None of the Above(43)

Somehow, that seemed better. The ball was in my court, and I had no intention to ever send it back.

Ms. Diaz called the next day and left a message on our answering machine. I didn’t pick up, of course. She’d heard that I had missed a few days of school and wanted to know how long I thought I would be out. And could I or Mr. Lattimer please give her a call back within the next hour to discuss a few options?

What “options,” I wondered, as I deleted her message.

When I got back to bed I found a voice mail on my cell phone, also from Ms. Diaz. I was almost certain that if I checked my email I would see a message from her there, too, but I didn’t ever want to open that email account again.

When our doorbell rang at three o’clock, I hauled myself up from my bed and answered the door. It was—you guessed it—Ms. Diaz.

“Hello, Kristin,” she said. “Your father said that you were at home.” Her glasses fogged up when she came inside, and I felt guilty for making her wait in the cold for so long.

“Do you want something warm to drink?” I asked automatically.

She took in my pajamas and hair, and shook her head. “You look exhausted. Maybe I should be making you a cup of tea?”

I made a noncommittal sound and led her over to the living room. Standing up took too much energy, so I slouched onto the love seat.

Ms. Diaz moved slowly, but her eyes were sharp as she followed me, taking in our family pictures and the books on our shelves.

“So, you were in the neighborhood?” I finally asked.

“Oh, nothing that casual.” She smiled. “It’s just I noticed that you weren’t in school the past few days, and as you had surgery recently, we wanted to make sure that you hadn’t had any . . . complications that might require you to take a leave of absence.”

“No real complications,” I said. “I’m just not bouncing back as fast as I thought.”

“It’s a lot to go through,” Ms. Diaz said, and I could tell that she wasn’t just talking about the surgery. She clasped her hands and leaned forward. I stared at the ground.

“Kristin,” she said as I counted the flowers on our living room carpet. “One of your friends came to my office today and told me about some disturbing things that were posted on Facebook. He couldn’t show me the actual links, because it appears that they were taken down, but what he described sounded like cyberbullying.”

Fifteen. There were fifteen flowers on the border of the carpet.

“Kristin?” Ms. Diaz said softly. “Were you aware of anything questionable on Facebook? Do you know who may have done it?”

Interesting way to put it: “anything questionable.” I nodded wordlessly. I could feel my face turning red. I wondered who had told her. It was bad enough that all of my “friends” had seen, but teachers and counselors, too? At the thought, my stomach started to cramp, a dull twisting ache. It wasn’t my incisions, but something deeper.

“The administration is working on contacting the company to see if they have any archived images that they can trace. If the person who did that to you is in our school, we will make certain that they are punished appropriately.”

“No,” I blurted out. “Please don’t make a big deal out of all this. It was just a prank.” If they did a whole investigation, my dad would find out for sure.

“There’s a fine line between pranking and bullying,” Ms. Diaz said, her voice sharp. “The person who made that profile crossed it.”

I shrugged, and curled my legs into the fetal position. I laid my cheek against my flannel pajamas and closed my eyes, but even then all I could see was a photo of myself with naked boy parts pasted on.

“Kristin, I’m concerned about you.” Ms. Diaz’s voice was soft again. The kind of voice that brought tears to your eyes even when you thought that you’d cried them all out.

Ms. Diaz reached into her pocketbook and brought out a pack of tissues.

“I can’t go back to school again,” I said. “I can’t see those people again. My ‘friends.’” I made quotes in the air with my fingers.

Ms. Diaz sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “We do have a temporary home-instruction option,” she said. “It requires a doctor’s note, of course.”

She handed me a pamphlet, and I stared at her as if she’d just told me that she believed in immaculate conception. “You mean I don’t have to go back?”

“Not right away. Technically, there’s a six-week limit to home instruction. But that is flexible if your physician requests more time.”

I hiccupped, and the tears slowed down. I couldn’t believe it. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much.”

At that point Ms. Diaz got out of her seat and sat next to me. She put her hand over mine, and spoke softly but firmly. “Kristin, you do have to realize that this is a temporary solution until things . . . settle down.”

I barely heard her. All I could hear was that I wouldn’t have to go to school the next day. Or the day after that.

Ms. Diaz went on. “The one requirement you still need to meet, Kristin, is your community service project. You still need sixty more hours to graduate. I understand that you were working with Big Brothers Big Sisters?”

I froze in the middle of blowing my nose. Vee and I and a few other people had been working on a benefit race for the program. “I’ll have to switch to another project,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.