Page 28 of What Boys Learn

Once I was in the pool parking lot, sliding my Mazda between a blue Audi and a silver Lexus, I started doubting myself again. Maybe my judgment in this situation wasn’t the best. Maybe anyone who knew us—including Rita, the Summit Spanish teacher who let us visit Dartmoor as guests, under her membership—would judge me for showing up, today of all days, at the pool.

So far, I’d signed in as a “guest of Rita” only once. But Benjamin had used her name a half dozen times. He blended in easily, arriving by bike, whereas I arrived in a car manufactured before Benjamin’s birth. As my son liked to remind me, there were only two crappy cars that showed up on this lot. Theother onebelonged to a janitor.

I texted Rita. Instead of texting back, she called.

“Are youokay?” her voice boomed once I picked up. “I heard they gave you a ‘soft suspension.’ What does that even mean?”

“It means a day and a half off, so far, and no renewal of my contract, I’m guessing.”

“Shit, woman, you need to come over for a glass of wine. It isn’t fair! What are they thinking?”

“They were thinking about parents’ donations and the school’s reputation. They were thinking about the Mayfields and the Scarlattis.”

“I can’t believe they already found someone to replace you.”

“Better than leaving students stranded for the last few days of school.” There were only two exam makeup days, now. Benjamin was done; the kids who had skipped after hearing about Sidney still had exams to complete. “Hey, listen. I was texting to ask if it’s really okay for Benjamin to keep signing in under your name. I don’t know if there’s a maximum number of visits.”

“Don’t worry about that. If there’s a problem, they’ll tell me. Dartmoor isn’t shy about slapping members’ wrists. But how about you?”

“Swim, you mean? I’d like to. I’m just not sure if it’s a good look, coming here today.”

“A good look?” She sounded confused. “Oh,that. I don’t really see how one thing has to do with another. I mean, every Summit teacher is distraught about what happened. We’re all still allowed to get some fresh air, aren’t we?”

I lowered my voice, not that anyone could hear me. “You’re allowed, maybe. I’m not sureIam.”

“Oh, honey. Whatever the police and parents find out, I know you did your best. I don’t know which is worse—that those girls took their lives, or that someone did somethingtothem.”

“Both girls,” I said, testing her knowledge, trying to fill in the blanks left by Robert. “I heard something about Izzy’s death being ‘complicated,’ or maybe both? If the detectives are saying ‘homicide,’ that covers a lot, even something unintentional, like an accident—”

“Abby,” she stopped me. “They’re not talking accident. They’re talkingmurders, plural. And screw those detectives. Duplass is getting it straight from Geneva Mayfield and Sofia Scarlatti. Those moms are ready to rip this town apart if the police department doesn’t get its shit together. Didn’t you read what Duplass put in the chat?”

She was referring to a teachers’ and support staff chat group from which I had been promptly removed.

“No. I don’t have access.”

Rita started talking about how she hoped I’d get back into the group, and in the interim she could screenshot everything and email me later. But I didn’t want to wait, and I didn’t need screenshots. I just wanted her to tell me.

“They know someone was in Sidney’s house when she took the pills,” she said. “The family’s security systems were turned off—”

“Why were they turned off?”

“Because Geneva and Jack had had endless fights about all the deliveries being made to their door, due to Geneva’s shopping habits. She didn’t like him getting the notifications. Anyway, the neighbors’ doorbell cameras on either side showed a figure heading toward the house and then running away, maybe forty minutes later.”

“A figure.”

“Person. Man, probably. They couldn’t see him clearly. And the police have gone back to dust for prints—especially in Geneva’s bathroom, if that’s where the pills came from—which they probably should have done the first time, right?”

“Right,” I said. Even though the car was warming quickly with the engine and AC off, I felt a chill.

“And Izzy’s parents took one look at her so-called suicide note and said it wasn’t her handwriting. The whole thing could be a setup, like someone gave her the pills that killed her. It didn’t take much, because she had an allergy that made her tongue swell up.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Her parents told the police that Izzy’s sister has an allergy to an ADHD drug, so they’re wondering if it was something chemically similar.”

“So, the person . . . knew that would happen?”

“Maybe not. Maybe he just wanted her—you know, drugged—and then she died. Inconveniently.”