me?”

  “Okay, I will, but I want to say, I’m really not comfortable with this,” Grace said. “I don’t normally spread gossip, especially about something so awful. But I know everyone’s worried about what did or didn’t happen, and the source I heard it from is very reliable. She knows the whole story.”

  “Who told you?” Ellie asked eagerly.

  “I’m not going to say,” Grace replied. “But I will tell you this—the child who made the accusation was Tate Mason.”

  We were all quiet for a minute, absorbing this information. Tate was a few years older than Charlie, and he lived a few blocks away from our house. I occasionally saw him out on his bike, often with a fishing pole—some of the kids liked to fish off the old bridge in downtown Shoreham. I didn’t know Tate well, but I had heard that he had the reputation of either being troubled...or being a troublemaker.

  “I don’t know who that is,” Kyle said, breaking the silence. “What grade is he in?”

  “Seventh,” Grace said. “He lives with Jennifer and Peter Swain.”

  “Lives with?” Will asked, shooting me a quizzical look.

  “He’s a foster child,” Mandy explained. “I know Jennifer and Peter want to officially adopt him. I think they’re just waiting on the paperwork.”

  “Isn’t Tate the kid who set the fire in the boys’ locker room last year?” Dan Breen asked.

  “They actually never proved that he was the one who started the fire,” Mandy told her husband.

  “But that’s who everyone thought did it. Right?”

  “Right.” Mandy shrugged, and glanced around at the rest of us. “I’m sorry, but that’s true, right? Everyone thought he was responsible.”

  “They did find a lighter in his locker,” Ellie added eagerly. “And Mr. Patrick, the custodian, said he saw Tate going into the locker room earlier that day.”

  “Well, to be fair, every boy in the school who had PE that day would have gone into the locker room,” Mandy said. “But apparently Tate had gotten detention earlier that week, and he made some threatening comments to Principal Gibbons. Something along the lines of, ‘I’ll get you back for this.’”

  We were all quiet for a few moments, absorbing the ramifications this statement might have in light of the current controversy.

  “Why wasn’t he expelled after the fire?” Will asked.

  “The school didn’t have enough evidence to take action against him,” Grace said. “And besides, I heard he’s had a tough life, or at least he did until the Swains took him in. I think that everyone, ironically Principal Gibbons included, thought that it was better to let the whole thing go. To give Tate a second chance.”

  “Do you know what this kid is accusing Principal Gibbons of doing?” Kyle asked.

  Grace nodded, her face grim. “He claims that it happened last month when the seventh graders were on their overnight class trip to St. Augustine. Principal Gibbons always chaperones the out-of-town trips. Tate told Jennifer, his foster mom, that Robert took him into his hotel room alone, and...well, touched him. Inappropriately. And apparently tried to get Tate to touch him back. Jennifer was the one who reported it to the police.”

  Dan exhaled loudly. “Jesus.”

  “But why would Robert do that?” Mandy asked. She shook her head. “The risk of getting caught would be enormous. What if one of the other chaperones or kids had seen him?”

  “Robert denies it ever happened,” Grace added. “He insists he was never alone with Tate.”

  “So basically it’s the word of a troubled kid versus a man with a spotless record.” Will shook his head. “I have to imagine that would be a tough case to prove.”

  Other parents nodded and began sharing what they knew about Tate. That he was frequently in trouble at school. That he had self-control issues and often had outbursts in class. That both of his biological parents were in prison.

  I had the sense that opinion—so quick to assume the worst of Robert just moments earlier—was shifting rapidly. The victim wasn’t a
good kid. He was troubled. And an outsider.

  Just a few minutes earlier, I was sure that the Robert Gibbons I knew couldn’t be a child molester. But contrarily, everyone’s willingness to assume the worst of this child turned my stomach. So what if Tate Mason had had a rough life? What if he had set that fire? Did that mean that he couldn’t also be victimized by a predatory adult?

  I glanced over at Will, hoping to catch his eye and signal that I wanted to go. He was looking down at his phone, tapping on it with one finger. I stared at him, wondering what could possibly be more important than the revelation that the principal of our son’s school had been accused of molesting a child? Not to mention that Robert was a friend, and he was either guilty or falsely accused of a hideous crime. That either a child’s life had been horribly impacted or a good and decent man would have his life ruined by a false accusation.

  Mandy looked over at Will, too, and then she caught my eye. She knew his phone obsession drove me crazy. I had joked about it one day over lunch, comparing his phone habit to that of our teenage babysitter. I hadn’t told her my suspicions about just whom he might be texting. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Mandy—I did, and I knew she would keep my confidences to herself—but once I said anything, I wouldn’t be able to take it back. Every time Mandy saw Will and me together, she’d wonder if he had cheated on me, and I would know exactly what she was thinking. I wasn’t ready for that.

  I drained my glass of wine and stood. “We have to go. Our sitter is waiting for us.”

  Will looked up in surprise, but he also got to his feet and pocketed his phone.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” Mandy said.

  I smiled at her and nodded. “Thank you for the information, Grace.”

  “I just hope I made the right decision telling you all. I would appreciate it if we could keep it between us,” Grace said. Her eyes flickered toward Ellie, who was probably counting down the minutes until she could call everyone she knew and tell them about this latest piece of scandal.

  “Of course,” I said, although we all knew there was little chance of this group keeping what she’d told us confidential.

  By tomorrow at the latest, every parent in the school would know that Tate Mason had accused Principal Robert Gibbons of molesting him.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, I didn’t go to the office straight after dropping Charlie off at school, as I usually did. Instead, I returned to the house, hooked on Rocket’s leash and took him out for a walk.

  Rocket was delighted at the unexpected treat. He pranced along at my side, his ears pricked up, watching for an errant squirrel or lizard he could pounce on. I wasn’t nearly as energetic. I hadn’t slept well, which wasn’t surprising after the distressing news of the night before. My dreams had been chaotic and strange, and I woke up with my nightshirt drenched in sweat.

  I hadn’t talked to Charlie about Tate Mason’s allegations yet. Will and I had returned home the night before to find him already asleep. That morning, he’d been distracted by the math homework he’d failed to complete the night before in the excitement of having Marissa babysit on a school night. I knew I’d have to talk to him about the subject soon, that afternoon if possible, before he started hearing stories from his classmates. But first, I needed to figure out what I was going to say. I had approximately seven hours to figure out how the hell I was going to broach such a difficult topic.

  I shook my head and walked faster, trying to wake myself up. Our subdivision had a central park, complete with a man-made pond and a small playground, where I used to push Charlie on the swings when he was small. Rocket and I circled the perimeter of the park, then headed east on Palmetto Terrace under the shade of a row of oak trees. The cicadas were chirping above, their eerie rhythm seeming to grow louder with our every step.

  Jennifer and Peter Swain lived on Palmetto Terrace, along with their foster son, Tate, and daughter, Zoë. I knew Jennifer from school events—we always chatted at the school auction and Mother’s Day Breakfast, and both volunteered at track-and-field day—but I didn’t know her well enough to ask how Tate had come to join their family. I was pretty sure Zoë was their biological child, since she looked just like Jennifer. Had they wanted more kids, and were unable to have them? Or had they been moved to take in a foster child out of a sense of social conscience?

  I walked toward the Swain house, which was the last on the left of the dead-end street. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was hoping to accomplish—I certainly wasn’t going to ring their doorbell or otherwise impose on them, not when they were going through such a difficult time. I fully expected that Rocket and I would reach the end of the street, then turn right back around and head home.

  I was wrong.

  When I reached the Swains’ house—a pretty, two-story yellow stucco home with a metal roof—Jennifer was outside. She was a tall, thin woman with a square jaw and masculine features. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but definitely striking. This morning, Jennifer was standing on her front lawn, dressed in a T-shirt, running shorts and suede gardening gloves. She was attacking a huge bougainvillea bush with a pair of long-handled shears, opening and closing the handles violently, while the pink-plumed branches rained down around her.

  “Shit,” she swore when one of the thorny branches caught against her arm.

  “Hi, Jennifer,” I said.

  She started, turning around. Her face was red from the exertion and a trickle of sweat was running down her temple. She lifted a gloved hand to wipe it away, leaving a smudge of dirt in its place. “Nat. Hi.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I gestured to the piles of branches on the grass. “You were doing battle with your tree.”

  “Right.” Jennifer turned to look at it, as if she was just now noticing she’d lopped off two-thirds of the tree. “If I don’t cut it back, it takes over, but I think I might have gone overboard. I probably should have at least waited until it finished blooming.”

  “You’re bleeding,” I said.

  Jennifer looked down at the scratches on her arm. “I look like I’ve gotten into a fight with a rabid cat.”

  “Maybe you should put some Neosporin on those.”

  “Probably.” Jennifer signed heavily. “It’s weird that you’re here. I was actually going to call you this morning.”

  “You were?” I was surprised. Jennifer and I had always been friendly, but we weren’t close. We’d never chatted on the phone.

  “I’m assuming you’ve heard about...well. Everything. With Tate, I mean. Everyone else in town seems to know.”

  I nodded. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you and Peter. And Tate, of course.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much been a living nightmare. Anyway, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask your advice on the legalities of all of this. Do you have the time to come inside for a minute? I just made a pitcher of iced tea.”

  “Sure, but I have Rocket with me.” I gestured down toward my dog.

  Jennifer looked at my small dog, and for the first time, a smile softened her face. “He’s welcome to come in, too.”

  * * *

  We ended up sitting out on her back patio, next to a kidney-shaped swimming pool. A pink flamingo raft floated aimlessly on the chlorinated water, occasionally bouncing off one of the rounded pool sides. I unhooked Rocket from his lead. He immediately raced away, ready to terrorize the lizards that had, until his arrival, been happily sunning themselves on the warm cement.

  Jennifer brought out a pitcher of iced tea on a tray, along with glasses and a plate of banana-nut muffins. She offered one to me, then took one herself. Rocket instantly raced back to the table and shimmied to Jennifer’s side, giving her a winsome look.

  “Can I give him one?” she asked.

  “Just a bite.”

  She tore her muffin in h
alf and fed it to Rocket. He happily scarfed it down.

  “You’ll be his new best friend.”

  “I bake when I’m stressed out,” Jennifer said. “But I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  I took a bite of the muffin. “Yum, this is delicious.”

  “Thanks, they’re Tate’s favorite.” Jennifer closed her eyes briefly and ran a hand over her face. “Not that muffins are going to fix anything.”

  “How is Tate doing?” I asked tentatively.

  “Right now, he’s happy because we let him stay home from school yesterday and today. Actually, whatever happens, we’re not going to send him or Zoë back to that school. I need to figure out where they’ll go now.”

  “Are they home?”

  “No, Peter took them out in the boat. We couldn’t think of what else to do, and all three of them love to fish. But as far as how Tate is going to be...that I honestly can’t tell you.” Jennifer shook her head helplessly. “He’s always been the sort of kid who keeps things bottled up inside. I think it’s because he had such a rough start in life. His biological mom was a drug addict who continued using right through her pregnancy. Then he was nearly two before Child Protective Services removed him from her custody, so God only knows what his baby years were like. After that, he was in and out of several foster homes before he came to live with us. Most foster parents are good people, kind people, but...well. Tate’s made a few comments here and there that have led me to believe that it was not always easy for him. He was already seeing a child psychologist before any of this happened. Do you know Camilla Wilson?”

  I shook my head.

  “She’s been fantastic with Tate. He actually talked to her first about...well, what happened to him. She was the one who encouraged him to tell Peter and me. These sort of traumatic events can have horrible long-term effects, but Camilla is hopeful that with enough help and support, Tate will pull through this,” Jennifer said.

  “I’m sure he will.” At least, I hoped so. Tate had already been through more trauma than any child should ever have to deal with. “Have you taken in other foster kids?”