Page 24 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

twenty-four

. . .

Elle

The drive to Santa Luna High feels like someone stretched the street and looped it five times around the sun.

I hit every red light, every crosswalk, every slow-motion retiree who decides today is the day to power-walk across the entire width of civilization.

The automated call said, “Please come pick up your student,” like it was about a missing lunchbox.

It’s borderline diabolical to use an automated system to let parents know to come and pick up their children.

The waiting without knowing until you get answers lasts several lifetimes.

I rush through the front doors and over to the administration desk. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the air is thick with the scent of disinfectant, teenage sweat, and anxiety. A Ficus droops in the corner like it gave up on living long ago and is just waiting to die.

“Hi,” I say, breathless. “Elle Grant. I got a message to pick up my child. Which child, exactly, and are they bleeding?”

“Mrs. Grant,” she says, tapping keys with the passive-aggressive rhythm of a snare drum, “please have a seat. Someone will be right with you.”

“I’m not really a sit-and-wait kind of woman.” My voice is nice. My eyes are not. “Which. Child.”

She does the world’s smallest sigh and checks the screen again. “Jillian Grant. Principal Carmichael asked that you come to her office.”

“Is Jill okay?” My stomach drops like an elevator ride to hell.

“Someone will be right with you,” she repeats, already done with me as a concept.

A door clicks open farther down, and an aide motions me in that I-wish-I-were-anywhere-else way school staff have perfected. “This way, Mrs. Grant.”

We pass a bulletin board declaring YOU BELONG HERE in rainbow letters next to a handwritten sign about dress code violations and appropriate skirt lengths.

The closer we get to Principal Carmichaels office, the faster my heart races.

I take a deep breath to prepare myself. When we round the corner, I see Jill sitting in a chair right outside the door, arms crossed and a defiant expression on her face.

My baby. My not-a-baby. Her knuckles are scuffed. My heart goes liquid.

“Hey,” I say, crouching to her level. “You okay?”

She shrugs, which is teen for no. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” I say, because we both know she isn’t.

“I was defending Jaq,” she says. And, really, that’s all I need to hear. But then she continues, “They’re suspending me. I can’t play in the volleyball finals or go to the dance.” She hiccups and tears run anew down her cheeks.

I bend to give her a hard hug. “I’ll handle it. I promise.”

This fucking school.

“You want me to breathe fire, or you want me to play it cool?”

“Cool,” she says, voice wobbling. “At first.”

“At first,” I promise.

The aide knocks and pushes the door open.

Principal Carmichael looks up from behind her oak desk, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of a nose that was born to sniff out joy and label it disruptive.

Beside her stands Ms. Thompson, the guidance counselor.

She looks about my age, except that she thinks 40 is the new 60 based on her hair style and the way she’s dressed.

“Mrs. Grant,” Principal Carmichael says. “Do come in.”

I keep my hand on the doorframe like it might keep me tethered to planet Earth. “Before we start, is anyone injured, arrested, or missing teeth? Because I couldn’t seem to get a straight answer between the automated phone call and the fount of information manning the front desk.”

Carmichael’s mouth twitches. Whether in amusement or irritation is unclear. “No one is in medical danger, Mrs. Grant.”

“Progress,” I murmur, and step in.

The office is a catalog spread for institutional authority: framed diplomas, a poster about leadership featuring an eagle who looks like he thinks your latte order is weak, a tiny bowl of individually wrapped butterscotch that says I can buy you off for less than a nickel.

Carmichael folds her hands. “There was an incident at lunch.”

“I gathered,” I say, sitting without being told to. “My daughter was defending her sibling, yes?”

Ms. Thompson leans forward, smile so soothing it makes my molars ache. “Mrs. Grant, I want to first acknowledge how much you care about your children and how stressful this must be.”

“We’re acknowledging my love?” I blink. “For my kids? Wow. Okay. Will there be a certificate?”

Carmichael clears her throat. “Jillian punched another student, Thomas Carter. Witness accounts agree she initiated physical contact. That is a violation of our code of conduct.”

“And what does Jill say?” I ask.

“Pardon me?” This time it’s Carmichael who blinks.

“Jill?” I look to the doorway. “Can you come in here please?”

“Mrs. Grant, we don’t usually—” Ms. Thompson starts.

I hold a hand up to stop her. “If you’re saying my kid started something, I want to hear it from her.”

Jill slips in, slouches into the chair next to me, and stares at a spot on the carpet like she’s trying to burn a hole through it. Her chin trembles once before she forces it still.

“Tell me what happened,” I say, gently.

She swallows. “Tommy and his friend were at our table. They kept… they kept calling Jaq—” She stops, the words sticking.

“They deadnamed them, Mom. Loud. Like they wanted everyone to hear. And they said… they said Jaq was an abomination.” Her voice breaks.

“I told them to stop. He laughed. He said, ‘Sorry your sister is a freak.’ I told him Jaq’s not my sister.

They’re my sibling. He said, ‘Whatever IT is claiming to be. We’ll just pants it and find out for sure. ’”

Heat punches up my spine, blooms in my face. I look at Carmichael. “And then?”

Jill shrugs, helpless. “I stood up and said he couldn’t do that. He said he could. I told him to take it back. He said, ‘Make me,’ and he, like, hip-checked me, but with his shoulder. So… I made him.”

“And, by ‘made him’ you mean?” Carmichael asks, pen poised over a form like she’s taking a brunch order.

“I punched him,” Jill says. “In the nose. It was so gross. Blood started gushing out like a faucet, which is honestly on brand because he’s a giant drip.”

“Jill,” Ms. Thompson says. “We don’t need commentary.”

“Excuse me,” I say. “I need commentary. It helps me not scream.”

Carmichael slides a paper across the desk. “Unfortunately, we’ll need to give Jill a five-day suspension for violence.”

I laugh. It’s not a friendly laugh. “School ends in four.”

“Then the remaining day will be served at the start of next school year.”

“Oh, fabulous,” I say. “Just like unused cell minutes. Do you have double-points Tuesdays, too?”

“Mrs. Grant,” Ms. Thompson says, voice syrupy, “we understand this is upsetting.”

“I’m going to be really blunt, Ms. Thompson,” I say, “you clearly don’t understand shit.

You’re punishing the kid who intervened and stood up to a bully threatening sexual assault when your staff didn’t.

That cafeteria has three adults in it every lunch period.

Where were they while a boy turned my child into a megaphone for hate? ”

“We’re following up with the lunch monitors,” Carmichael says. “For now, that’s a separate issue.”

“Explain to me how it’s a separate issue?” I lean forward. “Because right now I’m seeing it as a catalyst.”

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.