As it turned out, Nikki arrived only a few minutes late to class. She’d had a brief wait until the coast was clear, then snatched the sign-up sheet from the board. Checking to make sure nobody was there to see, she’d given the sheet a satisfied once-over, folded it, and stashed it in her bag. About a half dozen of her classmates had already signed up for the trip. Tough luck. They’d have to do it over again after people discovered the sheet had vanished. No biggie. If Nikki didn’t mind signing up again, why should the other girls?
And now she had Heather’s signature. All she needed was some tracing paper.
THIRTY TWO
DEAD TIRED, JEREMY RUSHED into AP English, again playing Beat the Clock in his race from the other end of the Forrest School. He’d slept poorly once again. Although his desk had been free of offerings the past two days, anticipation kept him on edge.
And today—lo and behold—a large, perfect, bright yellow banana awaited him, atop a folded sheet of paper.
Fruit again. Phallic symbol fruit this time. He blinked, hoping it might disappear. Then he noticed the paper. Pushing aside the banana, Jeremy unfolded the sheet and read. He gasped—that obscene. The typed note bore a name at the bottom, signed in ink.
Heather.
He recognized her signature, same as on the apology she’d written him.
Jeremy’s head jerked up, his eyes shooting to the back of the classroom. Heather stared into space, expression blank, despite the murmurs and titters breaking out around the room. Then her eyes met his.
“Out.” The word rasped from his lips. A pulse drummed in his ears.
Heather gaped at him, turning pale.
“You heard me. Go!” Jeremy’s voice rose. Silence fell over the room.
Heather’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She sat, frozen in her chair.
Jeremy took a step forward, pointed at the door. “You go to Mr. Donnelly’s office, Heather. Now! I’ll be there shortly.” Hands icy, his fingertips tingled with an urge to throttle her. So Nikki had been right. “Go!” he thundered.
Heather tottered to her feet. She made her way to the front of the room, avoiding the eyes that followed her. Meanwhile, Jeremy used the classroom phone to summon a sub to sit in for him. When he hung up, Heather stood at the door, staring at him, her face drawn and ashen.
“It wasn’t me.” Voice high, but firm. She left.
Jeremy’s turned to face the silent classroom. The laughter had died, his students cowed by his display of anger. The sight of their wide-eyed, frightened faces abruptly transformed his fury into acute embarrassment. He’d lost it and they’d all seen. Nikki, too. Shame kept his gaze from her.
He took a steadying breath and swallowed. Had to get out of there. “I want you to write an essay while I’m gone.” Time for the test he’d spared them the other day. “Gatsby, Chapter Two. What is the significance of the valley of ashes? Five hundred words by the end of the period.” He’d like to make it a thousand, but they’d never manage that.
They stared back at him. A tentative hand went up. “Mr. B? Is this an open book assignment?”
“No questions,” Jeremy snapped. “Start writing.” He snatched the offending note from his desk, crumpled it and thrust it into his pants pocket.
“Mr. Barrett?” One of the clerical staff stood in the doorway.
“They have an assignment,” Jeremy told her. “Please monitor them for me. I’ll be in Mr. Donnelly’s office.” He walked out without waiting for her reply.
In the hall, he stopped, struggling for composure. He ran a jittery hand through his hair, doing more harm than good.
“Jeremy?” Marge Peterson came up beside him. “You okay?”
He grimaced.
“I—ah—saw Heather coming out of your classroom, looking upset,” Marge said. “I asked her what was going on, and she told me you’d sent her to Mr. Donnelly’s office.”
“Uh huh.”
“I asked her why.” Marge cocked her head. “Know what she said?”
Jeremy looked at her, waiting.
“That it was a mistake.”
“Mistake!” He pulled the wadded-up note from his pocket, smoothed it open and handed it to Marge. “Does this look like a mistake to you? It came with a banana.”
She read the message, shaking her head. “Good lord! But it doesn’t make sense. Why would Heather sign her name to something like this?”
“Damned if I know what goes on in her head.”
“But are you sure it’s her signature?” Marge persisted.
“Absolutely.” Jeremy took the paper from her. “Look, Marge, I know you mean well, but I’ve got a situation going on. I need to get down to Donnelly’s office.”
“Jeremy, wait.” She took hold of his elbow before he walked away. “Do you know what they’re doing to her? On Facebook?”
He froze. “What are you talking about?”
“You know I’m on the prevention team this semester. About bullying?” All schools in the state were now required to designate faculty to troubleshoot any instances of peer abuse among students.
“Yeah. So?”
“So you know I monitor their social media posts.”
“Oh.” Jeremy hadn’t realized that. “And…?”
“And lately the herd has been preying on Heather.”
“What do you mean, ‘preying on her’?” A pinprick of dread arose in his gut.
“She’s the butt of their ridicule. The other girls make fun of her, pretty much every day. They’re saying she’s in love with you, leaves you presents and love notes in class.”
A fucking circus. “Jeez, Marge, why didn’t you say something?”
“I intended to tell you about it today. I’d hoped it would blow over.”
“Well, I’d say it’s blown up.” Jeremy’s hand went to his head, raking his hair into even more unruly spikes. “Look, I’m going to Donnelly’s office. If you want to come along and put your two cents in, I don’t mind. But let’s get moving.”
THIRTY THREE
WITH MARGE IN TOW, Jeremy entered the principal’s office to find Heather waiting in the reception area. The girl sat hunched in her chair, arms folded. She didn’t look up when they walked in.
“Go ahead,” Mrs. Marvin, the principal’s assistant, told Jeremy. “He’s waiting for you.” She looked at Marge, eyebrows raised.
“She’s coming in with me,” Jeremy said.
Heather studied the floor in silence as they walked into Donnelly’s inner sanctum.
As always, the array of his degrees and certificates on the opposite wall commanded Jeremy’s attention. Seated at his desk below the display, Donnelly looked up, face furrowing. “What’s going on, Jeremy? All I got out of Heather is that you sent her here.” The furrows deepened. “And why are you here, Marge?”
“I came in my capacity as bullying troubleshooter,” she said.
“I see.” Angry folds stood out on the principal’s forehead. “All right, then, what’s this all about?”
Jeremy passed the wrinkled note to Donnelly. “I found that on my desk this morning.”
Donnelly examined the note and looked back at him.
“It had a banana on top of it,” Jeremy explained.
“Oh.” The principal pursed his lips and dropped the paper onto his desk. “I see. Another of Ms. Lloyd’s little love notes?” He frowned at the sheet of paper, then nodded toward the sofa, table and chairs that served as his conversational area. “Better sit down and give me the full story.”
When they were settled, Jeremy cleared his throat. “It seems someone’s been leaving things on my desk in AP English class lately.”
“Things?” Mr. Donnelly leaned back on the sofa.
Jeremy fidgeted in his chair. “Candy, fruit.”
“Candy?” the principal repeated.
“Uh—little candy hearts.”
“And now a signed note?” Donnelly shook his head. “So Heather’s still at it.”
“Mr. Donnell
y.” Marge craned forward in her chair. “I think you should be aware that Heather’s being bullied on Facebook.”
“Bullied? How?”
“The other girls make fun of her,” Marge said. “They joke about her being in love with Jeremy and wooing him with gifts.”
Jeremy’s face grew warm.
“So?” the principal said. “Apparently that’s what she’s been up to. How does it qualify as bullying, if it’s true?”
“But what if it isn’t?” Marge protested. “They’ve been taunting her relentlessly. Why would Heather set herself up for that? More likely someone else staged all this at her expense.”
Donnelly squinted. “That strikes me as a needlessly baroque explanation, Marge.” He stood, went to his desk and retrieved the note. “Look.” He held out the paper to her. “The girl’s signature is on it.” He thrust the paper at Jeremy’s face. “Is it her writing? Do you recognize it?”
“Definitely.” Jeremy nodded. “That’s Heather’s signature.” He turned to Marge. “I hear what you’re saying, but Heather’s developed some sort of—” He hesitated. “Uh, fixation on me.”
“But suppose somebody forged her signature?” Marge persisted. “If one of the other girls did that, it most certainly would be bullying. And the school would have a responsibility to intervene.”
“Ms. Peterson.” Donnelly removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps you’re taking this troubleshooting business a bit too far. You seem to be looking for trouble, rather than shooting it.” He sniffed.
His condescending tone irritated Jeremy. Donnelly didn’t give a shit what was going on. The principal wanted the whole thing to go away. As he had.
“I’m trying to do my job, sir,” Marge said. “I recommend you look into it. At least read those Facebook posts. We could have Heather log onto her page right here, and—”
Donnelly waved her off. “We’re not doing that. And it doesn’t matter. This business has Heather’s name written all over it.” He flourished the note. “Literally. I’d say it’s time we invited the author in to join us.” He motioned toward the office door. “Marge, would you bring Heather in here, please?”
“I still think—”
“Now please,” Donnelly snapped.
Marge set her jaw and walked out.
Jeremy’s throat went dry. He wanted to get this over with, too, maybe even more than Donnelly. Marge’s warnings disturbed him. But hadn’t Heather brought this on herself?
Marge returned with the girl, Heather’s expression steely.
Jeremy had never seen that look on Heather’s face before.
“Sit down, Heather,” the principal ordered. He handed her the note. “Is this your signature?”
Heather perused the page, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t write this.”
“Is that or is it not your handwriting?” the principal pressed.
“I didn’t write it, and I didn’t sign it,” Heather repeated, emphatic. “I’ve never even seen it before.”
A pretty tough customer, standing up to Donnelly like that. Jeremy felt a grudging admiration. Either Heather had become a world-class liar, or Marge was right. The more he considered it, the more unsettling the idea became.
“Heather, Mr. Barrett tells me you’ve been leaving him little gifts in class.” Jeremy winced at the principal’s mocking tone.
“True?” Donnelly thrust his face at Heather’s.
“No.” Heather hesitated. “Just the apology I wrote him.” She licked her lips. “About my paper. Nothing else.”
“Well, missy, I hear otherwise.”
Heather opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“Furthermore,” the principal said, “I’d say you chose a peculiar way to express remorse over that episode with your paper, young lady.” He gave Heather a withering look.
Hate to be in her shoes. Jeremy gripped the arms of his chair.
“Mr. Donnelly…” Marge interjected.
“Not now.”
Jeremy wiped a clammy hand across his forehead. This sucked. Should have kept Donnelly out of it.
“The last time you lied, we gave you a great deal of consideration, Heather,” Donnelly continued. “But now, I’m afraid you’ve used up your supply of good will and second chances.”
Heather looked down at the piece of paper in her hand. She crumpled it and tossed it to the floor. “I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s it!” Donnelly clapped once, a sharp sound like a gunshot report. “Heather, I am suspending you, immediately and until further notice, for repeated lying and disrespect. You go have a seat outside with Mrs. Marvin, while I phone your mother.”
Tight-lipped, Heather stood and walked out. Marge followed her.
Jeremy stood, eager to get out of there.
“Just a minute, Jeremy.”
Donnelly’s abrupt tone yanked him back into his chair.
“I don’t know what’s been going on in that classroom of yours.” The principal’s tone implied that Jeremy ran a brothel or crack house. “But there’s been more than enough trouble coming out of there for one semester.”
“Mr. Donnelly!” Jeremy protested. “That’s hardly my fault.”
“See that you get things under control,” he snapped. “Or there will be consequences. Understood?”
“I understand.” Jeremy hurried out of the office.
He understood the principal, all too well, but not the shenanigans going on in his classroom. He thought he’d solved the problem. Now he wondered whether all he’d accomplished was to drive the final nail into Heather’s coffin.
PART THREE
“No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.”
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
THIRTY FOUR
Marge accosted him in the corridor. Behind her glasses, her eyes flashed with excitement and her broad face wore a ruddy flush.
“My god, Jeremy, wasn’t that awful? Donnelly didn’t even give her a chance. I can’t believe he just blew off the cyber-bullying like that. Can you?”
In his distraught state, Jeremy found her outrage over the top. “Marge…”
“Jeremy.” She peered at him through her glasses. “What did Donnelly mean in there? About that being another one of Heather’s love notes?”
She’d caught that. Little point in concealing it, Jeremy decided. “A few weeks ago, I assigned them a paper on Gatsby. Heather’s included a personal mash note to me.”
Marge’s mouth formed an O. “What did you do?”
He described his response, Heather’s subsequent accusations, his suspension. A relief to get it off his chest.
“My god!” Marge’s face tightened with concern. “What an ordeal for you. Oh!” Her eyes widened with sudden comprehension. “That day I saw you rushing out of school so early…”
“Yeah.” Jeremy nodded. “Anyway, then she recanted and I came back.” A bitter chuckle. “And so did Heather. That’s when all this other stuff started—the candy, the fruit.” He winced. “And the rest of it.”
“I see.” Marge adjusted her glasses, which had slipped down the bridge of her nose. “Jeremy, who else knows about all this?”
He shrugged. “No one. I mean, my family and my lawyer. But nobody here at school except Donnelly.”
“None of the other girls?”
“I certainly didn’t tell them, Marge.”
“Did Heather?” she persisted.
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t know. Why would she?”
“Think about it, Jeremy. If one of the other girls set her up, she must have known about Heather’s accusations. Any idea who might have done it? Another girl in yo
ur AP class? Someone who saw Heather as a rival for your attention?”
“No. There’s nothing like that going on.” Yet Jeremy heard the warning bell sound, deep in his brain. Do you have a secret admirer, Mr. B? Besides me?
“I’m not going to drop this,” Marge said.
“But—what can you do?”
“Write up a report, send it to the district. Or Protective Services.”
Jeremy’s gut twisted. Not DCPP again. “Marge, don’t challenge Donnelly. You’ll be risking your job.” And mine.
But Marge looked stoked, a bull dog ready to spring. “Someone has to stand up for that poor kid.”
“But—”
“I’ve gotta go, Jeremy. Better get back to your class. Period’s almost over.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. There’d be no stopping her.
HEATHER SLOUCHED IN THE passenger seat of her mother’s car, leaning against the window. She stared out as if she were watching the passing scenery, when, in truth, she hardly noticed where they were. Mom had gone on and on, the whole way home from school. It gave Heather a headache.
“I don’t understand you. Are you trying to destroy all your chances to get into a good college?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Heather insisted.
“Your principal showed me the note with your signature on it.”
Heather replied through clenched teeth. “I didn’t write it.”
Mom clucked her tongue. “What in the world is that woman doing with you, for the money we pay her?”
Heather turned from the window and stared daggers at her mother’s profile. “Who? Dr. Goldman?”
“Whatever her name is.”
“She’s good.” Heather looked back out her window. “I like her.”
“And that teacher!” her mother fumed. “Are you covering up for him? I never trusted him. We should never have let you back in his class.”