Page 49 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

Ms. Thompson folds her hands so neatly it’s almost satire. “We can absolutely address the bullying component. But we do have zero tolerance for violence.”

“And what about the threat of sexual assault?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have a specific policy for hearsay threats.” Ms. Thompson presses her lips together like that’s going to stem any further discussion on the matter.

“Hearsay?” I can’t believe we are having this conversation. I turn to Jill. “Did anyone else hear this exchange?”

She nods. “All our friends were right there.”

I lift a shoulder in a partial shrug. “So, what, maybe two or three? Five? Ten?”

Jill nods again. “Probably ten.”

“Cool. Okay.” I turn back to Carmichael. “So, ten people hearing the same thing is hearsay?—”

“Mrs. Grant,” Ms. Thompson interrupts. “You have to understand, we can’t always trust that children are truthful in these situations.”

“Has this happened before, Jilly?” I ask my daughter.

She nods.

“And have you said anything to anyone?”

She nods again.

“We’ve told our teacher about the bullying and Ms. Thompson.”

I see red.

Ms. Thompson has the grace to turn a deep shade of it as well.

“Let me get this straight, you have infinite tolerance for verbal assault and a quick trigger for the kid who throws the only punch,” I say. “And let’s be very clear: ‘abomination’ is not teasing. It is hate speech. It is a direct attack on identity, and it is part of a pattern here. This isn’t the first time. You know it. I know it. The rainbow-fucking-letter bulletin boards know it.”

Carmichael’s nostrils flare. “We have policies, Mrs. Grant?—”

A knock interrupts us and the door swings wide before anyone answers because apparently politeness is optional if you have a Kate Spade tote and a blowout. A woman barrels in—lipstick precise, heels lethal. Behind her lumbers a boy with a wad of tissue up his nose like a walrus tusk. The boy glares at Jill. The woman glares at the world.

“Mrs. Carter,” Carmichael says, standing like a prairie hen faced with a hawk. “We’re in the middle of?—”

“Oh, I bet you are,” she says, planting herself next to the desk. “I want to see the girl who assaulted my son. Is this her?”

Jill flinches. My hand finds her knee under desk edge and squeezes.

“Mrs. Carter,” Ms. Thompson says, hands fluttering, “we’re handling this.”

“You’re not handling anything,” Mrs. Carter snaps. “My Tommy needed to see the nurse. He could have a deviated septum.”

“What he needs is a personality,” Jill mutters.

I give her a single side-eye that says I love you, please hush.

Mrs. Carter jabs a finger in our direction. “This is the problem—this family. That—” she wobbles a hand in the air, “whatever—has been disrupting classrooms all year. My son was just defending his right to speak his mind.”

My blood goes cold and then hot and then something beyond both. I’ll let thewhatevercomment go, for now, but this bitch… “Calling my child an abomination goes way beyond speaking his mind.”

“He has a right to his beliefs.”

I smile pretty. And not just because my mom always says to “Smile the prettiest when you really want to stab them,” even though it applies. “The First Amendment doesn’t endow minors with the sacred duty to be bigots in the cafeteria.”