She dialed Henry at work. They’d have to find some way to remove the video, and quickly, before Andrew had time to get mad all over again. Tracy’s instinct had been right: Julia should have unfriended Lisa Lions the first time the video had been posted; or better yet, she should have found out who she really was and made her pay.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Isobel worked late at her desk on Friday, her second day of suspension. She realized this seemed crazy, entering the school building when everyone else had left for the weekend. The first day of her banishment, she’d resolutely stayed on school grounds, sitting at a high top in the hidden back corner of the library, catching up on her professional reading and, by the fact of her presence, deterring would-be truants. Although Mary had told her she didn’t need to report on these days—and it was indeed tempting to flee, given her anxiety and embarrassment— she worried leaving would be like admitting guilt. And she hadn’t, in fact, done anything wrong.
On Thursday afternoon, though, Lyle had convinced her to take the next day off. “Think about how much you could get done on a workday when you don’t have to be here,” he’d said, appealing to her drive for productivity. And sure enough, on Friday after her own children were dropped off at school, she’d cleaned her kitchen, even weeding through their aging collection of spices. She’d then hit both Target and the grocery store before picking Riley and Callie up at carpool. She’d left Callie in charge in front of YouTube and promised deep-dish for dinner, which she’d pick up on her way home. Once the school parking lot was clear of the Friday rush, she used her key card to head back to her classroom.
It felt comforting to sit at her desk with no one else around. She cleared her top drawer of her favorite black Dixon Ticonderoga pencils (Judith could provide her own writing implements) and optimistically outlined her upcoming unit on Steinbeck for the ninth graders. This might be a waste of time, but Lyle said he thought she wouldn’t be fired. And if the investigation went according to schedule and she was reinstated, she’d be back in the classroom as early as the end of next week. She might as well be prepared.
At the end of an hour of work, Isobel called ahead for the pizza. She sat back in her chair and surveyed the classroom. Had Judith wrecked anything in her brief tenure? Not yet, Isobel thought, though her spider plants suffered. She reached into her tote and grabbed her Nalgene water bottle, which she dumped evenly into the three pots.
She had a few minutes to kill before the pizza would be ready, so she opened Facebook and found a new post from her college roommate on her page. Immediately, she recognized the image of Julia Abbott, her blond ponytail and upturned nose. The Watch This! logo splashed at the bottom of the image. Her roommate had written, This is your school, right? What the heck is happening over there? Her sister had commented on the post as well: Forget to tell me something?! Isobel hadn’t told Caroline about the video, in part because if she called, she’d also have to reveal the suspension, which she couldn’t bear.
Although she knew Caroline would never admit to it, Isobel always felt she was disappointing her little sister. It had begun that first night in their small apartment, the first of many she’d crowded into Caroline’s twin bed. And as an adult, Caroline still took care of lots of details in Isobel’s life, down to choosing her clothing.
Caroline claimed she had to update her wardrobe constantly to keep up with the other women in her DC law firm, but Isobel knew she added a few extra things to keep her big sister from looking like a schlub. To admit her career was now in jeopardy due to the same moral imperative that kept her from J.Crew? Isobel wasn’t sure she could keep Caroline in her corner.
Isobel clicked the video and found the Watch This! version already had more than two hundred thousand views. Seeing it again, Isobel realized how damning—and, yes, funny—the video was, even though poor Melissa took that hard hit. A mom’s victory dance gone wrong in front of a crowd of kids? The scenario seemed made for a sitcom.
Isobel quickly typed a response to her roommate and her sister on the post. There’s no accounting for crazy, she said, adding an eye-roll emoji. She hit ENTER, clicked the home button, and scrolled through photos of her friends’ kids’ sports victories and her neighbor’s new baby.
JULIA ABBOTT
On Saturday morning, Julia opened a can of Diet Dew and put it on the counter as she stretched her quad muscle. She’d just finished her prescribed four-and-a-half-mile run in preparation for the annual 5K. Bracing against a subzero headwind that morning, she had thought once again about lobbying to move the fun run to the spring so no one would have to contend with winter’s punishing conditions. But, as Vivian Song had pointed out at a board meeting last fall, the program consistently needed a cash infusion before the spring musical, Liston Heights’ signature production. Julia asked whether they couldn’t just refrain from overexpenditures on the fall play and the one-acts, but no one had spoken in support of that idea.
Andrew, sleeping now, had gone as icy as the weather after the Watch This! video had popped up in each of their social media feeds. Julia pounded out some of her frustration on her run, but dinner the previous night had been tense. She’d convinced the kids to eat together before heading to the high school’s Friday night basketball game, and although she and Henry both detailed efforts they’d made to call Watch This! and, in Henry’s case, Tryg Ogilvie’s father, no one felt particularly optimistic about getting the clip off the Internet. They’d just have to wait it out. Julia hoped the children would keep speaking to her as they did.
Now she startled at her ringing cell phone. “I’m looking for Julia Abbott?” It was an unfamiliar male voice.
“This is she,” Julia said.
“Mrs. Abbott,” the man continued, “this is Randy Carlson. I’m a producer for Local News Six at Six. How are you doing today?”
“Fine.” Julia sat a little straighter. Certainly the local news couldn’t want a comment about the video? Would her humiliation be broadcast on TV, in addition to social media?
“Mrs. Abbott, I’m calling to see if you’d like to comment on a story we’re producing for tonight’s newscast.”
No, Julia thought. No comment, no story. She sipped her soda and tried to ignore the pounding in her chest. “I can’t imagine I have a comment,” she said. “What’s the story?” She bit her lip, hoping.
“It appears that you were”—the producer paused—“caught on video at Liston Heights High School? Are you aware that a video of you at the school has over two hundred thousand views on a popular social media aggregator?”
“Two hundred thousand?” she gasped.
“These things spread quickly, and there’s a lot of public interest,” the man explained, not even a little apologetic. “It’s probably in your best interest to offer a comment. We can send a crew to your house this morning.”
Julia pictured the potential news graphic—“Loosen the Spanx, Mrs. A” in a red, semitransparent font, splashed over a still of Julia’s elbow making contact with Melissa Young’s belly.
“I wish you wouldn’t do it,” Julia said, dropping her forehead to her palm, elbow propped on the granite. No, no, no. She pictured Tracy’s beleaguered little face, her businesslike efforts to save Julia from the Facebook publicity. After a news story ran, there would be an additional media clip to hide—the story itself from Channel 6, not to mention Andrew’s simmering anger and Henry’s barely contained exasperation. She didn’t think she’d be able to withstand another round of publicity. “You see,” she said, desperate, “the whole thing was an accident. There are a lot of hurt feelings. This story will cause harm for everyone involved—I’m not just thinking of myself. Wait,” she said, realizing that she was speaking with a representative of the news media. “We’re not on the record, right?” She’d suddenly remembered her journalism courses at the University of Minnesota.
“No, ma’am,” said Randy, “we’re not on the record, but in term
s of doing the story, I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” He sounded determined. “But you can have your say. You can comment on camera.”
Julia raised her head, her fingers dragging over her eye and onto her cheek. “Is the school commenting?” she asked. She looked into the family room, gazing at the beige chenille blanket thrown over the brown micro-suede couch.
“We’re in contact with the principal’s office, and we have one comment from a teacher,” the producer said.
From a teacher? “Which teacher commented?” Julia asked.
“We can discuss the details when we get there with the camera crew. Are you available this morning?”
No. Julia blinked at her snow-covered hydrangea through the sliding-glass door next to the kitchen table. “I don’t want to comment,” she said suddenly.
It was the right call. She tipped her soda can up again. Appearing on television would prolong the exposure. She’d learned about news cycles, first at YM and then at Twin Cities Monthly, a print magazine with a thirty-minute live weekend show on the local ABC affiliate.
“Are you certain?” Julia could hear the urgency behind the producer’s question, and she smiled. Why should she make this guy’s life easier while her own fractured?
“Indeed,” Julia said, her voice back to its usual crispness, her can clinking against the countertop. “Thanks for calling.”
WAYNE WALLACE
Wayne sat in his study on Saturday morning with a second cup of coffee. He’d told his wife he just wanted to catch up on a couple of e-mails, which was true, but which also took about ninety minutes longer than he’d planned. A particularly angry one had arrived the day before from Allen Song, who couldn’t understand why Isobel Johnson had been taken out of his—he emphasized the possessive pronoun—classroom. “I’d rate her instructional skills as very good to excellent,” Allen had written. “If you’re going to suspend a teacher, why not go with Mr. Danforth? He shows two movies per week while he’s supposed to be teaching me AP History. It’s a travesty.”
Wayne wrote travesty on a sticky note, a reminder to add this comment to his spreadsheet of feedback. He’d typed a neutral response to Allen, who wasn’t the first person to express surprise and even anger about the investigation. Before they’d left on Friday Sue Montague had come to him with rumblings about a ninth-grade petition to reinstate Isobel.
“How many signatures?” Wayne had asked, exasperated.
“I think fewer than a hundred so far,” Sue said, “but it’s out there.”
Wayne wasn’t surprised that Isobel was polarizing. Still, he wasn’t sure what he thought of her. Mostly, he preferred teachers who didn’t make waves.
He was just about ready to close his laptop and leave his office when his cell phone rang. He frowned at the unfamiliar number and decided he’d better take a chance. One never knew when a custodian on weekend duty or an athletic team at a Saturday contest would need to reach a high school administrator.
“Wayne Wallace,” he said.
“Wayne, it’s Randy Carlson from Local News Six at Six. How are you?”
Wayne knew Randy. The station did frequent stories on LHHS, its sports teams, and its academic programs. A call from the local news channel usually meant good exposure for the school. “Good to hear from you, Randy,” Wayne said. “What’s news this time around?” Wayne thought it could be the undefeated boys’ basketball team or perhaps the policy-debate squad. According to the coach’s incessant tweeting, they’d recently achieved “unprecedented success.”
“It’s this video,” Randy said. “The one with the theater mom taking out the girl.”
The video? Still? It had been almost ten days since he’d suspended Julia Abbott from the Booster Board. Hadn’t that clip faded into Internet oblivion yet? It had been four days since he’d even heard from the Youngs. Their attorney, it seemed, had talked them out of a civil suit.
“Wayne?” Randy prompted.
“Sorry, Randy. I’m just surprised this is news. It was one unfortunate interaction, and it happened almost two weeks ago.” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m off the record, of course.”
“Whatever you say. It’s just that the video got picked up by Watch This! You know that site? Anyway, it’s being widely shared. It’s over two hundred thousand views already, and the local community recognizes it as LHHS. The station’s gotten several tips, even.”
“Jesus.” Wayne tipped his head back and looked up at his bookshelf, where he kept the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue that his dad had given him when he’d gotten the principal position. The two had clinked glasses and toasted to leadership.
“You on the record yet?” Randy asked.
“No.” Wayne came back to himself. He’d have to call the communications people at the district office, which meant more time in his study. “I doubt we’re going to comment, Randy, but when are you going to air?”
“We’re slated for this evening’s broadcast.”
Wayne looked at the clock—ten already. “That doesn’t give me a lot of time,” he said.
“A few hours should be enough to get your ducks in a row,” Randy said, unsympathetic.
Wayne frowned. “I’ll call you back in fifteen.”
Just then Wayne’s daughter came to the door, a gangly eleven-year-old with enough height to be a pretty decent starting center on her traveling basketball team. Wayne smiled at her and held up his index finger, signaling her to wait. “Think about it,” Randy said. “I’ll tell you we do already have a comment from a teacher.”
Wayne felt his chin drop in defeat. What? his daughter mouthed, and he held his finger up again. Which of his teachers could have been shortsighted enough to comment? “Who?” he pressed.
“Well,” Randy hedged, “it’s really a comment the teacher wrote on her Facebook page. We’ve got an intern who’s a friend of a friend.”
“What was the comment, and who was the teacher?” Wayne would need to know when he called the Liston Heights PR person, who’d be just as annoyed as he was to be dealing with this on a Saturday.
“The comment was ‘There’s no accounting for crazy.’” Wayne could hear the producer rustling through papers on his end. “And the teacher is someone named Isobel Johnson.”
Wayne double-underlined “travesty” on his sticky note, the word having taken on new meaning.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Isobel had been happy to escape into Riley and Callie’s indoor soccer games that Saturday afternoon. She chatted easily with the Mills Park parents on the sidelines. None of their children were in her classes, and most didn’t even remember she was a teacher. She hadn’t put any makeup on that morning, not having to worry about running into the Liston Heights set. For the first time in days, no one would look at her sadly or accusatorily. Even an e-mail from Eleanor that morning about teaching act four of The Crucible had caused her only mild consternation.
“Put your phone away,” Mark advised as she groused about the message. “Take a break from the drama.”
He was right, she realized. She didn’t need to respond immediately to e-mails from Eleanor on the weekend. She’d decisively stashed her iPhone in her tote for the duration of not one but two full youth soccer games.
When she finally checked in after the kids had finished victoriously, Isobel was shocked to see six missed calls and four new voice mails, all from unfamiliar numbers. “Something’s happened,” she said to Mark as he drove. Callie and Riley squabbled predictably in the backseat, flicking each other with the straps of their backpacks.
“Quit it,” Mark said halfheartedly to the kids. “What going on?” He glanced at Isobel as she scrolled through Siri’s imperfect transcripts.
“I have calls from work,” Isobel said. “Hang on.”
She clicked on the oldest of the messages and heard Wayne Wallace’s voice, loud, as usual, in her ear. “Isobel
, it’s Wayne Wallace. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but it’s pressing. Call me right away at this number.” When the message had ended, she looked back at the list and chose Wayne’s second call. “Isobel. Hoping to reach you. It’d be great if you could delete the Facebook post immediately, although I’m sure the station already has a screenshot. Kind of a mess and certainly bad press for the school. And to be honest, not great for you, given your current situation. Call me back ASAP.” Dread swelled through her as she listened to Wayne’s short sentences and gruff tone. What Facebook post?
Isobel felt light-headed as she heard the third voice mail, from someone named Randy Carlson at Channel 6, the local NBC affiliate. “You may have heard we’re running a story on the Watch This! video featuring Liston Heights High School. The story will run at six. We’d love to have an expanded statement.”
“But I didn’t make a statement,” Isobel said aloud, confused.
“What’s going on?” Mark asked as he turned onto their street.
“It’s bits and pieces.” Isobel shook her head. “Hang on.”
She clicked on the last of the four voice mails. This one was from a woman, someone named Grace from the Liston Heights School District communications office, her voice thin and nasal. “As you probably remember from new-teacher orientation, it’s district policy that teachers not comment publicly on any student or parent matters. You apparently made a comment on your Facebook page? We’ll need you to take that down. And please call me at your earliest convenience so we can walk this back as much as possible.”
Isobel clicked out of the recording and looked at the time at the top of her phone screen: four thirty-seven p.m. Before she returned any of the calls, she opened her Facebook app.
“What’s happening?” Mark asked again, concerned.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 20