Page 45

CHAPTER 44

SHE SAID/SHE SAID

CASS

T wenty-eight first graders are spread throughout my quiet classroom with their noses in books, and all is right in the world.

The reading nook is full of lounging children draped in fluffy chairs and beanbags or stretched out on the carpet. Some decided to stay at their desks, others found separate, solitary places to read, like under my group table or against the shelves beneath the windows. I turned off the big lights, but if the fairy lights and thrift store lamps spread around the room didn’t throw enough light, there’s plenty of sunshine streaming in through the windows. I even put a cozy fireplace scene on our TV and one of those albums that turns classic rock songs into lullabies.

Honestly, I’m ready to go nudge my way into the reading nook with my Kindle and join them.

Instead, I give myself a moment to appreciate how far I’ve come. Somehow, I turned this classroom into a cozy, colorful haven. My bulletin boards are full, one with the life cycles of various animals and bugs. Another is dotted with multi-colored circles displaying the sight words for the week. There is, of course, our Today board with the weather, our daily schedule, the name of the current class helper, and reward charts.

I’ll need to come in this weekend and swap out the unit specific boards and have stacks of supplies ready at home. All I need are more hours in the day and more days in the week.

The thought doesn’t burst my bubble, but it definitely springs a leak.

My overwhelm quieted to a simmer through the week, leaving me on a much higher note this Friday than the last one. Thankfully, Wilder’s season is through, which means a break in practices and games, and Cricket’s season will be finished next weekend with her final tournament. And then, blessedly, we’ll break until spring.

I can almost taste my freedom.

Cricket slides out of her seat and nearly tiptoes to me, whispering, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Of course,” I answer, contentment warm in my chest at her smile.

God, I love that kid.

If things were different and maybe I didn’t want so badly to teach, I wouldn’t mind running her around and super-momming. But there are too many things to do, and I’m only one person with two hands and twenty-four hours in a day.

Thankfully, Wilder jumped in and organized help on the days he has to work, so his dad picks Cricket up from school on practice days and brings her home after. When Wilder’s home, he comes to get her whether she has practice or not so I can stay after for an hour or so every day to catch up on homework and lesson plans. That alone has been huge.

I’m so thankful for him. He prioritizes me and what I need, sometimes knowing before I fully do. Last week was hell, and the second he realized it, he made changes and took some of the pressure off of me.

He’s the one who put the pressure there in the first place, says a voice that sounds disturbingly like Davis.

What’s left of my good feelings turns sour, thick and churning in my stomach.

I went from the lap of luxury into the maw of chaos, losing myself to some degree with each. On paper, both paths look the same. In fact, on paper, Wilder looks worse. With Davis, I was a frog in a slow boiling pot, not realizing I was cooked until it was too late. With Wilder, I got dropped into a fryer.

I honestly don’t think Davis meant to. He’s just so used to everyone sliding politely out of his way as he navigates life, he doesn’t realize he’s entitled.

Unlike Davis, Wilder knew what he was asking.

But unlike Davis, Wilder puts me first.

In the day to day, at least. He did not put me first when he asked me to do this.

Immediately, I’m defensive, listing all the ways he’s superior to Davis in my head. Wilder put me in this position, yes. But the way he shows me every day how much he loves and respects me is unmatched. The contrast is sharp and crisp between the two, delineating what I do and do not want. And what I want is Wilder.

A little girl’s scream shocks me out of my seat and into the hallway where Cheryl and I stare at Avery and Cricket, trying to decipher what’s going on.

Both girls start yelling at the same time, red faced and crying and pointing at each other. But what drops my jaw is the long swath of blonde hair in Avery’s fist and the chunk missing out of the back.

“Wait, girls,” Mrs. Panko says with no effect. “ Girls! ” she snaps and they finally look at her, quiet for a split second.

“She cut my hair!” Avery wails, dissolving into tears. “ Look! ” The golden locks sway in her fist when she shoves it in the air.

The shock on Cricket’s face is total, the flush bright. “ What? No I didn’t! She was cutting her hair at the sink and?—”

“I was just washing my hands and she took the scissors and?—”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did!”

When Cricket lunges, I grab her. She thrashes against me, all roaring and claws.

“You’re a liar !” she snaps. Avery has buried her face in Mrs. Panko’s side, the missing chunk of hair swaying unevenly with her sobs.

“Where are the scissors?” Mrs. Panko asks.

Cricket’s energy is running down, and her growling dissolves into sobs. She goes limp in my arms, turning to throw hers around my neck.

“I didn’t do it, Cassie,” she swears into my shirt, which is damp from her tears. I want to believe her. I do believe her. But a sliver of hesitation stops me from throwing myself into full bulldog mode.

Mrs. Panko and I share a look, and she goes in to inspect. When she comes back, she’s still bewildered. In her hand is a pair of massive silver shears. “They’re from the art room.”

Avery howls, her fists gripping Mrs. Panko’s skirt, face still buried.

Up and down the hallway, teachers and students have stuck their heads out of their classrooms. Molly’s standing nearby, and I catch her gaze.

“Would you watch our classes for a second so we can take the girls down to the office?”

“Of course,” she breathes, and with that done, we hurry to the front of the school.

By the time we get there, the girls are more sniffles than sobs. The counselor blinks, and when Avery starts up wailing again, she takes the crying girl first. Mrs. Panko steps aside with the principals to tell them what little we know, and I sit Cricket in one of the chairs and kneel, meeting her eyes.

Gently, I ask, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

She all but explodes, hurt and angry and rambling so fast, I wonder if I missed any of it. The gist of it is that she walked into the bathroom and Avery was cutting her hair. They got into a small argument and Cricket said she was going to tell, which was when Avery screamed and ran out of the bathroom.

“I didn’t do it!” She’s crying again, and her misery makes me miserable too. “You believe me, don’t you?”

I don’t answer right away, fumbling for what to say. “Do you remember when I said I’d always believe you if you always tell me the truth?”

She nods.

“Then if you say you’re telling the truth, I believe you. And if you’re not, I think you should tell me right now.”

Again, her emotions flare, her little body tight with indignance and pain. “I didn’t! I was going to tell on her because she stole the big scissors and she cut up her hair. She got mad and told me not to tell. I said I was gonna anyway and n-now she s-says I-I—I didn’t do it, Cassie, I promise. I haven’t lied once, not since the last time.”

She sticks out her pinkie, her eyes shining and puffy. And I hook her little digit with my own pinkie. Together, we kiss our thumbs.

“Wait here. You’ll have a chance to tell your side. Okay?”

She nods, and with a sigh, I stand and make my way to the knot of administration and Mrs. Panko. The looks on their faces stiffen my spine despite how much of an outsider I am in that moment.

Again, I sigh. “Cricket says she didn’t do it.” Briefly, I recount her side of things and shake my head.

“Do you believe her?” Christine, the principal asks, and I’m not sure I like her tone. She’s worried, her brows drawn and lips tight.

“She didn’t have anything in her hands when she left for the restroom. It’s possible she stole the scissors and stashed them in her cubby, but…” Why can’t I stop sighing? And why won’t my sighs release the tangle in my chest? “My instinct says she didn’t do it. Her story is too specific to come up with that fast and with so many emotions.”

The furrows in Christine’s forehead deepen. “Her parents are going to be upset. Very, very upset. It’s a serious accusation—they could call it assault. I don’t know what they’ll do, but the board will get involved. I’m sure of it.”

Tingling awareness trickles down my back.

“We have to figure out how to fix whatever’s going on with these girls,” Cheryl says.

“Without her mother cooperating, I don’t know how.” My voice is too sharp. I work hard to smooth myself. “You know we’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. She’s been through so much. We’re doing what we can at home.”

“Maybe it’s worth considering private school for her. They could probably accommodate her better there,” Christine offers. “Or you could homeschool her.”

I blink, thinking the implications of that through. Is she suggesting that rather than address the conflict between Cricket and Avery, we should just leave? That we’re the problem? That I should quit ? I can’t wrap my head around it. “What about my class?”

“You could always stay on until we find a replacement. Don’t let that factor into the best decision for your family.”

Something in the way she says it tells me this has nothing to do with my family.

“So, you all think she did it.” It’s not a question. No one but Christine will meet my eyes.

When she does, it’s her turn to sigh, her shoulders falling slightly. “Cassidy, I hate to admit this, but in the end, I’m afraid it doesn’t matter what we think. I’m not sure it even matters what actually happened. The only thing that does is what she tells her parents when they get here, and what they decide to do about it.”

I swallow, but my throat is clamped shut from raw frustration, rage, utter defeat. “I understand,” I manage to say.

“Go ahead back to your classes. We’ll call you down when we need you.”

We nod and walk out, though I share a look with Cricket that I pray is comforting before entering the hallway with Cheryl.

For a moment, we walk in silence.

“Well, what do you think?” I ask her, certain I don’t want to know.

After some consideration, she says, “I don’t think Cricket did it. But Christine is right—it doesn’t matter what we think. I’ve seen Avery do some cruel, vindictive things, but this…” Today is the day of sighs, and Cheryl offers hers. “You know, Mackinzie just cut her hair, and everyone’s been doting on her—the girls are best friends. I don’t know for sure what happened, but I could see Avery doing it and blaming someone else. That it was Cricket is just bad luck.”

I nod, numb as I walk into class. Molly has a hundred questions on her face, but I shake my head and she nods, squeezing my arm as she passes.

Cricket’s innocence doesn’t matter. Doing the right thing won’t save her. And whatever happens, whatever they decide, will potentially have a direct effect on me. I have no idea what they might do. Having met Avery and her mother, I cannot imagine it will be gentle.

And I am helpless in this fight.

The kids are buzzing, and I reach for the switch to flip, plastering on a smile for everyone else because that’s what my responsibility demands.

There’s nothing else I can do.