Part 28 (2/2)

”She was trying to distance herself from me,” Hannah says, lowering her eyes to the table. ”I told her how I've been feeling about-about girls-and-” she swallows-”she wasn't sure we should be friends anymore. She didn't want to compromise her beliefs.”

Clay's voice is the first one to break the courtyard's silence. ”Is that true, Bake?”

Every face turns away from Hannah and back to Baker. Baker meets Hannah's eyes, her expression still terrified. For an infinite moment they read each other, and Hannah nods her head forward a fraction of an inch.

”Yes,” Baker says.

Hannah breathes.

”So, what, you were gonna take the fall for Hannah?” Clay asks incredulously.

Baker doesn't answer. In the distance, somewhere far, far away, Hannah hears the bell ring. The sound of it seems to startle everyone back into the reality of the school day. In an uncomfortable silence, people all around the courtyard pick up their trash and step away from their tables. Then the silence gives way to a buzzing whispering, and Hannah watches in a daze, feeling like she's in a movie, as cla.s.smates walk past her, some of them staring, some of them ignoring her, others outright glaring at her.

But the only person Hannah watches is Baker. She rises unsteadily from her table and seems unaware that Clay is speaking into her ear. She meets Hannah's eyes one more time, and Hannah feels the weight of the world between them. Then Baker walks loosely and clumsily toward the B-Hall doors, her head down and her hair hanging over her eyes.

And then everyone is gone. Everyone except for Joanie and Wally.

Hannah slumps down into her seat. Everything around her seems dim, surreal. Joanie gawps at her. Wally sits with his back rigid and his hands clenched.

”Wally-” Hannah says.

”Don't talk to me.”

”Wally, wait-”

But he jerks himself away from the table and yanks his booksack over his shoulder. He throws his bag of trash at the trashcan; it hits off the side and falls to the ground, but he doesn't stop to pick it up.

Joanie gathers up the contents of her lunch, sealing her sandwich bag with trembling thumbs. She reaches for her water bottle but knocks it over onto the table. Hannah watches the water spread over the wood while Joanie picks up the bottle with shaking hands.

”I had to,” Hannah says.

”Bulls.h.i.+t,” Joanie says. She stands up and tucks her blouse into her skirt over and over and over, until the fabric is stretched taut across her stomach. ”Do you realize Mom and Dad are gonna find out now? Is that how you wanted this to go?”

Joanie's hands continue to shake as she raises her water bottle to her mouth and takes a clumsy gulp from it. Hannah still sits at the table, her arms and legs numb, her mind foggy.

”Stupidest thing you've ever done in your life,” Joanie says.

Her cla.s.smates stare at her all through third block. The only person who doesn't look at her is Wally, who sits with his jaw clenched and his head bent over the desk. Hannah's mind replays the scene in the courtyard again and again while Mr. Creary prattles on about the format of their Government exam.

And then the overhead intercom beeps.

”Mr. Creary?”

”Mm?”

”Please send Hannah Eaden to the office.”

She tries hard to ignore the stares of her two-dozen cla.s.smates, but she can feel their eyes on her as she crosses the cla.s.sroom. She closes Mr. Creary's door and stands in the hallway with a feeling of panic in her stomach. Her vision dims. When she starts to walk, she can feel air beating against her sweaty palms. She stops off into the bathroom and throws up.

The front office secretaries seem to be waiting for her. ”h.e.l.lo, Hannah,” one of them says, her smile forced. ”Mrs. Shackleford would like to see you. You can go on back to her office.”

Hannah opens Mrs. Shackleford's door to find a half-dozen people inside. Mrs. Shackleford sits at her desk, her expression grim; Mr. Manceau and Father Simon stand together at one window, Mr. Manceau's arms crossed over his stomach and Father Simon's hands clasped behind his back; Ms. Carpenter stands at the opposite window, her angular eyebrows drawn together; and Hannah's parents hover just inside the door, their skin pale and their eyes nervous.

”Hi, honey,” her mom says. She looks like it's costing her everything she has to look at Hannah. Hannah's dad stands silently at her side, mechanically rubbing at his elbow.

”h.e.l.lo, Hannah,” Mrs. Shackleford says. ”Have a seat, please.”

Hannah sits in the designated chair in front of Mrs. Shackleford's desk, with the adults circled around her. She feels like the center p.a.w.n in a child's game of Duck-Duck-Goose.

”Hannah, do you know why we called you in?” Mrs. Shackleford asks.

”Is this about the e-mail?” Hannah says, trying to sound braver than she feels.

Mrs. Shackleford nods a few times. ”Yes, it is. Hannah, we've had several students tell us that you've taken owners.h.i.+p of that e-mail. That you told some friends that you're the one who wrote it.”

”I told the whole senior courtyard,” Hannah says. In her peripheral vision, she can see her mom flinch.

”Hannah...” Mrs. Shackleford brings her hands together and stares hard at her. ”Do you understand the implications of telling people you wrote this e-mail?”

Hannah casts her eyes to the objects on Mrs. Shackleford's desk: the name placard, the dove-shaped paperweight, the photographs of her husband and children. She feels acutely aware of everyone watching her. ”Yes, ma'am. Everyone will think that I'm-um.” She clears her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ms. Carpenter tuck her head down.

”It's a bit more complicated than that, Hannah,” Mrs. Shackleford says.

”How?”

”So you did write the e-mail?” Mr. Manceau cuts in.

”Bob-” Mrs. Shackleford says.

”I think you should let her answer the question, Mrs. Shackleford,” Father Simon says. ”She hasn't confirmed yet.”

”Can you confirm that you wrote this e-mail?” Mr. Manceau says, thrusting a piece of paper into Hannah's hand. Hannah smoothes out the paper and reads the topmost line, but then her parents step up behind her and peer over her shoulder.

”Don't,” Hannah says.

”We've already read it,” her mom says.

”What?”

Her mom swallows. ”Mr. Manceau already showed us.”

Hannah glares at Mr. Manceau. He raises his eyebrows, and his challenge is clear: What are you gonna do about it?

”Please just give me a minute,” Hannah asks her parents.

Her mom nods in a resigned way. Her dad continues to rub his elbow. Hannah, with the force of a hammer on her heart, reads: DATE May 11, 2012 TIME 1:03 AM.

<script>