All the Little Lights(109)

“He’s the lucky one.” Elliott sniffed. “I pulled most of my punches.”

Mrs. Mason arched an eyebrow.

“What did he say to you, Elliott?” I asked. “For you to beat him like that?” I needed there to be a reason. A good one. I needed to hear him say that he’d been provoked, and everything around us wasn’t breaking him, too. Elliott was my anchor to normal, and without that, I was afraid I’d blow away to the same place Mama had lived since Dad died.

He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It kind of does,” Mrs. Mason said. She planted her foot on her chair, her knee between her chest and the edge of the table. It was planned, like everything else she did, to make her seem more approachable.

“He said . . .” He took a deep breath, and then the words spewed from his mouth. “He called me a gut-eater, and then he said Catherine was a whore, and probably pregnant with my papoose.”

Mrs. Mason’s mouth hung open.

Elliott tried to look me in the eyes but failed. “Sorry.”

“You’re sorry? After what he called you?” I opened my mouth to say more but couldn’t. I covered my eyes with my hand instead. “Elliott.” My bottom lip trembled. It wasn’t fair that he was a target at all, but for someone to say something that disgusting because it seemed like the easiest way to hurt him—Elliott, the kindest person I knew—it made me feel sick to my stomach.

“I have no words, Elliott, except that I’m so sorry that happened to you, and I’m going to make sure nothing like that is uttered in our school again,” Mrs. Mason said.

“I can’t believe Owen said something so horrible. I can’t believe he—”

“Ask anyone in that classroom, because he yelled it,” Elliott said.

“I didn’t mean that I don’t believe you,” I said. “I believe you. It’s just that, of all the people I know, Owen’s the last person I would think was capable of saying something like that to another human being.”

Mrs. Mason narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be asking Coach Peckham why he didn’t reveal that part.”

Elliott closed his eyes. “There’s more.”

“More?” I said.

“I need to tell you everything. Minka is in that class.”

“Oh no,” I said.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Elliott finally confessed. “She accused me of doing something to Presley. She asked me in front of everyone if I raped her. She said I probably threw her body in a ditch in White Eagle. So I—I told her to shut up, or she was going to end up missing next.”

I covered my mouth as Mrs. Mason gasped.

“I know!” Elliott said, standing. Shame darkened his face. “I know it was stupid. I didn’t mean it. But after weeks of that crap, I’d finally just had enough!”

“Now is a good time to tell me in detail exactly what’s been going on,” Mrs. Mason said.

I stood next to Elliott, prepared to defend him no matter what, the way he had done for me. “The accusations. The racial slurs. They’ve been shoving him in the halls. Throwing things at him,” I said, watching Elliott get angrier after every disclosure. “But what you said, Elliott, it sounds like an admission of guilt. That’s why Owen yelled at you. He worships Minka, and you threatened her.”

“In front of an entire classroom. This isn’t good,” Mrs. Mason said.

“It just came out.” Elliott groaned. He laced his fingers together on top of his head, pacing.

“Why didn’t either of you come to me earlier? By the time Catherine told me what was going on, it was too late,” Mrs. Mason said.

“I thought I could handle it,” Elliott said. “I thought once they found Presley or couldn’t prove it was me, they’d let it go. But it’s gotten worse.”

Someone knocked on the door, and we froze.

“Stay calm,” she said, standing and walking to the door. When she opened it, she immediately crossed her arms over her middle and took a step back. “Milo.”

Mr. Mason stepped in, taking one look at Elliott and then turning to his wife. “What is he doing here?” he whispered, his lips barely moving.

“He came to see Catherine. She’ll be staying here awhile.”

“Are you insane?” Mr. Mason said. He tried to keep his voice low but failed.

“We can hear you,” Elliott said.

Mr. Mason continued, “The Brubakers went to the hospital after the Youngbloods left. They’re trying to talk Owen’s parents into pressing charges. If they do, they’ll be looking for Elliott.”

“Who will be looking for Elliott?” Mrs. Mason asked.

I stood, taking Elliott’s hand in mine. He squeezed, his palm damp. He was scared, too.

Mr. Mason looked at us, sympathy weighing down his face. “The police. They’ll take this opportunity to question him further on Presley’s disappearance. They have no other leads. They’re going after him, and then”—he looked to me—“they might come after Catherine.”

“No,” Elliott said, stepping in front of me as if Mr. Mason was there to take me. His fingers dug into mine. “We didn’t do anything! How many times do we have to say it?”