| |
Emily lay awake most of the night, wondering why she had worked so hard to protect Hailey’s poem from Milton’s eyes. Then irrational fears began to stick their tentacles into her brain: Milton was in her driveway. Milton was at her window. Milton would be at her car in the morning, at the door of the school on Monday.
She began to pray. “Lord, I don’t know what kind of hold this man has over me, but please set me free of it. I don’t want to be terrified of the phys ed teacher.” As she prayed, she felt her breathing slow, but then a new fear slinked in: the fear of getting in trouble. Sure, he had been rude, and he had grabbed her arm, but she had actually assaulted him. What if he went to the administration about her? Should she get out ahead of it? Go talk to Principal Hogan herself, and tell him everything? Or should she just pretend it never happened?
She prayed some more, and finally decided that she wouldn’t decide. Instead, she would focus on dealing with the Hailey situation. One crisis at a time. She watched the Saturday sun come up through her bedroom window, and lay there for a while longer, waiting for the rest of the island to wake up.
When she thought she couldn’t go another minute without coffee, she got out of bed and descended the spiral staircase in her bare feet, resisting the urge to look out the windows to make sure no one was looking in.
After a pot of coffee and a bagel, she drove to school. Her hand shook as she unlocked the door, and she couldn’t help looking around the parking lot every three seconds. Finally, she was inside the dark, still foyer.
She went into the office and found the staff directory, which provided her the guidance counselor’s home phone number.
“Can you come meet me at school? It’s urgent.”
The counselor, Richard Babcock, didn’t sound happy about it, but he couldn’t exactly refuse. Still, he took his time getting there, and she spent that time pacing around the dark main office, a bundle of nerves. She kept checking the main doors, scared that Milton would suddenly appear, so when they did open at Mr. Babcock’s hand, she skittered back into a dark corner.
He entered the office and flicked on the lights, which felt uncomfortably bright to Emily.
“What is it?”
“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Babcock. I really appreciate it—”
“What is it?” he repeated.
“I’m concerned that Hailey Leadbetter might be thinking about hurting herself.”
He actually laughed. “Hailey? She’s the healthiest kid we’ve got. Why would you say such a thing?”
“She wrote a poem that made me think she’s in danger.”
“OK, where’s the poem?”
“I don’t have it.” This was a lie, but she thought it was a lesser sin than betraying Hailey’s trust.
“You don’t have it. So what did the poem say?”
“It talked about darkness, about how she was scared of the darkness, but how she also wanted it, or rather, she wanted it to want her.”
“What? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Can you just talk to her?”
“Of course. Is that all?”
She breathed out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Yes, that’s all.”
“What happened to your arm?”
She looked down at the purple bruises left by Milton’s hand. “It’s a long story.”
“OK then. I’m going home. You have a good weekend.”
“Can you talk to Hailey today?”
“I said I’d talk to her.”
He never did.
––––––––
On Sunday morning, Emily descended the stairs into the basement sanctuary, where James greeted her with a hug. She’d worn long sleeves, but when he squeezed both her arms, she winced. He pushed her sleeve up and his eyes grew wide. “What is this?”
“Milton.”
“Are you serious?”
She nodded.
“What happened?”
“Can we talk about it later?”
“Let’s talk about it now.” He gently took her hand and led her back up the stairs and out of Abe’s house. Safely on the brown lawn, he asked again, “What happened?”
She didn’t know quite where to begin. “I was talking to one of his players, one of his good players, about a poem she had written, and he barged in, told her to get to practice, even though it hadn’t even started yet, and then told me to give him the poem. I refused. So he grabbed my arm and tried to take the poem out of my hand. So I kicked him and ran away.”
“You kicked him?”
“Well, kneed him.”
“Where?”
“Where do you think?”
He took a step back, and she couldn’t tell if he was horrified or amused. Maybe both. “All this over a poem?”
“No, all this because I dare to try to educate his basketball players, whom he apparently thinks he owns. I’m telling you, the man is shady!”
“I’ll take care of it.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, sending a herd of butterflies through her gut, and then took long strides toward his pickup.
“What are you going to do?” she called after him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he called back.
Easier said than done, she thought. She headed back inside and down the stairs, praying the whole way.
