I’ve never been inside the principal’s office. I’ve come to the main office before to hand in notes from my parents, their attempts at excusing my lateness or informing the school why I missed the previous day for a cold or an appointment or something.
But I’ve never had to pass the front desk; I’ve never had to go inside to see Principal Waters, to sit in the dark leather chairs across from his desk—across from him.
I wonder where Hannah sat. There are only the two extra chairs, which means one of her parents had to stand. Or maybe Hannah stood.
Mom pulls her chair closer to mine and sits.
Principal Waters sits. He takes a deep, silencing breath.
“Clarity, would you please tell us why we are here?” he asks.
“Youcan tell us. I don’t see why you would call me on my way toworkifyoudidn’t have a reason,” Mom says before I can say anything.
Principal Waters sits up and clears his throat, the way some people do when they think they’re going to take control of a situation.
“Well, Mrs. Jones, it has come to my attention that your daughter and another student seem to be in a romantic relationship. I usually am not privy to these kinds of things, but today their relationship was brought to my and perhaps the entire school’s attention when highly inappropriate pornographic images were plastered on their lockers.”
He pauses, shifting his gaze from my mom to me, and back to my mom. The pause continues, the air turning stale and awkward while he waits for her to say something. I want to steal a glance at Mom next to me, but I get thatdon’t poke the bearfeeling and try to keep my eyes focused on anything else.
Her leather seat yawns as she sits back, silent.
“It’s distracting,” he adds, talking fast like his own voice is getting impatient. “This kind of behavior—”
“Behavior that—just so we’re clear—is a reflection of the character ofanotherone ofyourstudents, someone whois notin this room and was not in the office—at least not when I arrived.”
“Well, yes—”
“Principal, correct me if I’m wrong, butmydaughter didn’t put the picture on her own locker, and I’ve met Hannah—I’m assuming she’s involved since she was just here—and I highlydoubtsheput the pictures up. So that meansweare all here because you’re upset about something someotherstudent—who isnotbeing reprimanded—did tomydaughter and her friend.”
“Mrs. Jones, I—”
“No, what’sdistracting—to put your own word to proper use here—is a school that would jump to discriminate against queer students, that allows bullies to tape porn to walls without consequence.”
I think Principal Waters shrinks two sizes. At least, that’s what happens to me when Mom gives methe look—the one where her eyes are wide so the whites shimmer with anger, and her mouth sets in a line when she’s done talking in her condescending, cruel tone.
I look away, realizing she could turn that look on me at any second if she chooses to. I mean, she still might. I know right now she’s just defending me. She’s not the kind of person who lets someone twist the truth, especially when it comes to her kid. The stuff about discrimination just proves her point—but it’s not the same as being okay with me being gay.
“I wasn’t suggesting that your daughter was the problem.”
“That’s exactly what you were doing. I’m not stupid,” she snaps, her energy electrifying the room. “You were about to call her relationship a distraction. Howdareyou.”
At a loss for words, Principal Waters pretends to adjust his tie. He opens his mouth, and I catch Mom leaning forward, almost like she’s about to buck at him. He flinches, closing his mouth.
“Now I see why they pulled that poor girl out of school for the rest of the day,” she says, standing up. I stand up with her. “You better get your priorities straight before I hire an attorney to do it for you. And if Ieverhear that my daughter was bullied on your watch again, you best expect we will all be right back here.”
She turns for the door, her back to Principal Waters, cutting him off from saying anything more. She holds the door for me, pointedly looking in the direction of the office outside instead of even risking catching a peripheral of Principal Waters, now standing behind his desk. I duck out, doing as I’m told when Mom tells me to get what I need from my locker and that she’ll make sure we’re good to leave before I meet her back here.
I move quickly through the now-empty halls. First period is in full swing, leaving me to echo my way back to the scene of the crime. I fight back tears, pushing against the overwhelming desire to crumple on the floor right here, against the fear of what comes next.
She knows.
I can spin this, though. My mom would believe me over Principal Waters, believe my version of the story. It’s a joke. Someone played a joke on us, the committee presidents. I could say that the members often referred to us as moms, co-parents to our club of pretend children. It’s one disastrous, inappropriate joke.
I rehearse over and over what to say, talking to myself as I follow a diligent and responsible car length behind Mom the whole way home. I pull into the driveway behind her. She parks.I park. I wait, noting how she gets out of her car without her work bag or her purse.
Instead, she comes to my car and sits down in the passenger seat, the door closing us in a suffocating, deafening box.
“I’m gay.”