You made one mistake. One mistake in seven freaking years.”
“A mistake,” I said. I choked out a strangled little laugh that sounded more like a cough. “I destroyed my career, and there’s no way to fix it. I can’t fix this, Matt. So I’ve got to start over. There are some good agencies in D.C. I can stay at my parents’ house for a while and commute into the city until I get everything sorted out.”
Matt shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think you should stay and fight. This is going to blow over in a month. Take a vacation, then come back and look for a job. You don’t have to move.”
I looked down at my lap and thought about it. Could Matt be right? I imagined going to work at a new agency, settling into a different office, greeting my colleagues and seeing them hold back smirks and whisper to each other—
No.
I couldn’t bear it.
Suddenly I was transported back to the ninth grade, to my first month of high school. I’d been delivering a note from my honors chemistry teacher to the principal, and I was taking a shortcut through a hallway where all the seniors had lockers. I still remember the metallic clang of those locker doors shutting, the scuffed orange-brown linoleum under my feet, the yeasty smell of old socks that permeated the air. I marched through the hallway wearing new Levi’s with creases down the front and a pink flowered shirt and the training bra I wouldn’t need for another six months, feeling proud my teacher had chosen me out of all the students in the class.
“Hey, who’s this?”
A guy spun away from his cluster of buddies and blocked my path. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and he looked kind of like James Dean, only with a meaner face.
I stared at him, my eyes begging him to let me pass.
“She can’t talk,” his friend said.
“Dumb, isn’t that what they call them?” the first guy said, leaning closer to me and snapping his fingers in my face. “Hey, dummy.”
“I can talk,” I said. “Please let me pass.”
“Please let me pass,” he mocked. “See, dummy, I can’t do that. This is the seniors’ hall. And you’re not a senior. You’re trespassing.”
“Citizen’s arrest!” one of his friends hooted.
“If you’ll just put your arms behind you, no one will get hurt, dummy,” he said.
“Use my belt as handcuffs,” another guys said, pulling it through the loops of his jeans, while his friends laughed and crowded closer to us.
My heart started to pound as my eyes darted around, searching for an escape. I felt like a trapped animal. Even though they were laughing, these guys weren’t just joking; the ringleader had a real cruelty in his narrowed eyes. By now a dozen people were encircling us, watching but not saying anything. Where were all the teachers? Why wasn’t someone helping me?
My lower lip started to tremble. God, don’t let me cry, I silently prayed. Somehow I knew that would only make things worse. Much worse.
“Arms behind you, please,” the James Dean guy said. “This is your last warning.”
“I’ve got a holding cell,” his friend said, opening his locker.
I’ve always been a little bit claustrophobic. I looked into that dark, coffinlike space and imagined myself crammed in there, yelling and screaming and crying. The bell was about to ring for the next class; the teachers would have their doors shut. No one would hear me. I’d be trapped. I wouldn’t be able to see or breathe or move.
“Please don’t,” I said, desperation making my voice soft.
The James Dean guy looked at me.
“She seems sorry,” he said to his friends. “Do you promise never to do it again?”
I nodded vigorously. My nose was running, and I wiped it with the back of my hand.
He looked at me and shook his head. “Nope, not good enough. Into the holding cell.”
His friends laughed as he reached out and grabbed me, andsuddenly I was fighting as hard as I could, flailing my arms and kicking out with my
“A mistake,” I said. I choked out a strangled little laugh that sounded more like a cough. “I destroyed my career, and there’s no way to fix it. I can’t fix this, Matt. So I’ve got to start over. There are some good agencies in D.C. I can stay at my parents’ house for a while and commute into the city until I get everything sorted out.”
Matt shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think you should stay and fight. This is going to blow over in a month. Take a vacation, then come back and look for a job. You don’t have to move.”
I looked down at my lap and thought about it. Could Matt be right? I imagined going to work at a new agency, settling into a different office, greeting my colleagues and seeing them hold back smirks and whisper to each other—
No.
I couldn’t bear it.
Suddenly I was transported back to the ninth grade, to my first month of high school. I’d been delivering a note from my honors chemistry teacher to the principal, and I was taking a shortcut through a hallway where all the seniors had lockers. I still remember the metallic clang of those locker doors shutting, the scuffed orange-brown linoleum under my feet, the yeasty smell of old socks that permeated the air. I marched through the hallway wearing new Levi’s with creases down the front and a pink flowered shirt and the training bra I wouldn’t need for another six months, feeling proud my teacher had chosen me out of all the students in the class.
“Hey, who’s this?”
A guy spun away from his cluster of buddies and blocked my path. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and he looked kind of like James Dean, only with a meaner face.
I stared at him, my eyes begging him to let me pass.
“She can’t talk,” his friend said.
“Dumb, isn’t that what they call them?” the first guy said, leaning closer to me and snapping his fingers in my face. “Hey, dummy.”
“I can talk,” I said. “Please let me pass.”
“Please let me pass,” he mocked. “See, dummy, I can’t do that. This is the seniors’ hall. And you’re not a senior. You’re trespassing.”
“Citizen’s arrest!” one of his friends hooted.
“If you’ll just put your arms behind you, no one will get hurt, dummy,” he said.
“Use my belt as handcuffs,” another guys said, pulling it through the loops of his jeans, while his friends laughed and crowded closer to us.
My heart started to pound as my eyes darted around, searching for an escape. I felt like a trapped animal. Even though they were laughing, these guys weren’t just joking; the ringleader had a real cruelty in his narrowed eyes. By now a dozen people were encircling us, watching but not saying anything. Where were all the teachers? Why wasn’t someone helping me?
My lower lip started to tremble. God, don’t let me cry, I silently prayed. Somehow I knew that would only make things worse. Much worse.
“Arms behind you, please,” the James Dean guy said. “This is your last warning.”
“I’ve got a holding cell,” his friend said, opening his locker.
I’ve always been a little bit claustrophobic. I looked into that dark, coffinlike space and imagined myself crammed in there, yelling and screaming and crying. The bell was about to ring for the next class; the teachers would have their doors shut. No one would hear me. I’d be trapped. I wouldn’t be able to see or breathe or move.
“Please don’t,” I said, desperation making my voice soft.
The James Dean guy looked at me.
“She seems sorry,” he said to his friends. “Do you promise never to do it again?”
I nodded vigorously. My nose was running, and I wiped it with the back of my hand.
He looked at me and shook his head. “Nope, not good enough. Into the holding cell.”
His friends laughed as he reached out and grabbed me, andsuddenly I was fighting as hard as I could, flailing my arms and kicking out with my
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