Ziggy,” said Jane.
They were on the beach, building a sand castle out of cold sand. The late afternoon sky hung low and heavy, and the wind whistled. It was mid-autumn, so tomorrow could easily be beautiful and sunny again, but today the beach was virtually deserted. Far in the distance, Jane could see someone walking a dog, and one lone surfer in a full-body wet suit was walking toward the water, his board under his arm. The ocean was angry, chucking wave after wave—boom!—on the beach. White water churned and bubbled as if it were boiling and spat up crazy fountains of spray into the air.
Ziggy hummed as he worked on the sand castle, patting it with a spade Jane’s mother had bought him.
“I saw Mrs. Lipmann yesterday,” she said. “And Amabella’s mummy.”
Ziggy looked up. He was wearing a gray beanie pulled down over his ears and covering his hair. His cheeks were flushed with the cold.
“Amabella says that someone in her class has been secretly hurting her when the teacher isn’t looking,” said Jane. “Pinching her. Even . . . biting her.”
God. It was too awful to contemplate. No wonder Renata was out for blood.
Ziggy didn’t say anything. He put down the spade and picked up a plastic rake.
“Amabella’s mummy thinks it’s you,” said Jane.
She nearly said, It’s not you, is it? but she stopped herself.
Instead she said, “Is it you, Ziggy?”
He ignored her. He kept his eyes on the sand, carefully raking straight lines.
“Ziggy,” said Jane.
He put down the rake and looked at her. His smooth little face was remote. His eyes looked off somewhere behind her head.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.