“It’s not running away.”
“It is to me.”
“Is your uncle coming at least?”
“He can’t.”
“Why the hell not?” She was all alone in this, even though I was standing right next to her.
“It’s too early. I didn’t even tell him.”
“Too early? What is that about, anyway? Is he locked up in his crypt or something?”
“More like, or something.”
It wasn’t worth trying to talk about now. She was going to have enough to deal with in a few minutes.
We walked toward the building. It started to rain. I looked at her.
Believe me, I’m trying. If I let go, it would be a tornado.
People were staring, even pointing, not that I was surprised. So much for common decency. I looked around, half expecting to see Boo Radley sitting by the door, but tonight, he was nowhere in sight.
We entered the gym from the side, coincidentally—the Visitor’s entrance, Link’s idea, which turned out to be a good one. Because once we got inside, I realized people weren’t standing out front waiting to get in, they were just hoping to hear the meeting. Inside, it was standing room only.
It looked like a pathetic version of a grand jury hearing from an episode of one of those courtroom dramas on TV. There was a big plastic folding table in the front of the room, and a few teachers—Mr. Lee of course, sporting a red bow tie and his own backwoods brand of pre-judice; Principal Harper; and a couple of people who must have been members of the School Board—sitting in a row at the tables. They all looked old and annoyed, like they wished they could be at home watching QVC or religious programming.
The bleachers were filled with Gatlin’s finest. Mrs. Lincoln and her DAR lynch mob were taking up the first three rows, with the members of the Sisters of the Confederacy, the First Methodist Choir, and the Historical Society taking up the next few. Right behind them were the Jackson Angels—also known as, the girls who wanted to be Emily and Savannah, and the guys who wanted to get into Emily’s and Savannah’s pants—sporting their freshly screened Guardian tees. The front of the shirts had a picture of an angel that looked suspiciously like Emily Asher, with her huge white angel wings spread wide open, wearing what else—a Jackson High Wildcats T-shirt. On the back, there was simply a pair of white wings designed to look like they were sprouting right out of the person’s back, and the Angels’ battle cry, “We’ll Be Watching You.”
Emily was sitting next to Mrs. Asher, her leg and its huge cast propped up on one of the orange cafeteria chairs. Mrs. Lincoln narrowed her eyes when she saw us, and Mrs. Asher put her arm around Emily protectively, as if one of us might run over there and beat her with a club like a defenseless baby seal pup. I saw Emily slip her phone out of her tiny silver bag, text-ready. Soon, her fingers would be flying. Our school gym was probably the epicenter of local gossip for four counties tonight.
Amma was sitting a few rows back, fiddling with the charm around her neck. Hopefully, it would make Mrs. Lincoln grow the horns she’d been so artfully hiding all these years. Of course, my dad wasn’t there, but the Sisters were sitting next to Thelma, across the aisle from Amma. Things must have been worse than I thought. The Sisters hadn’t been out of the house this late since 1980, when Aunt Grace ate too much spicy Hoppin’ John and thought she was having a heart attack. Aunt Mercy caught my eye and waved her handkerchief.
I walked Lena to the seat in the front of the room obviously reserved for her. It was right in front of the firing squad, dead center.
It’s going to be okay.
Promise?
I could hear the rain pounding on the roof outside.
I promise this doesn’t matter. I promise these people are idiots. I promise nothing they say will ever change the way I feel about you.
I’ll take that as a no.
The rain beat down harder on the roof, not a good sign. I took her hand and pressed something into it. The little silver button from Lena’s vest, that I’d found in the Beater’s cracked upholstery, the night we met in the rain. It looked like a piece of junk, but I had carried it in my jeans pocket ever since.
Here. It’s sort of a good luck charm. At least it brought something good to me.
I could see how hard she was trying not to crack. Without a word, Lena took off her chain and added it to her own collection of valuable junk.
Thanks. If she could have smiled, she would have.
I made my way back toward the row where the Sisters and Amma were sitting. Aunt Grace stood up, resting on her cane. “Ethan, over here. We saved you a seat, darlin’.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Grace Statham,” an old blue-haired woman sitting behind the Sisters hissed.
Aunt Prue turned around. “Why don’t you mind your own business, Sadie Honeycutt, or I will mind it for you.”
Aunt Grace turned to Mrs. Honeycutt and smiled. “Now you come right on over here, Ethan.”
I squeezed in between Aunt Mercy and Aunt Grace. “How you holdin’ up, Sweet Meat?” Thelma smiled and pinched my arm.
Thunder crashed outside, and the lights flickered. A few old women gasped.
An uptight-looking guy sitting in the middle of the big folding table cleared his throat. “Just a little hiccup in the power is all. Why doesn’t everyone kindly take their seats so we can get started. My name is Bertrand Hollingsworth, and I’m Head a the School Board. This meeting’s been called to respond to the petition requestin’ the expulsion of a Jackson student, a Miss Lena Duchannes, is that right?”
Principal Harper addressed Mr. Hollingsworth from his seat at the table, the Prosecution, or more accurately, Mrs. Lincoln’s hangman. “Yes, sir. The petition was brought to my attention by several concerned parents, and it was signed by over two hundred a Gatlin’s most respected parents and citizens, and a number of Jackson students.” Of course it was.
“What are the grounds for expulsion?”
Mr. Harper flipped some pages on his yellow legal pad like he was reading a rap sheet. “Assault. Destruction a school property. And Miss Duchannes was already on probation.”
Assault? I didn’t assault anyone.
It’s just an accusation. They can’t prove anything.
I was on my feet before he even finished. “None of that’s true!”
Another jumpy-looking guy at the other end of the table raised his voice to be heard over the rain, and the twenty or thirty old women whispering about my bad manners. “Young man, have a seat. This is not a free-for-all.”
Mr. Hollingsworth pressed on over the din. “Do we have any witnesses to substantiate these accusations?” Now there were more than a few people whispering to each other to see if anyone knew what “substantiate” meant.
Principal Harper cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes. And recently, I received information that indicates Miss Duchannes had similar problems at the school she previously attended.”
What is he talking about? How do they know anything about my old school?
I don’t know. What happened at your old school?
Nothing.
A woman from the School Board flipped through some papers in front of her. “I think we’d like to hear from Jackson’s Parent Partnership President, Mrs. Lincoln, first.”
Link’s mom stood up dramatically and walked down the aisle toward the Gatlin Grand Jury. She had seen a few courtroom dramas on TV, herself. “Good evenin’, ladies and gentle-men.”
“Mrs. Lincoln, can you tell us what you know about this situation, since you are one of the original petitioners?”
“Of course. Miss Ravenwood, I mean, Miss Duchannes, moved here several months ago, and since then there have been all sorts a problems at Jackson. First, she broke a window in the English class—”
“That came close to cuttin’ my baby to shreds,” Mrs. Snow called out.
“It came close to seriously injurin’ several children, and many a them suffered cuts from the broken glass.”
“No one except Lena was injured and that was an accident!” Link yelled from where he was standing in the back of the room.
“Wesley Jefferson Lincoln, you better go home right now if you know what’s good for you!” Mrs. Lincoln hissed.
She regained her composure, smoothing her skirt, and turned to face the Disciplinary Committee. “Miss Duchannes’ charms seem to work quite well on the weaker sex,” Mrs. Lincoln said with a smile. “As I was sayin’, she broke a window in the English classroom, which frightened the students so much that a number of civically minded young ladies took it upon themselves to form the Jackson Guardian Angels—a group whose sole purpose is to protect the students at Jackson. Like a Neighborhood Watch.”
The Fallen Angels nodded in unison from their seats on the bleachers like someone was pulling invisible strings attached to their heads, which, in a way, someone was.
Mr. Hollingsworth was scribbling on a yellow legal pad. “Was this the only incident involvin’ Miss Duchannes?”
Mrs. Lincoln tried to look shocked. “Heavens, no! At the winter formal, she pulled the fire alarm, ruinin’ the dance and destroyin’ four thousand dollars worth a audio equipment. As if that weren’t enough, she pushed Miss Asher off a the stage, causin’ her to break her leg, which I’ve been told, on good authority, will take months to heal.”
Lena stared straight ahead, refusing to look at anyone.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln.” Link’s mom turned and smiled at Lena. Not a genuine smile or even a sarcastic smile, but an I’m-going-to-ruin-your-life-and-enjoy-doing-it smile.
Mrs. Lincoln walked back to her seat. Then she stopped and looked right at Lena. “I almost forgot. There is one last thing.” She pulled some loose papers from her purse. “I have records from Miss Duchannes’ previous school in Virginia. Although it might be more accurate to call it an institution.”
I wasn’t in an institution. It was a private school.
“As Principal Harper mentioned, this is not the first time Miss Duchannes has had violent episodes.”
Lena’s voice in my head was bordering on hysterical. I tried to reassure her.
Don’t worry.
But I was worried. Mrs. Lincoln wouldn’t be saying this here if she couldn’t prove it somehow.
“Miss Duchannes is a very disturbed girl. She suffers from a mental illness. Let me see…” Mrs. Lincoln ran her finger down the page as if she was looking for something. I waited to hear the diagnosis for the mental illness Mrs. Lincoln thought Lena suffered from—the state of being different. “Ah, yes, here it is. It appears Miss Duchannes suffers from bipolar disorder, which Doctor Asher can tell you is a very serious mental condition. These people who suffer from this affliction are prone to violence and unpredictable behavior. These things run in families; her mother was afflicted as well.”
This can’t be happening.
The rain hammered down on the roof. The wind picked up, lashing the door of the gym.
“In fact, her mother murdered her father fourteen years ago.” The entire room gasped.