Page 102 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“The problem isn’t what happened, Lily.” Her voice softens a little. “It’s the perception. You teach kindergarten. Their parents are protective and when they start hearing rumors …”

“What rumors?” I want her to say it out loud.

She shifts some papers on her desk. “According to Mrs. Walsh, you were seen in what she called a compromising position with Ronan Oliver on Friday night. She was quite … detailed in her description.”

My face burns hotter. The memory of Ronan’s body against mine, his hands, his mouth, the alley wall cold against my back … I push it away, but not before heat floods through me again. Shame mixing with anger, mixing with the ghost of desire I don’t want to think about.

“My private life has nothing?—”

“Your private life becomes the school’s concern when it happens in public.” She sighs. “And when it involves someone with Ronan’s history.”

“That wassevenyears ago! He was eighteen and homeless.”

“I know.” She looks tired, older than she did last week. “But you know how this town works. Mrs. Walsh is already talking about ‘moral fitness evaluations.’”

The room is closing in, the air turning thick. “Because I was seen with someone they decided to hate years ago?”

“Because you’re responsible for young children, and parents are questioning your judgment.” She opens a drawer and pulls out some papers. “The incident outside Wilson’s only made it worse. Sarah Murphy’s mother is on the PTA. She’s been quite vocal about not wanting her daughter in a classroom with someone who …” She gestures vaguely at my face.

“Someone whowhat?” My voice breaks despite my efforts to control it. “Got hit trying to stop violence? Or someone who dared to care about the wrong person?”

“Lily.” She leans forward. “I’m trying to help you here. Take some time off. Let things calm down, and give the bruises time to fade.”

“You want me to stay home?” My eyes are burning. “Because it looks bad that I got hurt?”

“Because right now, Mrs. Walsh is making you a target.” She slides the papers across her desk. “Take the week. Paid leave. Give everyone time to find new gossip. It won’t take long for something else to catch their attention. And give yourself time to heal.”

Through her office window, I can see parents dropping off their kids.

“And if I don’t take the leave?”

“Then I can’t protect you from the board.” Her voice remains gentle but firm. “You know how Beverly Walsh operates when she decides the world isn’t right. And she has three other board members who follow her lead without question.”

I take the papers, hands shaking slightly. The words on the sheet blur together, official language about temporary leave and professional conduct. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow.

“I’ll need your lesson plans for the substitute.” She hesitates. “And Lily? Be careful. The board meeting is on Wednesday. They want to discuss this. Don’t supply them with further ammunition.”

I walk out of the office in a daze, just as Natasha O’Reilly hurries past, tugging her daughter along without looking at me. She used to stop and chat every morning, updating me on her daughter’s progress. Now she won’t meet my eyes.

A teacher catches my arm as I pass her classroom.

“I heard what happened.” Her voice drops to a whisper, eyes darting around to make sure no one is listening. “The story is everywhere. Kate and Amy were telling everyone at the Jittery Squirrel about Friday night.” She glances around. “And then Saturday?—”

My stomach churns. I pull away. “I have to go.”

Two more teachers watch from their classroom doorways. I catch fragments of whispered conversations as I pass

“… can’t believe she’d …”

“… with someone like that …”

“… such poor judgment …”

I keep my head high, shoulders back, even though my face throbs, and my stitches pull, and I want to disappear into the floor.

My classroom is still empty when I step inside. The ocean-themed display I spent hours creating suddenly seems meaningless. I take this week’s lesson plan out of my bag and place it on the desk, take one last look around, and walk out.

The drive home passes in a daze. My eyes watch the road, but I’m not really present. When I finally make it inside myapartment and close the door behind me, I release the grip I’ve kept on my emotions.