“For Chrissakes, slow down, would you?” yelled Paul from a few yards back.
But Deirdre kept running. She kept running until her chest hurt, until it burned, until her heart pounded. Even then, she did not stop. She slowed to a jog and evened out her breathing, then jogged to the end of the block. She was afraid to stop, unsure of what might happen if she did.
“What the hell?” Paul said when he caught up, huffing, bent over with his hands on his thighs.
Deirdre was breathing hard.
“Sluggy, my ass.”
“Paul.” Deirdre looked at her brother. “I’m going to get fired.”
He didn’t look up. “Yeah, right. Ha ha.” But when Deirdre didn’t say anything else, he raised his head. “You’re serious.”
Deirdre nodded and started to cry.
“Okay, come on. Let’s . . . let’s walk back, come on.” Paul put an arm around her. “Since we sprinted half of our usual route anyway.” He jostled her a little.
“This is serious. I’m in big trouble.”
“What happened?”
Deirdre wriggled free. “It’s a long story—but basically, Martin Loring thinks I’m involved with a student. And I’m not,” she added when she saw the look on Paul’s face.
He gave a little laugh. “Wow. So, like, what’s going on? Did some girl make up a story about you or what? Somebody you flunked in French class?”
They walked and Deirdre felt chilled, the sweat on her skin cooling now. She rubbed behind her neck, at the base of her hairline. Off in the distance, bells at the Episcopal church, maybe, or First Unitarian, rang out cheerfully, marking time for eleven o’clock services.
“It’s . . . kind of complicated, but the thing is, I’m not involved with her but I think I’m going to get fired anyway.” Deirdre scuffed through dried leaves on the sidewalk, kicked at a pile along the edge of someone’s lawn.
“But you’re one of their best teachers.”
Deirdre gave Paul a smile for that one.
“So why wouldn’t the headmaster believe you?” Paul walked with his arms folded across his chest. “Why doesn’t he know it’s a load of crap?”
Deirdre took a deep breath. “Because . . . because . . . because someone saw us kissing.” She glanced quickly up at Paul. He seemed to go rigid, his face stiff and unmoving. “I know it sounds bad, but she kissed me. I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.”
Paul kept walking slow, deliberate steps. He wouldn’t look at her.
“I know you think this whole gay thing is weird, but I’m telling you, I swear to God, I’m not involved with any students. This girl . . . she . . . It’s a long story, but her mother hates my guts and the girl is troubled and so Martin Loring is definitely going to fire me.” Silence from Paul. “Oh, and her mother is the president of the board, did I mention that?”
“Jesus.” Paul shook his head, gave that little laugh again.
“Please don’t tell Kris.” Deirdre reached over and grabbed his arm.
“I can’t promise. You know that.” Paul patted Deirdre’s hand, then removed it. “We tell each other everything.”
“But not this. You can’t. You know how she’ll react—she’s not so fond of me as it is.” Deirdre tried to make it sound funny, like a private joke they shared, but Paul wasn’t laughing. “Please?”
“I’ll see,” was all he could promise. They walked the next few blocks without saying anything, Deirdre feeling deflated, empty inside. Then, just before they reached the park, Paul looked at her. “How can a kid just kiss you?”
“Yeah, that’s what Martin Loring’s going to ask me.” She dragged her toe on the cement. An orange leaf drifted in the air and landed on the ground next to her foot. “I know it sounds bad but I really didn’t do anything wrong.” She looked up at Paul. “I really didn’t.”
He nodded but didn’t smile. Didn’t offer any other words of encouragement.
“Sorry for the sucky run.” She punched him in the arm. “Okay. So, talk to you soon?” She stretched on her toes to hug him but gave him a peck on the cheek instead.
Paul untied his key from his sneaker. “Let me know what happens.”
“Oh, and Paul? Mom and Dad do not need to know about this.”
Paul nodded again and got into his Volvo wagon, the safest car for carting around children, he said.
Deirdre watched him drive past the lavender Victorian to the end of the street where he put on his blinker and took a left. She stood fixed to the spot, the sounds of kids playing basketball on the courts behind her. Leaves rustled and blew, danced across the pavement at her feet.
Chapter Eleven
Six thirty. Deirdre stepped out into the cool morning air and locked the door behind her. Normally, she relished this early-morning time and the quiet walk to Brandywine. These days, whenever she was able to get up ahead of schedule and have the street almost to herself, she reveled in that prewinter chill—the dry, sharp air that would later melt into warm spots on the playground, heating the kids so they tore off jackets and piled them on the edge of the blacktop. Deirdre felt a certain security on those mornings, a kind of knowledge that came with seeing the day start before everyone else. Today, there was no joy in the walk. She felt as if the rustling of the trees and shrubs, the piles of leaves, even the trills of the mourning doves mocked her as she walked past. They all knew it. She was a condemned woman.
Deirdre pulled her jacket tighter and hoisted her backpack up onto her shoulder. Disconnected, that’s how she felt passing the familiar houses, seeing the woman from the hardware store approach the opposite side of the intersection. Everything was the same and everything was most certainly not the same. But outwardly, who could tell? Who would know, for instance, if they passed by 47 Hillside Street that inside, all was not as it seemed? That SJ and Deirdre were barely speaking? That SJ had in fact spent the entire weekend away from the house, except for those hours at night when she slept next to Deirdre, sometimes reaching out, but still not talking? It was unsettling, this possibility, that things looked one way and were actually another. That you could walk past houses which gave the appearance of solidity and comfort—the illusion that living in them offered a certain kind of life—but that beyond the front doors what you found was something very different. It was a cruel joke. What kind of security was there in buying a house, then? What did it matter, the neighborhood you chose? How did you know what to think of your neighbors when outwardly, their lives appeared to be one way but unless you could peek into open windows unnoticed, you might never be sure? If you couldn’t count on certain truths, what was there? How did you know how to proceed?
In the Brandywine parking lot, Frances Worthington’s silver BMW was parked next to Martin Loring’s old Volvo. Oh God, was Deirdre going to have to face her this morning? But there were several other cars too—Beth Ann’s white Chevrolet among them. Deirdre walked up the steps to the front door and opened it. She heard voices down the hall toward the library. The new-parent coffee. Martin must have forgotten there would be other people around as early as seven that morning. Deirdre certainly had forgotten. Well, she would do what she could to avoid them.
She walked down the hallway past the trophy cases full of championship teams—varsity lacrosse, swim, and tennis—and the framed, formal faces of former heads of the school. Each of them seemed to pass judgment, admonishing Deirdre with their silent stares and half-smiles. You should know better, they seemed to be saying. See what happens when you try to fit in where you don’t belong? When Deirdre had first been hired, she felt uncomfortable each time she walked down this hallway. She had felt the stares of those faces. But later, as she began to feel at home at Brandywine—as she developed her reputation for being a good teacher and one whom parents frequently requested for their daughters—she felt a kinship with those same photos. An alliance. You see? I can be one of you. We are all in this together.
“Deirdre, come in.” Martin looked up from his desk and motioned to the leather
chair when Deirdre peered around the corner into his office. There was Lil’s trench coat, hanging on a hook on the wall behind her desk, but no Lil. She must be helping the mothers with the coffee in the library.
Deirdre felt her face flush hot red and sat on her hands to keep them from shaking. She wanted to say something but didn’t know what. She wanted to start this awful procedure and she wanted it never to happen. She wanted Martin to look up from whatever it was he was working on and tell her that he was sorry for the terrible misunderstanding, that he knew Deirdre would never do anything to compromise her job or her students’ safety. She wanted him to tell her she was so valuable he didn’t know what he would do without her and therefore couldn’t do what she was pretty sure he was about to do. She wanted him to tell her that in all his years as an administrator, he had never known such dedication.
Deirdre tried to control her breathing. The clock on the wall ticked—a loud, mundane sound that she found oddly reassuring. She heard heavy footsteps outside the office and wondered how much Lil already knew and what she thought.
Heels clicking down the hallway and then that familiar buttercream voice.
“Lil . . .” Please, dear God, let Martin shut the door to his office before Frances Worthington rounds the corner into the main office. “Lil, do you know where we might find the larger coffee pot? I have this one . . .”
“Well,” Martin Loring cleared his throat. He stood and set his glasses on the pile of papers, shuffled out from behind his desk, his plaid jacket unbuttoned, shirt a little wrinkled. Deirdre had always thought of him as a kind man. A bit disheveled and unorganized—a typical academic—his love and respect for children evident in the way he knew each girl’s name and favorite activity or pastime, the way he greeted them one by one in the hallway or kept his office open. The walls of his office were covered with student artwork, and Deirdre stared now at a framed abstract watercolor in bright blues and reds.
Martin closed the door. “So,” he said.
Deirdre tried to look casual and not terrified. Her face burned hot.
“This is very difficult.” Martin sat in the leather chair opposite her. “Very difficult. But I’m sure you can see my position on this thing.” He smoothed his tie, navy blue with thin stripes.
Tick, tick, tick. A ringing phone and then Lil’s voice—“Brandywine Academy.” For a moment, this could be any day beginning in the usual way—Deirdre stopping in to chat with Martin about any number of things en route to the classroom, Lil answering the phone as always—but it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” was all Deirdre managed to squeak out, and was horrified to feel her eyes fill with tears. “I . . .”
Martin continued: “You can understand that in my position I have to think of what’s best for the school.” He looked up at her then, thick brows furrowed, unsmiling. Deirdre resisted the urge to smooth down the wiry ones that curled askew. Martin rubbed his hands together, cleared his throat. “I’ve had to, ah, consult with our lawyer . . .”
Lawyer! Deirdre couldn’t prevent the shock from registering on her face. “I assure you, I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, her voice rising. She coughed, cleared her own throat. “I know it looks bad but—”
Martin raised his hands and stopped her. “This thing, it is bad. The fact is that Frances saw you . . . I’m sorry . . . ah, embracing Anna, isn’t that right?”
Deirdre nodded, miserable. “Yes, but—”
He held up his hands again. “Then I have no choice.” He shook his head. “I have to put you on leave. Immediately.”
Deirdre, as much as she had been expecting those very words, was startled to hear them. “But,” she sputtered, “can I . . . Do you want to hear my version?” And she launched into the story, the version she had told herself hundreds of times since Friday, about how Anna had forged the permission slip, how Deirdre hadn’t known, how when she found Anna in the van, she had tried to console the girl, how Deirdre had insisted she call her mother immediately and how, while Deirdre was doing her best to calm her down, Anna had kissed her.
Martin looked at her, his brown eyes kind and soft. “The situation is this, to be frank: I have little choice here. After consulting with our lawyer—” he rubbed his hands together again and looked away, then back at her, “I have been advised to let you go immediately.”
“Like, today?”
Martin nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Paid leave,” he added after a long second. As if that mattered.
“Today?” Deirdre repeated. “I have to . . . go home?” She felt stupid, as if Martin were using words whose meanings weren’t immediately clear. If she couldn’t teach today, why hadn’t Martin insisted on telling her over the phone?
“I’m afraid so, yes. I have no choice.”
“You keep saying that—but what about what really happened in that van? What about my version?” Deirdre stood and began pacing across the office. Her voice sounded shrill in her ears, like a whinny. She felt her body charged by anger, a drug pulsing through her veins. Her hands shook. “Anna kissed me. I didn’t kiss her, for God’s sake. She . . . What was I supposed to do?” Now the tears fell and Deirdre crossed her arms. She paced, knew that she was crying but couldn’t stop. “How . . . What was I supposed to do? What did I do wrong?” She looked then at Martin before she sank to the leather chair, the tears falling freely now, uncontrollable.
Outside the office, Frances Worthington spoke to Lil. Something about napkins and cookies, about not having enough platters. Deirdre imagined the woman standing in front of Lil’s desk in one of her seamless outfits, the kind that you knew cost a fortune, the kind that, no matter what you had on, made you feel poor. Ashamed. Ragged and underdressed.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Deirdre tried to regain control. “Ask Anna,” she said after a moment, catching her breath. She sat upright. “Have you spoken with her? Did you ask Anna what happened?”
Martin moved to the edge of his chair, his hands still pressed together. “I’m afraid so.” He glanced up at the wall clock.
“Was she there?” Deirdre asked in a whisper, thrusting her hand toward the office door, pointing. “Did you get to talk with Anna alone?”
“I can’t discuss that.” Martin stood. “We can talk more later—I’m sure we’ll have more to say as we investigate further, but for now . . . for now, I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t do it. Martin couldn’t even bring himself to ask her to leave. That gave Deirdre some hope. “So, you are investigating? This isn’t the end?”
Martin nodded. “Absolutely. Understand, you’re not fired here. This could be just temporary. We will be in touch, of course. It’s just that . . .” And he let his hands fall open then.
Deirdre finished the sentence for him. “You have no choice.” She sucked in a big breath. She got up and wiped her nose with the back of her wrist. She took two steps toward the door, then turned back to Martin. “You’re saying this is temporary?”
“I’m not promising anything.” He sighed and walked toward the door. “But will we investigate? Absolutely. Will you be given a fair shake? Without a doubt.” He gripped Deirdre’s shoulder and squeezed. “And you’re still getting paid,” he reminded her. “We’re not cutting you off here.”
Deirdre tried to smile. “What about . . . my stuff? My room? Can I just go up and see if there’s anything I need?”
Martin reached over, grabbed the doorknob, and opened the door. “Lil?” he said, poking his head out. Deirdre peered out from behind Martin’s back. No sign of Frances.
A file cabinet slid shut and Lil walked around the corner into the doorway. She didn’t say anything to Deirdre nor did she look at her. “Yes?” she said to Martin Loring.
“Could you accompany Ms. Murphy here up to her room? She needs to gather her things.”
Deirdre felt her face burning. She was being treated like a criminal, not being allowed to even go up to her room alone. Did they think she might steal something? Deface school proper
ty? She gave Lil a weak wave.
Lil motioned for Deirdre to lead the way. “Things get crazy around here real fast.”
Deirdre knew Lil meant the morning hours at Brandywine, the chaos. Still, it sounded like a reprimand, as if the craziness were somehow her fault. Deirdre picked up her backpack from the floor and turned to Martin. “I . . . You’ll call me, then? You’ll let me know what’s happening?”
“Absolutely.” He shook her hand. To Lil he said, “I’ll get the phone. And yes, I’ll look in on the ladies.”
For ten years, Deirdre and Lil had been colleagues, of a sort. All those years, Deirdre tried very hard to be on time with administrative forms and requests—her grades especially—because she was aware that being late caused Lil extra work. She made special efforts to bring treats to the front office during those crunch times—little things, cookies or brownies—to perk up Lil’s day, to let her know that at least someone realized how much work she did. Now, Deirdre didn’t know what to say to Lil as they climbed the stairs to her classroom. She wanted to launch into her side of the story, find out what Lil knew exactly, what she had heard from Martin and from Frances Worthington herself.
The Year of Needy Girls Page 10