Page 4 of What Boys Learn

“It’s obvious she was getting back at Geneva,” he said, waiting for me to confirm.

I couldn’t. If anything, Sidney seemed to favor her mother over her father. No part of the scenario rang true.

He kept staring at me, disdain etched on his face. “You don’t think my daughter meant to kill herself.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, unless it helps you feel better about the situation. The detectives and the medical examiner would be the ones—”

“So why are you fucking looking at me that way?”

Why indeed. Maybe because he reminded me of someone I hadn’t seen in a long time and hoped never to see again. The arrogance. The narcissism. The temper.

Mayfield pulled a piece of paper from the tight pocket of his khakis. A list of names. “Sidney wouldn’t have done something so harebrained unless another kid gave her the idea. I’ve heard about contagious behaviors.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened to any other Summit student,” Duplass reassured him.

“Just show me her best friend’s records, then.” He jabbed a square finger at the top of the list. “Izzy.”

“We can’t do that,” I said, not bothering to look to Duplass for confirmation. “You have a right to Sidney’s records, but the others are confidential unless they’re subpoenaed. I’m fairly certain of that.” I wasn’t certain. I just hoped the wordsubpoenawould allow him to back down and save face.

“They belong to the school, too, don’t forget. Which means the board. I’m on the board, and I’m sure my fellow board members would agree I should see them.”

“It’s irrelevant,” I said. “Isabella Scarlatti hasn’t come to my office.”

Thankfully, it was true. Notto my office, though we had talked once, in late September—my third week on the job—on a bench outside the east wing’s doors. It was one of my tricks, meeting students wherever they gathered. I’d stroll down the hall to the nearest women’s bathroom and mix with the girls who were pausing at the mirror to reapply their makeup. More than once, that’s when a student had started confiding to me for the first time, from the next sink over.

Can I . . . talk to you for a minute?

Of course.

In Izzy’s case, it happened outside, where she was sneaking a cigarette. I ignored the infraction and listened to her over the course of one full smoke, then a second. When she stood to leave, I asked her to make a follow-up appointment, but she wouldn’t, and I knew why. Because she’d caught me judging her, in light of the stories she’d told. I’d failed.

“I think we could all use a cup of tea,” Duplass said. “Actually, Abby if you could just pop out and ask Grace.”

Grace wasn’t at her desk. When I came back to the dean’s office, Mayfield was already on his feet, readying to leave, the creased list of names planted in the center of Duplass’s desk. Duplass and I listened as he marched down the echoing hallway. Nearing the exit doors, he barked at someone—a janitor, probably—before slamming the crash bar unnecessarily hard to let himself out.

Duplass opened her desk drawer, unwrapped a tiny mint, and popped it in her mouth. We waited a moment longer, two women ready to pretend our minds hadn’t just called up memories of other angry, unpredictable men.

“Isabella didn’t come to school today,” Duplass said. “Several of Sidney’s friends didn’t show up.”

“They must have heard the bad news before the teachers.”

On the five-minute drive to school, Benjamin had been glued to his phone, but I hadn’t thought to question why.

Duplass turned her back to me, hands on her hips, staring out the big windows. “Geneva told me a month ago that she was close to leaving Jack. She’ll blame herself for what happened, and she’ll roll over in divorce court. Jack has what he wants. Why does he need student records?”

“Because his theory about Sidney makes no sense.” From the annoyance on Duplass’s face, I could see she’d been asking rhetorically. I continued anyway. “But I’m less worried about Sidney’s parents at this moment than her friends. They might be struggling. We need to talk to Izzy and anyone else who skipped today. All the more reason I should come in early tomorrow.”

Duplass turned back to face me, kneading the side of her neck. “Do you really think Sidney Mayfield didn’t mean to kill herself?”

“It wouldn’t be my first guess.”

“You’d stake your reputation on it.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not. I don’t have all the facts.”

When Duplass frowned, I should have left it there, but I was feeling judged. And I was getting angry.

I said, “If there’s a reason you don’t want me to counsel Sidney’s friends—if you’re worried there’s something going on you’d rather people not know about—just tell me.”