Once the bell finally rings I’m out of my seat like a sprinter at the starting gun, ignoring Gray as he heads toward me and stumbling down the hall toward the admin suite, where Ms. Lynch is eating a bag of Famous Amos cookies and hungrily scrolling a gossip site on her computer. “Is Mr. DioGuardi here?” I blurt.
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse you,” she says, quickly minimizing the window; I wouldn’t have pegged her for a Rihanna fan, but I guess we all contain multitudes. I can’t wait to tell Chloe, until I remember Chloe and I aren’t speaking.
“Do you have an appointment?”
You keep his calendar, I think but don’t say. You know I don’t.
“Um, nope,” I manage, aiming for bright and winding up somewhere in the neighborhood of totally deranged. “Just a quick social call.”
Ms. Lynch frowns. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
I take a seat in the outer office to wait, watching the seconds tick by on the ancient clock out in the hallway. It’s the better part of ten minutes before the door opens and Mr. DioGuardi comes out.
“Marin!” he says, looking not at all pleased to see me. “Come on in. You were on my list of students to touch base with this morning.”
I bet I was, I think bitterly.
“Mr. Beckett is coming back tomorrow?”
Mr. DioGuardi frowns. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The school board investigated your . . . allegations over the break. Ultimately, the disciplinary committee found no conclusive evidence of wrongdoing, so he’ll be returning to his classes for the remainder of the year.”
“I told you about the wrongdoing,” I say, and it comes out a lot more like a wail than I mean for it to. I swallow hard, digging my nails into the armrests. Don’t be hysterical. Don’t be a crazy girl. “I just mean—”
“I understand that, Marin,” Mr. DioGuardi says. “But without any corroborating statements, without evidence—”
“No evidence—” I break off as the larger implications here start to make themselves clear. “So you think I’m lying?”
“Now hold on just a moment,” he says. “No one is saying that.”
“Well then what are you saying?”
“Marin—” Mr. DioGuardi pops his whistle into his mouth for a moment, then pulls it out again. When he speaks his voice is suddenly gentle.
“Look,” he says, “is it at all possible you misinterpreted what was happening? With Mr. Beckett, I mean? No one would blame you, obviously. He’s one of our younger faculty members, and I see so many girls hanging around his classroom, or in the newspaper office. It would be perfectly understandable if you somehow misunderstood—”
“Oh my god.” It’s out before I can stop it. I shove my chair back and jump upright. “I’m not listening to this.”
Mr. DioGuardi’s eyes narrow across the desk. “Marin,” he says sharply. “I understand you’re upset, but may I remind you who you’re talking—”
Stop using my name, I want to scream loud enough to shatter the windows. Instead, I press my lips together, remembering my manners. Swallowing down my own rage and fear.
“You’re right,” I manage, the words like gravel in my mouth. I hold my hands up, forcing a cowed smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—you’re right.”
Mr. DioGuardi nods with a thin smile—pleased, I think, to be in the position of being able to give me a pass in this trying time. “All I mean is that these things happen,” he continues. “And sometimes, once we’ve had time to cool off and reconsider a situation from all angles, we find we see things differently than we might have at first.”
“Sure,” I say. I focus on the bookcase, on that photo of DioGuardi’s sons at the campsite. I want to rip it off the shelf and hurl it directly at his head, then encourage him to take some time to cool off and reconsider the situation from all angles. “I get it.”
“Now,” he says, standing himself, “if you don’t have any further questions—?”
“Um, nope,” I say, backing up toward the doorway. What else could there possibly be to ask? “I guess that’s it. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course,” Mr. DioGuardi says, and his smile is genuine relief as he shuffles me out into the admin suite. “I’m glad
we had this talk.”
Twenty-Three
“This is un-frickin’-acceptable,” my mom announces that night, slamming pots and pans around the kitchen like she’s thinking of starting a percussion ensemble.