I glance down at my boots on the concrete. “Do you think I should tell somebody?”
Gray thinks about that one for a moment. “I have no idea,” he finally says, and he sounds very honest. “I think this is probably one of those times where my mom would say you have to decide what you can live with, which is seriously one of my least favorite mom-isms because it means there’s no right answer.” He shrugs. “But I can tell you I’ll have your back no matter what you decide.”
The train comes rumbling into the station then, fast and noisy. Gray reaches out and takes my hand.
Twenty
I make an appointment to see Mr. DioGuardi during my free period on the Monday before Christmas break, perching on the very edge of his fake-leather visitor’s chair and tucking my hands under my thighs to keep them from shaking. It’s a small office, cluttered: the desk is heaped with file folders. A potted plant droops on the windowsill. There’s a photo of Mr. DioGuardi’s kids on the bookshelf, two college-aged guys with red hair and freckles clowning around at a campsite. A part of me can’t help but wish he had a daughter too.
“Just, ah, give me one more second here,” he says vaguely, holding up a finger and squinting at his computer screen; judging by the beeps and honks the thing has let out in the six minutes I’ve been sitting here, he’s either attempting to hack into a government database or trying unsuccessfully to send an email attachment.
“Take your time,” I say, though the truth is the longer he keeps me waiting the more I feel like I’m about to jump clear out of my skin and take off down the hallway, shedding muscle and viscera in my wake. I breathe in and force myself not to fidget. Calm and quick, I remind myself.
Finally Mr. DioGuardi folds his hands on top of his keyboard, frowning and jerking back as he hits the space bar by mistake. The computer dings in protest, and I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a nervous giggle.
“So,” he says. “Marin. What can I do for you?”
I take a deep breath. “Well—”
“I’ve been reading your editorials in the paper, by the way,” he tells me, raising his eyebrows in a way that I’m not sure how to interpret, exactly. “I hadn’t realized you had quite so much to say about the gender politics here at Bridgewater.”
“Yeah.” I muster a smile, cheerful and nonthreatening. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately, I guess.”
Mr. DioGuardi nods. “So it would seem.” He clears his throat. “Now. What’s on your mind?”
I swallow hard, digging my nails into my nylon-covered knees. “It’s about Mr. Beckett,” I admit.
“Oh?” Mr. DioGuardi’s eyebrows twitch, cautious. “What about him?”
I take a deep breath and keep things as factual as possible, starting with the first day he drove me home and ending with the afternoon in his apartment.
“He kissed me,” I say, cringing; God, I can’t believe I’m using that word in front of Mr. DioGuardi. I can’t believe I’m using that word about Bex. Everything about this is humiliating.
When I’m finished Mr. DioGuardi doesn’t say anything for a long time, whistle clicking rhythmically against his two front teeth.
“These are serious allegations, Marin,” he tells me finally. “You realize I’m required to report them to the school board. They’ll want to do a full investigation.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure if he’s trying to warn me off or not. It kind of feels like maybe he is. “I just—what else is there to investigate?” I shake my head, confused. “I mean, I just told you what happened.”
Mr. DioGuardi’s impassive expression flickers, just barely. “Well, this is a process, Marin. We’ll need to gather more information before we decide on a course of action. They’ll want to interview you themselves, first of all. And I imagine they’ll want to speak to Mr. Beckett as well.”
“And what if he says I’m making the whole thing up?”
Mr. DioGuardi frowns. “Are you?”
“What? No!” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “Of course not!”
“Watch the tone, please,” Mr. DioGuardi reminds me, reaching for the whistle around his neck like he’s checking to make sure it’s still there in case he needs to foul me out. “I know this is an . . . emotional situation, which is exactly why there’s a procedure in place.” He smiles again—reassuring, dadlike. “These things take time, Marin. But the board will be thorough. You can trust us all to do our jobs.”
I wrap my hands around the arms of the chair, knowing somehow—the way he said emotional situation, maybe—that there’s no room to argue without proving his point.
“Okay,” I say instead, reaching down for my backpack before standing up so quickly I get lightheaded. It’s claustrophobic in here all of a sudden, the air too hot and thick to breathe properly. “Well. Um. Thank you. I should get back to class.”
Mr. DioGuardi frowns. He was expecting me to be more grateful to him, I realize. And I’m not following the playbook.
“Marin—” he begins, but I paste another bland smile on my face before he can say anything else.
“I appreciate your help with this, Mr. DioGuardi.” I promise. “Really.”