Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes

by Kathleen West

  “Are you okay?” Mary asked, her voice a whisper. Isobel surveyed the near-empty space. The students were in fifth period, lunches finished.

  Isobel shook her head, her hair puffing around her ears. “Have you heard the latest?”

  “I don’t know any ‘latest,’” Mary said. “I’ve finished meeting with your colleagues, though.” Mary looked compassionate, apologetic even. “You have to know that almost everyone adores you,” Mary said. “You’re well respected in the department.”

  Isobel wanted to ask her why she hadn’t provided this perspective at the meeting with Wayne a week ago when he’d declared her suspension, but she decided to stay focused on the crisis at hand. “I know I’m not going to survive this,” Isobel said, thinking of the investigation. Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Isobel waved her off. “There was that stupid comment on the news story, and, Mary, now the parents know something else. I ran into Julia Abbott at yoga yesterday.”

  Mary leaned forward and knit her eyebrows. “Regardless of what happens with the investigation here,” Mary said fervently, “you are going to be fine.”

  “I mean, I’m not dying,” Isobel said, suddenly worried that she seemed suicidal, “but I realize my employment prospects are looking bleak.” She held up a hand to stop Mary from arguing. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to tell you what else they know.”

  “What do you mean?” Mary asked.

  “My dad,” Isobel began. Her eyes closed, and she felt nausea rising in her throat. She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday. “He committed felony fraud. He stole money from a charitable foundation and several families.” Isobel rushed on, her eyes open now and focused on Mary’s forehead. “This was back in the nineties. You might remember it.”

  “I’m from Indiana,” Mary said, baffled. “So I wouldn’t remember anything.”

  Isobel’s impatience bubbled. “Felony fraud,” she said again. “My dad went to prison. I don’t broadcast this information, obviously, but Julia Abbott knows. She mentioned it yesterday when she was calling me a hypocrite for teaching about social justice.”

  Silence opened between them. Mary looked pathetic. Stupefied. Her paralysis stirred Isobel’s action. “So, things seem to have moved beyond regular complaining. This seems more like harassment, right? Digging up stories from my past and somehow spreading them around the community?”

  Mary blinked rapidly. “It’s definitely disturbing,” she said. “How are they spreading the information? E-mail?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s not the point.” Isobel’s agitation intensified. “Regardless, you’d agree that my father’s criminal record has nothing to do with my teaching?” As she said it, her jaw dropped.

  My father’s criminal record has nothing to do with my teaching.

  The thought shifted her mood entirely, and Isobel stood up from the table. “I just thought you should know,” she said, suddenly in a rush. “There’s some kind of smear campaign. It started with that voice mail. Julia Abbott seems to be behind everything, and I don’t think I should lose my job over it.” She felt new confidence, the realization of her independence from her father overcoming her. “Especially now.” She took a step back and then remembered her phone call with Mark. “It’s a hostile work environment,” she blurted. “I’m not the one who should be under investigation here. It’s Julia. Make it stop, or I’m calling a lawyer.” She almost laughed then, picturing herself in a TV drama rather than in the high school library. She didn’t give Mary time to respond before walking away.

  TRACY ABBOTT

  The bell had just rung to signal the end of fifth period when Tracy caught sight of Ms. Johnson near the door to the parking lot. Without thinking, she jogged toward her. “Ms. Johnson!” she yelled.

  Her teacher turned, and even from down the hall, Tracy could see that she looked ragged, her hair messier than usual and her eyes sunken. When Tracy stopped in front of her, she realized that though she felt certain she needed to talk to Ms. Johnson, she actually had no idea what to say. “I’m sorry,” she began. And then, to her horror, tears didn’t just threaten, but rather overcame her. She opened her mouth to breathe, and a sob came out.

  “Honey!” Ms. Johnson said. She stepped forward and put an arm around her, pulling Tracy toward the wall, out of the sight lines of the kids streaming toward their next classes. “What’s wrong?”

  Tracy tried to slow her crying. It was humiliating, this reaction. She’d meant to offer support to Ms. Johnson, maybe to hint at her new investigation of Lisa Lions, and here she was, hysterical. “I know about the Facebook post,” Tracy managed.

  Ms. Johnson looked blank. “Facebook post?” she repeated, rubbing Tracy’s back. Tracy blinked a couple of times. It hadn’t occurred to her that Ms. Johnson might not know about the Inside Liston page. She pressed on, not caring for the moment what her mother would think of her indiscretion, just as she hadn’t considered what her mother would think of Kate Awakened’s trolling comment on her exposé. “There’s a Facebook group called Inside Liston,” Tracy said. “Parents post all kinds of mean things about school. And my mom—” She wasn’t sure how to continue. How could she confess that Julia had exploited Ms. Johnson’s secret?

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Johnson said, her eyebrow cocked. “Can you explain that again? There’s a Facebook group for parents?”

  “I saw it by accident,” Tracy said. “My mom had all of these notifications when the video first got posted, and then it went viral, and I helped her untag herself.” Tracy knew she was babbling, but thankfully, her sobs had been short-lived. Now more manageable tears leaked intermittently from the corners of her eyes. She wiped them every few seconds. Ms. Johnson stared at her, waiting. “But on Monday, Anika told me my mom had posted something about you, after you made that comment on Channel Six.”

  “Tracy”—Ms. Johnson reached a hand to her own chest, brushing the top button of her wrinkled shirt—“I’m so sorry about that. I had no idea that what I thought was a private comment on my own Facebook page could possibly make the local news. Of course, I’ve lectured my students so many times about social media not being private—”

  “After the news story,” Tracy interrupted, “my mom posted something else about you. Anika told me, and then I read it.” Ms. Johnson’s mouth was open, the words she’d planned to speak next already forming in her throat, but Tracy kept going. “She posted about your dad.”

  Ms. Johnson’s eyes bulged, and she bit her lips between her front teeth. She took a step back, and Tracy thought the circles beneath her eyes grew even more pronounced in the seconds during which she processed what Tracy had told her.

  The two were quiet for a moment, and Tracy wondered whether she should now confess how she had gained access to the page, the petition she’d drafted, and her new Google Doc of suspects. Would that be the right thing, chasing her teacher down and telling everything? Ms. Johnson already looked so overwhelmed. Tracy had decided she’d start easy, with the petition and the signatures she’d collected, when Ms. Johnson finally said, “How many people are in the Facebook group?”

  Tracy shrugged, suddenly shy about her reinstatement efforts. Her hundred fifty signatures seemed insignificant compared with the roster of seven hundred Inside Liston members. “A few hundred?” she offered, not wanting to alarm Ms. Johnson. “It’s weird. It’s run by a fake account. Someone called ‘Lisa Lions.’ I’m trying to figure out who that is,” she blurted. “I know my mom is causing problems for you. I feel like—” Tracy’s tears came faster again, and she breathed deeply to fend them off. “I just feel like it’s my fault.”

  She didn’t tell her teacher about the paragraph in her mom’s post about Tracy’s changing views on motherhood, but she knew that her disloyalty—what her mom saw as a betrayal—played a big part in how much Julia must hate Ms. Johnson.

  The bell rang then, and Tracy looked n
ervously over her shoulder. “I’m late for PE,” she said, wiping at her face again. “Can you tell I’ve been crying?”

  “Hardly,” Ms. Johnson said. “It’ll just look like you were in a hurry. Do you want me to write you a pass?” She dug into her tote, searching for a pen.

  “It’s okay.” Tracy had already turned and started toward the locker rooms. “If I run, I can change fast and still make it.”

  “But, Tracy,” Ms. Johnson said, and Tracy stopped for a second, eager to hear what her teacher might say. “You’re not responsible for your mother’s decisions.” Ms. Johnson’s hair fell over her ear, and her eyes looked far away, focused over Tracy’s head. She worried for a moment that her teacher might cry, too. “You can only control yourself. Remember that.”

  ANDREW ABBOTT

  Andrew parked his RAV4, crunching as he pulled in over the ridge of ice that built up every winter in front of the garage. He killed the lights, leaving the concrete wall in front of him dark. He felt calm and happy. The meeting with Mr. Dittmer and rehearsal had gone remarkably well.

  “I want to commend Mr. Abbott on both his selflessness and self-awareness,” Mr. Dittmer had said to the cast, smiling at him for the first time since they’d begun. Tryg Ogilvie and Melissa Young grinned at him, as well.

  “Are you sure?” Maeve whispered.

  “Totally.”

  And Andrew felt relaxed holding the suitcase. Melissa hadn’t scowled at him once. After rehearsal was over, as he was packing his backpack in the front row of the auditorium, Tryg Ogilvie approached him. Andrew had avoided any direct interaction with Tryg since the day the cast list was posted, had come close to deleting Instagram from his phone when the Liston Lights featured Tryg on Humans of LHHS. The sight of the ninth grader still ignited a flash of fury, a memory of standing with Sarah Smith, watching the video Tryg had shot. Andrew tried to swallow the anger as Tryg sidled up. The rest of the cast mingled in the rows just behind them, their voices loud and laughing.

  “I just wanted to say—” Tryg shrugged. “Thanks, man. The inspector role is, like, a great opportunity for me.”

  Andrew nodded and looked back down at his copy of the script, waiting for Tryg to move. He didn’t. Andrew breathed in the smell of fresh-cut plywood, the flats for the upcoming set build stacked stage right.

  “Also—” Tryg cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you that I deleted the video from my Instagram account this afternoon. My dad told me that your dad called him at his office, and I can totally see how that video would cause problems for you.” He waited. Problems? Andrew raised his eyebrows at the understatement. Tryg continued. “Anyway, I took the video down this afternoon. I can’t get it off Watch This!, though. They control their own account, but I did take it off of my Instagram and my YouTube.”

  “Thanks.” Andrew shoved the script into his backpack.

  “Have a good night.” Tryg turned toward the door and caught up with the rest of the cast members who had filtered into the theater lobby.

  Andrew felt a loosening in his stomach then, a thread of hope that perhaps things could be okay. That feeling had lasted until he parked his car in the garage and imagined telling his mom about the switch in roles. He could see her face—a crevice between her eyebrows, and her mouth pinched in a frown. He looked at the clock on the dash—five forty. Dinner would be on the table. His father’s BMW was already parked in the garage. There was no choice but to go in and face the family.

  He paused in the mudroom, uncharacteristically stomping his Converse. “Andrew?” his mother called from the kitchen. “Oh, good! Spaghetti’s just on the table!”

  “Great,” Andrew said, too quietly to be heard, and willed himself into the family room. He kept his eyes on his backpack as he dropped it to the floor.

  “How was rehearsal?” Julia asked.

  He smiled, still delighted by his new, comfortable role. “Mr. Dittmer seemed really excited about how the scene came together.”

  Julia beamed. “That’s excellent!” she said. “See? I told you you’d get the hang of it.”

  “Yeah,” Andrew said.

  And things seemed so pleasant—his mother’s congratulations, the smell of her marinara, his father coming down the stairs—that he decided to leave the role news for now. No need to spoil the mood.

  JULIA ABBOTT

  Julia laid breakfast out a few minutes before the kids were scheduled to leave for school on Thursday morning. She’d microwaved some nitrate-free sausage, a new brand her trainer had recommended, and decided to once again offer sprouted toast, the kids’ prior unfavorable reactions to this healthier bread notwithstanding. Tracy had hardly eaten anything at dinner the night before, even though Julia knew she loved spaghetti.

  Andrew came down first, slid past Julia, and grabbed a mug from the cabinet over the sink. Julia laughed as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’re a coffee drinker now?”

  Andrew lifted his chin, looking pleased with himself. “Maeve likes it. It’s an actor thing.” He took a small ceremonious sip, and Julia laughed again as he shuddered, nearly spitting it out. “How do people drink this?” He coughed.

  Julia opened the refrigerator and grabbed a pint of organic half-and-half. “Try it with cream and sugar, like your dad.” She took Andrew’s mug and began doctoring it, using the proportions she knew so well from fixing Henry’s coffee for twenty years.

  When she was finished, Andrew added an additional teaspoon of sugar and took a sip. He frowned, but nodded. “Maybe I can do this.”

  “You could wait until college?” Julia patted his back, and then Tracy appeared, her hair in a messy ponytail and a large LHHS Nordic Skiing sweatshirt over leggings.

  Julia squinted at her. The look was casual, even for Tracy. She glanced back at Andrew, who wore jeans and a T-shirt. “Is it pajama day?”

  Tracy shook her head silently and grabbed a piece of breakfast sausage, which she ate with her fingers.

  “I have plates,” Julia offered.

  “No,” Tracy said. She wiped her hands on her pants and marched toward the mudroom.

  Julia followed. “What’s wrong?” She’d pushed away thoughts about Kate Awakened, the detail about YM included in her comment. Her so-called friends knew about that internship, of course, but all of them posted on Inside Liston with their real names. Could Robin Bergstrom have made an alter ego? Or, worse, could Tracy have? Her daughter’s distance—the anger Julia could feel between them—had thickened in the last few days.

  Tracy turned in the doorway now and glared at her. “I know what you did,” she said. Julia almost laughed. It sounded like a threat in a movie.

  “And what’s that?”

  Tracy ignored her. “Andrew, are you ready for school?” she asked her brother, her fury palpable and, unfortunately, amusing in the way a three-year-old’s tantrum might be. He squeezed past Julia, his backpack brushing her shoulder. Andrew smiled at her, mildly apologetic. A week ago, he’d been so angry, and Tracy had been placated.

  Why am I always on someone’s shit list? Julia wondered.

  “We can go,” Andrew said.

  Tracy shoved her feet into her sneakers. “Why don’t you think really hard about Facebook?” Tracy said as she disappeared into the garage. “Think really hard about what you’re doing to other people’s lives.”

  Julia stood still as the door closed, her hand still resting on the molding between the family room and the mudroom. So Tracy had seen the Facebook post. She knew about Isobel’s father, and she knew that Julia had shared it. Tracy’s juvenile anger upset her, but she wasn’t that surprised she’d found out. It was Facebook, after all. That was the point. And she wasn’t sorry she’d written the post. But Kate Awakened, then. That was Tracy? Julia didn’t want a public battle with her own daughter.

  She turned toward the kitchen and fixed herself a plate of toast and sausage while sh
e waited for Ron. Sometimes parents had to take over and make the right decisions, she reasoned. Kids, no matter how sophisticated and bright, didn’t always know what was best for them. And what was best for Tracy, Julia was certain, was a teacher who’d respect her family—uplift all of them, not pit them against one another.

  ISOBEL JOHNSON

  On Thursday, eight days since she’d been suspended, Isobel dressed in one of her favorite work outfits—patent leather heels and a DVF wrap dress, a Christmas present from the early aughts. It was something she’d normally wear to parent conferences or back-to-school night, but today was just as important as one of those community-facing events. Today she planned to start campaigning in earnest to keep her job. No more cowering, hiding in the yoga studio during the school day. Going forward, she could both placate parents and lead students to new ideas. She just needed to convince Wayne, who still hadn’t returned any of her messages since the Channel 6 story, to reinstate her.

  Isobel made her first stop in Lyle’s room. “Have you heard of the Inside Liston Facebook page?” she asked as she pulled the door open.

  Lyle looked up from a student’s paper. “You really don’t know how to take advantage of a mandatory vacation.” He smiled. “What are you doing here?”

  “Am I not allowed?” No one had told her she couldn’t come to school. In fact, on the days she’d stayed away, she felt like she was admitting some kind of guilt.

  “You’re allowed,” Lyle said, “since you’re not being investigated for inappropriate student contact.”

  “There’s that, thank God.” Isobel approached his desk. “But the Facebook group?”

  “Wayne did mention a Facebook group yesterday when I checked in. It came up in a parent interview. What is it, do you know?”