The Weight of Blood (6)

Maddy peered up through her frizzy strands, scanning the office. Everyone was staring, from the assistant principal to the secretary, not even pretending to work. She blinked down at her lap and shook her head.

Mrs. Morgan narrowed her eyes at the gawkers, then glared at him. “Nice work,” she muttered.

Mr. O’Donnell straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “Madison, why don’t you go home for the rest of the day?” he offered. “I’m sure this was all very . . . traumatizing. We’ll call your father and let him know you’ve been excused.”

Maddy’s eyes flared at the mention of her father, her jittery hand coming to a stop. “No,” she gasped. “You . . . you don’t . . .”

“It’s school policy to inform parents or guardians of an incident that requires a student to go home for the day.”

Maddy’s mouth hung open but nothing came out. The bench beneath her began to shake, sending a jolt through Mrs. Morgan.

Hm? Aftershocks? she wondered, glancing around the room. But no one else seemed to notice.

“Do you need, um, a ride or someone to pick you up?” Mr. O’Donnell asked. “We can have your father come and—”

At that very moment, the office printer in the corner roared to life, spitting out dozens of ink-blot pages, every tray click-clacking.

“Would someone handle that?” Mr. O’Donnell yelled, turning back to Maddy.

Maddy stared at the machine for a moment before shaking her head, hair shifting.

Mr. O’Donnell wouldn’t know compassion if it bit him in the ass, Mrs. Morgan thought bitterly, and placed a hand on Maddy’s shoulder again.

“Maddy, I’m so sorry this happened. What those kids did was cruel, and you didn’t deserve it. I know this must have been very upsetting, so I want you to know you can talk to me about . . . anything. I’m here. Okay?”

Maddy pulled her sweater closed, silence her only reply.

“Okay, Maddy, you can go.”

Maddy grabbed her bag, leaping to her feet. She tripped twice, fumbling through the office door. They watched her walk, triple-time, down the hall, her hair a disastrous heap.

She couldn’t possibly be white with hair like that, Mrs. Morgan thought, and immediately chastised herself.

Mr. O’Donnell sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Come with me,” he said. “Henrietta, pull Madison Washington’s file, will you? Also call the nurse’s office, tell them to bring their file here too.”

“Right away,” the secretary said.

“What are you thinking?” Mrs. Morgan asked, following him back into his office.

He pulled his emergency chocolate Twizzlers stash out of a bottom drawer, offering her one. “I’m thinking we missed something.”

She grabbed a string, flopping into the adjacent chair. “Could she be adopted?”

“No. She has her father’s eyes.”

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“He was in the same class as my older sister,” he admitted sheepishly. “The Washingtons were . . . sorta known around here.”

Henrietta appeared with the file. She must have already looked it up herself, which made Mrs. Morgan furious at the idea of one of her students’ privacy being invaded. First by the kids, then by the adults. She slammed the door at Henrietta’s back as Mr. O’Donnell scanned the file.

“Says here she’s white,” he mumbled.

“Which is technically true,” Mrs. Morgan countered. “If you say he’s her father.”

Mr. O’Donnell’s lips wiggled, words heavy on his tongue.

“Whatever thought you’re having, you should think better of it,” she warned.

He sighed, completely spent, and it wasn’t even third period. “There were rumors,” he began. “Rumors of him being with a Black woman. Long time ago. But no one took them seriously, especially with a mother like his. Thorny old woman up until the day she died. Or so I heard. Used to spit at kids over at Sal’s.”

“Last time I checked, children weren’t delivered via stork anymore. Where’s her mother?”

“Died in childbirth. Or so he says.”

“So no one ever saw her?”

“The details were . . . murky.”

“Who else knows?”

He scoffed. “By now, the whole town.”

Mrs. Morgan winced, glancing back into the waiting room, the framed photos on the walls now all hanging crooked.

“What about the students? The ones who bullied her. How do you suggest we deal with them?”

“Did you see who threw the pencils?”

She flushed. “Well, no.”

He shook his head.

“Unless you saw someone specifically, we can’t punish the whole class for one student’s mistake.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” she snapped. “And the whole class was laughing. At the very least, they could benefit from some racial sensitivity programming.”

“Fine. But I think we should dismiss her from the class for the rest of the year. Given the . . . hostile environment. We can move her to study hall.”

She gave a curt nod. “Agreed.”

“Anything else?”

She nodded toward the door.