As I exit the crowded parking lot, I’m thankful for how far I’ve come. For years, I didn’t know if I’d ever find normalcy. Brian had taken that from me. Time brought ordinary back, something you don’t even know to miss until it’s gone. Danny helped, too. Tonight, I feel more thankful for him than usual as I pull into the driveway. When I walk inside, I see he’s taken the opportunity to cook dinner: alfredo noodles with garlic bread and wine. The effort he’s put in almost brings me to tears.
“I thought I’d cook since you’re working late for a change,” he says, lighting the long candle at the table’s center. He smiles, then a shadow of uncertainty covers his face. “It’s probably too late to eat.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and balance on my toes to kiss his lips. “This is perfect.”
Eight
Now
Monday comes too fast. When I arrive at school, I can tell within minutes something is off. An identifiable sense that something has happened, even though I’ve yet to speak with a soul. It’s the way students murmur as they pass, buzzing from one cluster of people to the next, their voices low. The way colleagues, standing in their familiar positions, stare forward without speaking, their predictable morning chatter gone.
I unlock my classroom and deposit my belongings, hoping I have time to stop by the employee lounge before the first bell rings. I know Marge will be in there, and if something is going on, she’ll have all the details.
As suspected, she’s just finished pouring her morning coffee when I walk into the room. Thankfully, we’re the only two.
“How was your weekend?” I ask. She looks at me like she still wants to be alone. She’s shaken, her usual positivity quenched. Something has definitely happened. And it’s bad.
“You didn’t hear about what happened after Spring Fling, did you?” she asks.
I shake my head, not wanting to waste time by responding. I stare at her and wait to be filled in.
“Gah, Della. You’re going to have to get on social media if you want to stay in the loop,” she says, putting down her coffee cup. I can tell she’s partially joking with me, as she often does in the morning, but her tone is serious. “Darcy Moore was attacked.”
“Attacked?” The syllables linger between us. I lower my voice in case someone opens the door. “Attacked how?”
“We don’t have all the details,” she says, eyeing the door, equally wary someone might walk in. “I’m not sure what happened, but I know her leg was sliced open.”
I gasp audibly, and cover my chest with my hand, as if my sorrow will better the situation. My stomach drops, as my mind conjures up past scenarios and images I’d rather not consider. One… two… three. Darcy Moore from first block. Darcy Moore, who I’d seen frolicking around the school on Saturday night. She’d been attacked hours later. Four… five… six. It doesn’t seem possible.
“What do we know?” I ask.
“My feed was full of #PrayforDarcy posts and whatnot, but obviously students didn’t mention anything about the attack.” She moves closer, further lowering her voice. “I know Pam has been with the Moores since yesterday. And I heard Bowles is planning a meeting with all of Darcy’s current teachers. You have her, right?”
“Yeah,” I stutter. “First block.”
“I have her third,” Marge says, taking a sip of coffee. “I guess we’ll find out more then. Keep your ears open.”
On cue, the first bell rings and another co-worker opens the lounge door. We both leave, separating at the end of the hall to head in the direction of our respective classrooms.
I already know how to act during a situation like this. We all do, if you’ve been teaching long enough. Everyone at school has their confidants. Mine are Marge and Pam. When you gossip at school, you must do so strategically. Otherwise, you might as well deliver whatever news you have over the intercom for the entire staff and student body to hear. Asking students what happened is another big no-no. No one wants to be accused of harassing students. Besides, you’re more likely to hear the truth via eavesdropping.
Much to my surprise, first block is even quieter than I am. They don’t say a word upon entering the classroom: not about their weekend, not about the assignment I’ve given them, not about Spring Fling. And nothing about Darcy Moore. Everyone is present today expect for Darcy and Adam; I suppose your girlfriend being attacked is a good enough reason to skip class.
“Grab your textbooks,” I say after several silent minutes. The room obeys without so much as a grunt. I clear my throat before continuing. “We’re starting The Crucible this week. Go ahead and read Act One to yourselves.”
Normally, I assign parts and we read plays aloud. But that feels too much to ask on a day like this. Even if no one mentions Darcy, they must be thinking about her. I’d rather not sit in silence with my thoughts, but I also don’t want to push my students too far out of their comfort zones. I lean back in my chair and watch as my students flip pages and stuff earbuds in their ears.
Ninety minutes is a long time to sit in silence, though. By the end of class, students are restless. I invite them to share their responses to today’s reading. Most students make random comments about characters or setting, but some of the smarter ones, like Melanie, approach theme.
“It’s like everyone is afraid of something,” she says, twirling her pen.
Now standing, I lean against my podium. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”
“It’s, like, every character so far is either afraid of God or the devil or each other. I think that’s why they start accusing people.”
“Fear is a huge motivator for future events in the play.” I clear my throat. “That’s something you should think about as you continue reading. What are the dangers of allowing fear to influence our decisions?”
“It pushes others to make accusations without evidence,” Ben says, quietly.
“Good,” I say. “Any other ideas you’d like to discuss?”
“Behaviors repeat themselves,” Zoey says. Her words are sharp and quick. I don’t know if I’d have caught them had her classmates been speaking at their normal volume.
“I don’t know if I heard you exactly,” I say, straightening. “Can you elaborate?”
“Well, these events took place hundreds of years ago, but people act the same way today.”
“You’re right,” I say, moving away from the podium. “I think that’s what’s great about this play. It shows that even though almost every aspect of day-to-day life has changed, our behaviors are constant.”
I close my book, a silent permission for my students to do the same. They get up from their seats and start walking to the back bookshelf. This is the loudest they’ve been all morning, as some students start talking and laughing with one another.
“Girls were clearly as desperate for attention then as they are now,” I hear someone say, but I’m not sure who said it. Most of the class is up and out of their seats. The clarity and volume of their conversations wave like a staticky radio station. I look at Zoey’s desk. She’s still seated, staring straight ahead. Staring at me.
“Did you say something, Zoey?”
“I just said…” She stops, looks down and shakes her head. “Nothing. I said nothing.”
She stands and walks to the back of the room. Did I hear her correctly? Was she actually taking today’s text and connecting it to what happened to Darcy? Desperate for attention? Like Darcy is making up this alleged attack?
I’m still standing at her desk when she returns from the bookshelf.
“You okay, Mrs. Mayfair?” Zoey asks, sliding past me to sit back in her chair.
“I, um,” I stumble, looking away. “Could you repeat what you said? Before I walked over here?”
“It was nothing,” Zoey says, securing a black strand of hair behind her ear. “Probably something really juvenile. I think I need to continue reading in order to get a better understanding.”
She smiles, and the bell rings. I stand still,
waiting as Zoey and all my other students depart their daily dose of literature. I’m thinking about what Zoey said. Did I hear her correctly? If I did, it’s a remarkably insensitive comment to make after a student—a girl who only sits a few chairs away from her—was attacked. She’s pulling the wrong message from the text, just as she did with “A Rose for Emily” last week.
By the time second block begins, I’m back behind my desk. I hand down the same assignment, and the room fills again with silence as students read. I think about their stifled reactions today compared to Zoey’s callous one. I remember seeing her at the dance. She was talking with Darcy, and their exchange looked problematic. Still, why would she belittle Darcy’s situation now? Is this what other students thought, too? That Darcy was grasping for attention?
Zoey had been punished for carrying a knife last week. I know I can’t assume everyone who owns a pocketknife will turn out like Brian, but it’s awful coincidental another student was attacked days later. And now Zoey feels the need to minimize that situation. There’s much about Darcy’s attack that remains a mystery, but I wonder if Zoey understands more than she claims.
Nine
Now
By lunch, I receive an email announcing a meeting in Principal Bowles’ office after school. The email was only sent to four other employees, Marge and Pam included, so he must have made the decision to forgo addressing this weekend’s events with the entire staff.
My stomach has been in knots all day, partly because I know what happened, partly because there is still much I don’t know. As expected, memories of Brian arise making everything worse. I try to keep my memories dormant, locked away inside, unless I’m searching for cathartic release with my therapist. But various triggers unlock those memories, and what happened to Darcy is an obvious one.
I’ve spent more time than anyone should imagining what girls who’ve been attacked must go through. The fear they must feel. The hopelessness. I picture their faces, all those pretty girls Brian hurt. Those pretty girls I failed to protect. The only difference between Darcy and them is they never had the opportunity to explain what happened to them. People weren’t organizing staff meetings to strategize and help; they were conducting press conferences, offering up salacious details.
Principal Bowles’ office is spacious compared to a typical administrator’s workspace, but it feels small when six adults are cramped inside. There’s Bowles, Pam, Marge and myself. We’re also joined by Mr. Hathaway, the art teacher, and Mrs. Lakes, who teaches American history. I can tell by the looks on their faces they’re dreading what we’re about to hear but eager for an understanding of what happened. I’m not confident Bowles is going to give any useful information. He’s more about damage control.
Once we’ve all taken our seats, Bowles stands up from his desk and closes the door. “Knowing we have a small academic community, I’m sure you’ve all heard there was an incident this weekend concerning one of our students, Darcy Moore,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a heavy sigh. He returns to his seat and presses his hands together. “The Moores called me this morning. I don’t want to exaggerate the issue by addressing this matter schoolwide, but I wanted to speak with you four directly because you have Darcy this semester. Pam is here to help mediate.”
Pam nods. She’s partially seated on a table in the room and her arms are crossed. Her face looks tired. We rarely have dangerous incidents at Victory Hills. In fact, I can’t think of one other tragedy, other than my second year when a student’s house caught fire and he lost all his belongings. The entire school banded together collecting donations; I hope administration will come up with the right response for Darcy, too.
“Can you tell us what happened?” asks Mrs. Lakes. She’s sitting across from Principal Bowles, her long blonde braid falling over the back of the chair.
“I want to be very careful about how we address this issue,” Bowles says, raising one hand. “What we know is this: none of us were with Darcy after Spring Fling. All events took place off campus. Officers responded to her house for a noise complaint. There was some type of party going on. They found her in… an unfortunate state. Darcy is receiving treatment to some wounds on her leg. It’s important we remain aware. If you witness alarming behavior, address your concerns with Pam.”
“Is Darcy okay?” asks Mr. Hathaway, lifting a foot covered by a paint-smattered Birkenstock as he crosses his legs.
“I know she’s getting the help she needs,” he responds. “Her parents are adamant they want her to finish the semester. She’ll be returning to class next week. As a school, we need to try and eliminate chatter by then.”
“I think we should speak with some of our female students—” Marge begins, but she’s interrupted by Bowles.
“We’re not drawing attention to the matter,” he says, raising his hand to stop Marge from speaking. It’ll take more than a hand to silence her, though.
“I’m not suggesting that,” she says, slowing her pace and staring directly at Bowles. “But if you want chatter to quiet down before she returns, I think we should at least address the incident. We could speak to students about safety measures and how to prevent future assaults.”
“No one is using the word assault,” Bowles says, this time with a sterner voice. “Darcy hasn’t even used that word. We don’t need to start throwing terms around.” Clearly Bowles doesn’t want to explore the various implications of the word assault.
“Do we know who is responsible for the attack?” I ask.
“No,” Bowles says, looking down. “We aren’t even certain there was an attack. Now Darcy claims she hurt her leg in a fall. Police are looking into what happened. If you ask me, it sounds like a party that got out of hand. No one seems to remember much of anything. Including Darcy.”
Seconds later, we’re dismissed. Marge stays behind, I’m sure to argue further with Bowles about what should or shouldn’t be said to students. She can do that sort of thing. She already has tenure. I’m not sure how I feel about her suggestion, honestly. On one hand, hosting an assembly might bring more attention to the topic, attention Darcy will surely resent. On the other hand, students are bound to be afraid. Bowles is antsy because he doesn’t want to expose students to the world. He doesn’t realize it’s about preparing them for the world. A world that can be cruel and unforgiving, sometimes evil.
I follow Pam to the guidance wing and walk into her office. She shuts the door and sits. She puts her elbows on the desk and places a palm against her forehead. It’s no secret among the staff that Bowles and Pam occasionally bump heads, and the heavier the issue, the harder the collision. Pam is a free spirit, wanting to encourage students to think for themselves. Bowles is as conservative as it gets, wanting students to fall in line and keep their heads down until they walk across the stage with a diploma.
“Are you okay?” I ask Pam, allowing her a few seconds to think.
“This situation is a nightmare,” she admits, looking at me with tired eyes. “I can’t even imagine what Darcy is going through.”
“Can you tell me what really happened?”
“Okay, here’s what I know,” she says, her voice a whisper. I’m happy she has more information than Bowles is willing to give. The meeting raised more questions than it answered. “Darcy hosted a party at her house after Spring Fling. No parents. Lots of alcohol. Police think some local college kids might have brought the booze and drugs. Darcy thinks someone slipped something in her drink. She doesn’t remember much after a certain point in the night.”
“She was roofied?” As I say it, I realize I’ve never used this word before. It’s something thrown around on cable crime dramas, never used in connection to one of my students.
“She was knocked out with something. Her friends just thought she was wasted. Didn’t even bother to check on her before leaving. Word must have gotten out police were headed that way. By the time officers arrived, there weren’t many students left. They found Darcy in her backyard. Her dress was
torn, and she had three deep cuts on her thigh.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, covering my mouth.
I imagine Darcy outside and alone, her friends too concerned with their own situations to find her. I consider her parents, their reaction to receiving the news their daughter had been attacked at their home. The Moores are a well-known family in Victory Hills. Their son graduated two years ago. Although I didn’t have him in class, he was the type of student everyone knew. He played football and earned a sports scholarship to some school in the northeast. Not that he needed it. The Moores are wealthy and involved in the community, less involved when it comes to parenting.
“Do they think she was raped?” I ask Pam. Clearly this is the word Bowles is trying to keep from being thrown around. It’s the word that comes to most people’s minds when they hear a teenage girl has been drugged and attacked.
Pam looks down, her expression a mix of concern and sickness. “Darcy doesn’t remember a lot, but she says she wasn’t.”
“Do you believe her?”
Pam’s nostrils flare as she exhales. “I don’t know what to believe at this point. Like Bowles said, Darcy’s now saying she hurt her leg in a fall. I’m not sure if she’s protecting someone, or if she just wants the whole mess to blow over.”
“Did she go the doctor?” I ask. “They should be able to tell if her injury was accidental.”
“The doctor pretty much refuted Darcy’s claim about the fall. The wounds were too precise. Darcy and her parents were just ready to leave by that point.” She seems, for the first time, judgmental. Toward the parents. “What Bowles didn’t mention, and what makes everything much worse, is that there were pictures of her taken the night of the party. Very unflattering pictures taken when she was drunk. They were sent to half the school before the party even ended.”
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 5