Page 2 of What Boys Learn

That’s what mattered. Not just his pedigree, which outshone my recent master’s degree in counseling.

“Graduation is days away,” I reminded her, as if she needed reminding. “There isn’t enough time for him to establish trust. A lot of kids won’t talk to him.”

I paused, on the edge of an uncomfortable insight.A lot of kids won’t talk to him. Is that what Duplass and the board actually wanted? To prevent a long line to the counseling office from forming, so she could assure parents that every needy student was being seen and there was nothing more to be done?

“You’re being defensive,” she said. “That’s not helpful. Take the afternoon. Go home. I imagine you need some time to think about your role in this.”

I folded my hands across my lap to stop them from trembling. “I didn’t have any suspicions that Sidney Mayfield was considering harming herself.”

“As you’ve made clear.”

“No. I think you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not saying I missed the signs. I’m saying there wereno signs.”

“Every kid has problems.”

“Small ones. Nothing she couldn’t handle.”

“But she had weekly sessions with you.”

“Which is why I can say it with confidence.” I kept remembering the way Sidney looked when she dropped into the comfy blue chair in my office corner, looking relaxed and content, like she’d only come to show me her latest high-cadence Spotify playlist so that I’d have better music for my biweekly runs. “No apparent depression or anxiety. No agitation. No long-term preconditions. No self-injuring behaviors, not even . . . not even—”

“Abby.”

“Not even promiscuity. No sign that she wanted attention.”

“Wasn’t meeting with you regularly exactly that—a sign of wanting attention?”

Grace, the dean’s secretary, rapped on the door once, opening it a crack to whisper, “He’s here.”

I smoothed my skirt, expecting either Dr. Shields or the detective who’d already talked with us this morning, returning with another round of questions.

Duplass mouthed the wordfuck. In my year at Summit, I’d never even heard her saydarn.

She closed her eyes and briefly steepled her hands in front of her lips. “Another reason I wanted to let you slip out and go home. Jack Mayfield is here, an hour early.”

“But that’s fine.”

She leveled her gaze at me. “It’s not fine.” To the secretary she said, “Tell him—”

There was a small commotion at the door, Mayfield’s hand on Grace’s shoulder, which made her turn in surprise, stammering apologetically. Which is what we women do. Apologize for the touch of large, pushy men. We aren’t supposed to let them know they’ve done anything inappropriate. We’re supposed to makethemcomfortable.

In seconds, Mayfield was through the door, leaving Grace standing behind him, eyes wide, mouthing the wordsorry.

“No, no,” Duplass said, rising and stepping to the side of her desk with a warm smile pasted on her face. “Please, Mr. Mayfield, we’re so glad to see you. The timing is perfect.” She gestured to the empty chair next to mine. “I brought in Abby, our counselor, so we could all talk about this together.”

“Of course I know Abby.”

I stood and extended a hand, but Mayfield didn’t take it, only looked me up and down, making me suddenly aware of the damp circles beneath the arms of my secondhand blouse. He, in comparison, looked fresh and well-dressed. Tucked-in polo shirt, belted khaki pants. Dark brown hair, damp and gelled. He even smelled good. But we all deal differently with shock and grief. Some people wilt and withdraw. Others don armor.

Jack Mayfield pulled out his phone, pointing to the screen. “This is all you’ve got?”

“I’m sorry,” Duplass said, patting her chest for missing reading glasses. “You’re showing us what?”

“Some stupid checklists.”

He shook the phone in her face, then mine, too fast for us to see, but I didn’t need to.

“The digital counseling forms,” I explained, waiting for Mayfield to sit, then lowering myself slowly to my own chair, positioned uncomfortably close to his. “Those are the ones we sent to Detective Hernández, after he talked with us this morning.”