The Exact Opposite of Okay(62)

His office is impossibly neat and orderly, and he never has the radiator turned on, so I can practically see my breath. It’s like a morgue.

I sit in front of his desk, refusing to be sheepish or remorseful, because I’m not. “But I didn’t burn her. The soup was cold.”

“You didn’t know that.”

I match his calm, measured tone. “I did. I’d been eating it a mere thirty seconds earlier.”

There’s a silent standoff in which all we can hear is the buzzing of the strip lighting and the vague sound of the road outside.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, but I can tell by his voice there’s no right answer. He’s just trying to vilify me even more; to prove that I’m some uncontrollable monster.

“Because they were disrespecting my best friend.” On the chair next to me is Betty’s scarf. She must’ve left it here earlier. Nothing but a coincidence of course, but it gives me strength. It feels like she’s here with me. I pick it up and wrap it around my neck, inhaling her scent – whiskey and cocoa.

An awful sneer. “Oh. I’m surprised you’re familiar with the concept of respect.”

My anger flares again, but I do everything in my power not to erupt. To prove I’m capable of self-control. “They’re bullies.”

He leans back in his chair, robotically, not breaking eye contact. “Just because someone acts in a way you don’t agree with, doesn’t mean you have the right to punish them for it.”

I scoff. “See, that’s what I’m having a little trouble wrapping my head around, Mr Schumer. Because a few weeks ago I too acted in a way some people didn’t agree with. And ever since that moment the world has done nothing but punish me.”

Again, our headteacher says nothing. But I don’t miss it when his traitorous eyes drop to my chest, even though it’s only for a split second.

He’s seen the photo too. Of course he has.

I jut my chin out defiantly. Before I can talk myself out of it, I add, “And since it’s such an important subject to you, maybe you want to have a word with your faculty about respect. A certain math teacher can’t keep his eyes off me. Especially when he keeps me behind after class just to make inappropriate comments.” His eyes narrow. The light catches on his expensive watch and flashes in my face, but I don’t flinch. I power through. “Don’t you want to know which teacher I’m accusing of sexual harassment, Mr Schumer? Or should I just go straight to the school board with my complaints? I don’t mind either way.”

Sneering disparagingly, he replies, “You can try. But after your antics I’m not sure there’s a single board member who would take your allegations seriously. Miss O’Neill, it doesn’t escape my attention that all this is a little convenient. You’re remembering these inappropriate incidents just now, when you’re facing disciplinary action? Falsely accusing my staff of harassment will not get you off the hook.”

My blood spikes red hot, and I fight the urge to clamber over the desk and tear his face off.

“I should suspend you immediately. But I won’t.”

I snort. “Let me guess. Because I’m a tragic orphan?”

“Something like that.”

We stare each other down for a few more minutes. That doesn’t sound like much, but there are certain times in your life when you realize just how long a minute is, such as when waiting for another driver to let you slip into their lane during a traffic jam, or when waiting for a microwave meal to cook. This is one of those times.

I feel like he’s waiting for me to apologize, but I won’t do it.

Eventually he says, “You may go. But if this happens again I won’t be so lenient. Your behavior has already attracted a wealth of unwanted attention to our school, Miss O’Neill, and by continuing to act up you’re only making it worse for yourself. I know you’ve had a troubled upbringing, but there’s only so much understanding we can give before we have to take action.”

Now I feel like he wants me to thank him for letting me off the hook, but again, I won’t do it.

I walk out without a word.


4.47 p.m.

Desperate to have my faith in the world restored, I stop by Mrs Crannon’s office after final bell. Instead of candy wrappers, she’s surrounded by balled-up tissues and a tube of menthol oil, and her nose is redder than a baboon’s behind. Bless her.

And yet, at the sight of my weary expression, she’s the one offering me sympathy. “Oh, Izzy. You poor thing. How are you doing?”

My skin crawls. The idea that this lovely, warm and kind woman has seen my vagina is so sickening, so gut-wrenching, that I can barely breathe. But I’m getting used to having the wind knocked out of my lungs, and I try to push past it.

Swallowing hard, I perch on a desk instead of condemning myself to several minutes of torture-chair hell. “I’m okay, I guess. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to it all, you know? Should I be fighting back? Or lying low for the time being?”

She blows her nose like a trumpet, mumbling against the tissue. “Well, I think only you can answer that. There’s no right answer. Just do what feels most comfortable, and know that you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. Those of us who truly care about you know that too, and don’t look at you any differently.”