The Most Dangerous Place on Earth(22)

“Quite serious,” Ms. Norton said. “Abigail, I’m afraid there’s something we need to address.”

Abigail tried to focus on Ms. Norton’s face—she was usually excellent with administrators, appearing quietly respectful yet alert.

Ms. Norton pulled a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. After a second’s hesitation she laid it face-up on the desk. “Will you tell me what you know about this?”

Abigail caught her breath. It was a printout of the Photoshop picture Nick Brickston had posted on Instagram—Mr. Ellison as the naked David, herself as the girl with her hand on his crotch. “Where did you get that?” she asked. The account was supposed to be private.

“I know this is difficult,” Ms. Norton said. “You are such an excellent student, mature, clearheaded. Before proceeding with anything, well, public, I wanted to hear it from you. I feel we can speak as adults, Abby. I believe you will be truthful with me.”

As Ms. Norton spoke, she looked so distraught that Abigail did feel like the adult in the room—as if it were her job to protect Ms. Norton from the world’s harsh truths and not the other way around. “Sure,” she said.

“What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ellison?”

Abigail stared back into Ms. Norton’s eyes. But her mind went elsewhere, parsing the question the way she’d learned to parse reading comprehension questions on the SAT. The key word was “nature,” meaning character, type, temper, or the vast force that regulated everything in the physical world. That was it—a vast force had caught Abigail and Mr. Ellison, controlled them from the start.

Ms. Norton sighed. “Look, I shouldn’t tell you this. But I feel you need to know.”

“What?”

“Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time we’ve heard these kinds of rumors about Mr. Ellison. Nothing definitive, nothing has ever been proven. But if you are keeping secrets, if you are trying to protect him…” Her words hung in the air, and Abigail tried to make sense of them. Nothing had been proven? What had been alleged?

The office door opened and Abigail’s mother rushed into the room, her Ferragamo heels clicking furiously over the linoleum. She wore a sleek black suit and a Bluetooth headset that latched like an insect to the side of her face.

“You’re still not hearing me,” she said. “How many times do I have to go over this with you? Is it possible for a human animal to be more clear?” Then she clicked off the headset and tucked herself into the chair next to Abigail’s, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, “Principal Norton. Please, tell me everything I’ve missed.” As she adjusted her hair, Ms. Norton slid Nick Brickston’s picture back into the drawer.

Abigail’s father entered next. He wore his usual charcoal suit with a starched dress shirt and the Burberry tie Abigail had bought him for his birthday last June. With one thumb he texted into an iPhone that gleamed darkly in his palm.

“Sorry I’m late, jam-packed day,” he said. He took the chair on the other side of Abigail, patted her knee. “So what are we doing here? That secretary wouldn’t tell me anything.” He pressed a button on his iPhone and laid it ceremoniously on the desk.

Abigail focused straight ahead, on Ms. Norton, who leaned forward in her chair as if to confide a secret. Nothing definitive. Not the first time.

“We are prepared to launch a full-scale investigation,” she said. “But I wanted to hear from Abigail first. To discern what is fact and what is fiction.”

Abigail’s parents turned and stared at Abigail like she was one of those picture puzzles at the Exploratorium, narrowing their eyes to see the hidden shape within.

“Investigate what?” her dad asked.

Ms. Norton stared at Abigail as if trying to unpeel her. “Has Mr. Ellison crossed the line with you, Abigail? You really must be truthful with us. Has he taken advantage?”

Abigail gripped the sides of her chair. She didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter because in that instant her parents accosted her from both sides.

“What does she mean, honey?”

“Which one is Mr. Ellison?”

“Abby-girl, what is she talking about? Did somebody hurt you?” Her father’s voice lowered and gentled. His small gray eyes mirrored her own and she wanted to say yes. She wanted to fold herself into his lap as she had not done since she was six and feel the power of his arms and his money and his ability to sue. She wanted to cry like a baby and tell him, Yes, it was all his fault. That horrible man. That teacher. And please hold me and love me and remember that I was your girl first.

Instead she lied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ms. Norton cocked her head. “Abigail, are you sure?”

Her father’s phone buzzed and shuddered on the desk and he made no move to answer it.

“Mr. Ellison is my teacher. That’s it,” Abigail said. “Plus he’s, like, super old. You actually think I would do something with him? I mean, talk about gross.” As she spoke, she hated herself for how the words sounded—the ditzy singsong of the syllables. She was thankful Mr. Ellison wasn’t there to hear it.

Abigail’s father exhaled. He reached over and squeezed her palm, a gesture meant probably to reassure her but which seemed to reassure himself: Abigail was the same predictable, reasonable daughter he’d always known. She was still a girl, not a woman, judgment sound and body undiscovered, whose desires—a collection of objects, pretty things—were easily paid for and contained. He wouldn’t have to think of her in any other way.