By Daneryl Weber

“I think you know why I called you here today, Emily.” 

Emily focused on the gold lettering of the plaque on the desk, trying not to squirm. Dr. G. Ronald Darling, Headmaster, Crucifix Christian Boarding School. The school her parents had sent her to because they wanted to keep her safe. 

Keep her pure, Emily amended.  

She squinted at the gold letters until they went out of focus. Whatever. Dr. D. was so not darling. 

“Emily?”

She glanced up, shaking her head. 

Dr. Darling cleared his throat. “This is going to be awkward. So I’ll just be frank. Have you…are you in trouble?”

Trouble? The word buzzed in the pit of her stomach. He couldn’t know what she had done. Of course not. 

“Nope. No trouble at all.” She tried for a bright smile. 

He was watching her steadily behind the thick lenses of his glasses. 

“Something has come to my attention…” He paused. “Has anything happened lately that, well, should not have? Anything that has made you…upset? Unhappy?”

Emily’s stomach churned, as it was doing a lot lately, a queasy boat on an uneasy sea. How could he know? 

She hadn’t told anyone. Not a soul. 

But what if Ritchie had? 

Oh, God. Her breath froze in her throat. If Ritchie had talked—if Ritchie—

Her fingers closed around the strap of her backpack. 

“No, really, everything’s fine.” 

In her mind, the door to the office slammed behind her as she ran out across the commons toward freedom, far from Hennessey Hall and, beyond that, the gym, where she had let Ritchie—

“Can I go now, Dr. Darling?” She was on her feet. “I have a lot of homework.”

“Sit down, Emily.” 

She sat back down slowly, perching herself on the edge of the chair. Poised for flight.

“There’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell.” 

He sighed. “Emily, I want you to trust me.” 

She’d rather die. Preferably within the next ten minutes, and certainly before study hall, when she’d have to face them all. 

Dr. Darling started one of his boring lectures, his voice floating in and out. “…because if you have made, let’s say, some unwise choices…”

How many of them knew? Caitlin? Sue, who’d asked her yesterday what was wrong?

“…have to take steps to rectify the situation…”

What was he going to do, call her up in front of the whole school? 

The thought brought a series of pictures to her mind, like turning over the cards of a rummy hand one by one, only instead of hearts and spades, the suits were fears and terrors and shame. Queen of fears: Kelsey in the front row, laughing at her. Kelsey, who was two years older, already sixteen, and who had lied to her, told her it would feel good, that it wouldn’t hurt, that she wouldn’t regret it. Jack of shame: sitting next to Kelsey, a sneering Jeff Chandler, who had been really, really nice to Judi Finch and then called her a slut behind her back. 

King of fears: Ritchie, who’d barely said hi to Emily since. 

“…in which case, of course, your parents will have to be notified…”

Parents? Ace of terrors. Ace of terrors. Her fingers clenched the rough folds of the backpack in her lap. 

“Dr. Darling?” She hated her voice, thin and too high and stupid. Hated everything, hated them all. “I don’t know who’s been spreading rumors about me, but I don’t think you should listen to them. Nothing happened. It’s a lie.” 

“What’s a lie, Emily?”

“That I—that anything. Anything they’re saying about me.” 

In the long silence that followed, he pulled off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Then he reset the glasses, blinking at her with magnified round eyes. 

“So can I go?” She was standing again. 

“Emily—”

“Please? I really have to go.” 

He gave a long sigh, then waved a hand, dismissing her. “Remember, I’m here if you need to talk. I’m not going to judge you, I just want to help.” 

She was ten steps past the stone bench that marked the halfway point to the girls’ dorm, her head still buzzing, heat crawling across her skin, when the full meaning of what he’d been trying to say hit her. 

Are you in trouble?

Her legs buckled under her neatly, like the folding of an ironing board.