He kept his gaze on me, strong and penetrating, yet he didn’t utter a word as I made it to my seat in front of his. And he only sat down again once I did. I wanted to hold his stare for as long as I could, but it became too intimidating, so I dropped my eyes to my hands and attempted to control my breathing.
“Where’s your lunch?” He sounded nervous, his voice almost shaking.
“I don’t have one.” I lifted my head to look at him and then held my hand up, stopping him from commenting. “And before you call social services, claiming I’m being neglected, I don’t have one because I didn’t bring it. I forgot it at home,” I said, my rage returning by the second, quickly replacing any bit of sadness I had when walking in. Just the mention of what he’d done brought it all back and reminded me why I sat in his classroom during lunch period. It reminded my why I’d forgotten my food at home, in too much of a hurry to leave the house and give him a piece of my mind. Well, here it came, any second now.
His eyes held mine for a moment before he bent down to his side, the distinctive crinkling sound of a plastic bag filling the silent air around us. He placed something on his desk in front of me, remaining silent until I glanced down at it. “Eat this.”
It was half a sub from Subway, still wrapped in paper. “I’m okay.”
His hand covered mine as I attempted to push it away. “No. You need to eat something. This is your lunch period. I won’t be responsible for you going hungry. And I’m not going to call social services.”
I wanted to yell at him for the destruction he’d caused. I wanted to cry for feeling so weak and helpless. But I couldn’t do either of those things. All I could do was stare back at him, the muscles in my forehead going taut as I tried to express my emotions through my eyes. I wanted him to see the hurt and anger that filled me, threatening to drown me in it. I wanted him to experience the same turmoil that raced through me, destroying everything in its path. And I wanted him to know that it was all his fault.
“Please, Bree. We need to discuss what happened in class this morning, but we can’t do that if you don’t eat. And if we can’t talk about this now, then we’ll have to do it later. I don’t know about you, but I don’t really care to drag this out any longer. So please, eat the sandwich.” He held the food out to me. He may have used polite words, which on paper would’ve come across as concerned and sincere, yet his tone made it seem completely different. It came across as more of a demand than an offer out of concern.
Reluctantly, I snatched the rolled-up sandwich from his grip and began to open the wrapper. But then the intimidation of his tone wore off and the fury returned, causing me to slam the food on my desk. “No. You don’t get to make demands on me if it doesn’t have to do with your class. You don’t have the right to stick your nose into my business and control my life like a puppeteer. I understand that you’re an adult and I’m just a kid, but that doesn’t mean you know what’s better for me than I do.”
“Bree—”
“One of these days, you’re going to make a call—”
“Bree—”
“—that will cause someone—”
“Aubrey!” His loud voice accompanied by the slap of his hand on his desktop halted my angry rant. “There’s a better way to discuss this without raising our voices or getting mad.”
“Too late, Mr. Taylor. I’m already mad. You can’t ruin my life and then expect me to sit here and be calm about it. You can’t stick your nose into my business and then sit back while everything falls apart. You have to take responsibility for what you did.”
He took a deep breath, leaning forward in his chair with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes never left mine, except they turned warm, soft…concerned. “I was only trying to help.”
“But I told you, it was an accident. Guess what, Mr. Taylor? Kids get hurt. We run into things, we get bruises and scrapes. Doesn’t mean we’re abused at home. Has it really been that long since you were my age? Do you reach a certain point in life when you forget what it’s like to be a kid?”
“I know what you said. I also know what I saw. It’s not impossible to have that kind of injury from an accident, but coupled with your behavior, your explanation, and what I found in your records, I was led to believe that it wasn’t an accident. No, I haven’t forgotten about falling off a skateboard or getting slammed with a curveball during practice. I realize people get hurt, adults even. But I didn’t feel what happened to you was accidental. I still don’t.”
“What do you mean, what you found in my records? What records?”
He released a harsh huff of air and dropped his head, running his fingers through the thick mess of dirty blond hair. I got lost in his mesmerizing movements, keenly aware of every motion, until he lifted his head again and met my eyes. “Our school has a strict no-tolerance policy when it comes to abuse. It comes in handy when the decision has to be made to call the authorities. So every teacher must report suspicious injuries. I looked up your file after school on Tuesday, and you have some questionable ones in there. You were sent to the clinic last year for an untreated sprained wrist. Your mother had been contacted, but she’d claimed to not have any knowledge of how you were injured, yet you told the school that it was done at home.”
“So you took it upon yourself to accuse my mother of abusing me?”
“This is my first year teaching,” he said on a sigh. “I’ve done some assisting programs, and even took a few spots subbing before getting this position. This is the first time that I’ve been solely responsible for my students. Maybe I jumped the gun, not wanting to let it go. Maybe I came to my own conclusions too soon.”
“Ya think?” I interjected, needing to speak my mind before letting him finish what sounded like the beginnings of an apology, or at the very least, admission of wrong doing. “I told you what happened. I ran into my bedroom door.”
“And then after that, you said your mother opened it into your face. It was conflicting. It felt wrong. And just the way you said it…it left me to believe you were hiding something. If it were an accident, why act so nervous about it? I’ve already told you, Bree, I’m really good at reading people. You’re not a hard person to read.”
I slumped into my seat, feeling like I wouldn’t win this battle no matter how hard I fought. “I just don’t understand why you felt the need to meddle. Why you wouldn’t have tried harder to talk to me about it before jumping the gun and making a phone call.”
“That’s not the way it happened. I asked a colleague of mine, told him about what I’d found, what you looked like, what you said happened… I asked his advice on what to do because I didn’t want to jump the gun on it. I didn’t want to say something before having all the facts. He agreed with me that it didn’t sound right, and told me to go with my gut. So I called a friend with the police department and talked to him about it. I simply suggested that maybe he could look into things before we make any contact with your mother. I had no idea anything would happen yet. I thought he’d get back to me with what he found and then we’d go from there.”
“Well, you could’ve talked to me about it. And I would’ve let you know that nothing could be done. My mom works in the DA’s office. You think you’re the first person to check up on me? You think if my mom abused me, I would’ve made it this long without someone saying something—especially since you’ve mentioned this school has a zero-tolerance policy for abuse? Everyone in her office knows me as the clumsy kid. It helps her case that even as a young child, I always had scrapes and bruises from falling down or running into things. Which was the truth. I really did get hurt a lot all on my own when I was younger. She’s the best at spinning stories, probably from her time served as a defense attorney. She’s great at playing the part in front of others. And anyone that knows her—which includes the majority of the police department—thinks she’s this amazing person. I could’ve told you all this and saved your time and mine.”