Annie On My Mind (20 page)

“Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer have both been at the school for fifteen years, am I right?” asked the red-haired woman.

“Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer,” said Mrs. Poindexter, “especially Ms. Stevenson, have become increasingly permissive as the years have passed.

In fact, Ms. Stevenson …”

“Please,” said Mr. Turner, “we are not discussing the teachers now.” Then he turned to me, and I guess the twitch at the corners of his mouth was his attempt at a reassuring smile. “Eliza,” he said—and I felt my stomach almost drop out.

“Unconquerable soul,” I tried to say to myself; “bloody but unbowed,” and I touched Annie’s ring again and took a deep breath to make myself calmer—but none of it really helped. “Liza, rather. Thank you for coming. I know this is going to be difficult for you, and quite possibly embarrassing. I have to tell you, however, that we would prefer that you speak instead of your parents—of course they may assist you—and if at any time the three of you feel you cannot proceed without counsel, we will adjourn until you can obtain same.” I was a little confused, mostly because of being so nervous, and I guess Dad must have sensed it because he moved his chair next to mine and said, “May I explain to my daughter, sir, that what you mean is that if she wants a lawyer, or we do, the hearing can be stopped until we get one?”

Mr. Turner did smile then, and said, “Certainly, Mr. Winthrop, and I thank you for doing so with such economy. I shall try to use—er—plainer language.”

Of course then I felt like a dummy, which didn’t help at all. “Liza,” said the red-haired woman, “mostly we’d just like your version of what happened when Ms. Baxter knocked at the door. Can you tell us?” I didn’t know what to say at first, so I licked my lips and cleared my throat and did all the things people do when they’re stalling for time. I didn’t want to lie any more, but I didn’t want to tell them everything either.

But finally I realized she hadn’t asked me about what had happened before Ms. Baxter arrived, so I relaxed a little. I told them that it had been more or less the way Ms. Baxter had said, except that she’d started to go upstairs before she’d seen Annie and that I didn’t think I had “forcibly prevented” her from doing that, although I had tried to stop her. But the more I talked the more I realized it was obvious that I was leaving a lot out—and I also felt more and more that whatever I said wasn’t going to make much difference anyway. It was what we were that Mrs. Poindexter and Ms. Baxter were against, as much as what we’d done. As soon as I realized that, I thought it was all over.

“Liza,” Mr. Turner said delicately, “Ms. Baxter mentioned that you seemed —er—not quite dressed. Is that so?”

“Well,” I began; I could feel my face getting red. “Yes, sort of. But …”

“What were you wearing, hon?” the red-haired woman asked.

“A shirt and jeans,” I said.

“As Ms. Baxter pointed out,” said Mrs. Poindexter, “that was obviously all she was wearing.”

“Mrs. Poindexter,” said Mr. Turner angrily, “this young woman let Ms. Baxter speak without interruption. I think the least all of us can do is extend her the same courtesy.” Mrs. Poindexter grunted. But unfortunately she’d made her point, and I could see the pencils scribbling.

“And your friend?” asked the red-haired woman. “What was she wearing?”

“A—a lumber jacket,” I stammered.

“Is that all?” asked the man in corduroy. He sounded surprised. I felt my throat tighten and I looked desperately around at my mother, who I think tried to smile at me. But, oh, God, that was worse; it was horrible, looking at her and seeing the pain on her face—seeing also that she was trying to be brave for my sake. I couldn’t speak, so I nodded. I could feel my father squirm in his chair next to me, and I thought then that he must at that moment have realized I’d lied to him even if Mom hadn’t realized it, or wouldn’t let herself. Mrs. Poindexter got up, walked to the other end of the table, and said something to Mr. Turner. He shook his head and she said something else. Then the whole group of them, except Ms. Baxter, who stayed put, started whispering. My mother glared at Ms. Baxter, and my father reached out and took my hand. “Steady on,” he whispered, even though I knew what he must be thinking and feeling. “Just remember that whatever happens it’s not going to be the end of the world.” But then he and my mother looked at each other and I could see that they pretty much thought it was.

“Liza,” said Mr. Turner softly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you why you and your friend were—er—partly undressed.”

At this point my usually quiet mother jumped to her feet and said, “Oh, for Lord’s sake! My daughter has already told her father and me that there was nothing untoward going on! Liza is an honest girl, a painfully honest girl. She has never lied to us in her life. Don’t you know how teenaged girls are? They’re always washing each other’s hair and trying on each other’s clothes—things like that. There could be a million reasons why they weren’t quite dressed, a million reasons …”

“Teenaged girls,” shouted Mrs. Poindexter, moving around to our side of the table and walking toward my mother, “do not usually try on lumber jackets. And I’ve never felt that your Liza had any particular interest in her hair. As a matter of fact, I have often felt that your daughter Eliza …”

“Yes?” shouted my mother. She looked about ready to swing at Mrs. Poindexter. Dad reached out and grabbed her arm, but she ignored him.

“Ladies, ladies!” said Mr. Turner, standing up. “That will do! I realize how emotionally charged this is—I warned you, Mrs. Poindexter, what might happen if we handled this matter in this way. In any case, we absolutely cannot tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone.”

Everyone sat down again, fuming, Mrs. Poindexter included, and I was still left with the question.

“Liza,” said Mrs. Poindexter a little sulkily, “answer the question. Why were you and that other girl so incompletely dressed?”

I looked at Dad and then at Mr. Turner. I don’t know where it came from, but I said, “I guess this is where I say that I don’t want to answer without a lawyer.”

“May I point out,” said Mrs. Poindexter coldly, “that that statement in itself can be interpreted as an admission of guilt?” Mr. Turner cleared his throat angrily, but before he could say anything, the red-ha/red woman threw her pencil down.

“I think this is all perfectly absurd,” she said. “Not to mention very, very cruel, and downright twisted! What this young woman does on her own time with her own friends is her business and her parents’ business, not ours. I must say I might be concerned if I were her parents, but as a trustee of this school, I have more serious things to worry about.” She looked at Mrs. Poindexter and her voice dropped a little. “Frankly, Mrs. Poindexter, this—this near-vendetta reminds me of another incident a few years back, the one involving the boy and girl in the senior class. You will all recall it, I’m sure. Perhaps there was some small point in the school’s involvement in that, since, because of the girl’s condition, the students would naturally become aware of the situation—but I see no chance of that here, or of this incident’s getting to the public as you seem to fear it might, and damaging the fundraising campaign. In fact, I see much more danger of its being publicized as a result of this ridiculously anachronistic hearing than because of the incident itself. The overriding point,” she said, looking around at the board members and then at Ms. Baxter and Mrs. Poindexter, “fundraising campaign or no fundraising campaign, is whether Liza’s conduct affected the other students adversely, or whether something wrong was done on school time or on school grounds. Obviously, the latter doesn’t apply, and as to the former—it is certainly unfortunate that Sally Jarrell may have been exposed to something that disturbed her, but she is no more a child than Liza is, and it’s clear to me that Liza did not willingly make Sally a party to her behavior. Most people nowadays are fairly enlightened about homosexuality and there certainly was no purposeful wrong here, no attempt …0

“There are the teachers,” said Mrs. Poindexter softly. “There is the question of influence—the decided influence that teachers have over students …”

“That is a separate issue,” said the red-haired woman angrily, “and obviously one of much greater relevance.”

Mr. Turner said, “I think we should ascertain if Liza wishes to say anything further to us, and then, bearing in mind that she has requested counsel and that her presence here is voluntary, move to the matter of the two teachers. We can call Liza at a future date, I am sure, if need be, assuming she is willing to be questioned further.” Mrs. Poindexter’s lips tightened, and she twisted her glasses chain angrily.

“I agree,” said the red-haired woman, “and I apologize for my outburst, Mr. Turner, but this has all seemed to me so—so terribly unnecessary that I couldn’t help speaking out. I simply don’t see that what the two girls did or didn’t do is of any importance whatsoever. What matters is the influence the teachers may or may not have had on them, and on other Foster students.” I think I must have been staring at her, because I remember she gave me a sort of embarrassed and apologetic smile. It is important! I wanted to shout; it was as if she’d suddenly betrayed me—the one person on the board I’d really trusted and who I thought had understood.

I knew she was trying to be fair to everyone, not just to me, but, oh, God, I wanted to stand up and shout: No one had any influence on us! Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer had nothing to do with it. What we did, we did on our own; we love each other! Can’t anyone understand that? Please —can’t someone? We love each other—just us—by ourselves—But although most of those words were in my mind by the time Mr. Turner looked at me again and said, “Liza, is there anything else you would like to say?” all I could do was shake my head and whisper, “No, sir.” And much, much later, I thought of what Annie had said about mountains, and felt as if I still had a whole range of them left to climb.

I remember very little about the next few days. I know I saw Annie only twice, and both times we were stiff and silent with each other, as if all the fears, all the barriers, were back between us. The long thin white envelope came on Saturday when Chad and I were home watching a Mets game. Chad went down for the mail during a commercial. I was sitting there, idly wondering if they were ever going to rewrite the stupid beer ad I was suffering through for the millionth time, when I heard his key scraping in the lock and then his voice saying, “Liza, I think it’s come.” He handed me the envelope—from Foster—and I swear he was more scared than I was. He hadn’t said much about what it had been like at school for the past couple of weeks while I hadn’t been there, but I got the impression it hadn’t been any picnic for him. Sally, he’d mentioned casually, wouldn’t speak to him. Even though she was a senior and he was only a sophomore, they’d always been friendly enough to say hi in the halls and things like that. Sweet wonderful Chad! One afternoon he came home late with a bloody nose and blood in his sheepdog hair. He ran straight to Dad; he wouldn’t speak to me. Neither he nor Dad ever told me what happened, but I’m pretty sure I know, and it still makes me sick, thinking about it.

“Aren’t you going to open it? You want me to go away? I’ll go back to the game,” he said, and turned toward the TV set. It’s funny, but I didn’t feel much of anything, staring at that envelope before I opened it. Maybe it was because by then I really didn’t want to go back to Foster anyway, even if they said I could and so in a way I was dreading not being expelled as much as being expelled. The only thing I was conscious of worrying about was
MIT
, and whether the trustees would notify them if they expelled me and what reason they’d give. There was a roar from the TV set—the Mets had just gotten a run. Chad didn’t roar, though, and you can usually hear his shouts halfway down the hall outside our apartment. I stuck my finger under the flap of the envelope and it opened so easily I hoped it hadn’t come unglued on the way and that the letter hadn’t fallen out in front of everyone in the post office.

Dear Ms. Winthrop,

The Board of Trustees of Foster Academy is happy to inform you …

“Chad,” I said. “It’s okay.”

Chad threw his arms around me and shouted “Hooray!” Then he stepped back, and I must have looked pale or something because he sort of eased me down into Dad’s chair and said, “Hey, Liza, you want some water or an aspirin or something?”

I shook my head, but he got me some water anyway, and after I’d drunk some of it, he said, “Aren’t you going to read the rest of the letter?”

“You read it,” I said.

“Sure?” I nodded. So Chad read out loud:

“Dear Ms. Winthrop,

“The Board of Trustees of Foster Academy is happy to inform you that, after due deliberation relative to the disciplinary hearing held on April 27 of this year, we have found no cause for action of any kind in your case, disciplinary or otherwise.

“Mrs. Poindexter has agreed that you will continue in your position of Student Council President. No account of the hearing will appear on your record and none will be sent to any college to which you have applied or at which you have been accepted.

“With all good wishes for the future, Sincerely, John Turner, Chairman”

“There’s a separate little slip, too,” Chad said, holding it up, “saying you can go back to school on Monday.”

“I can’t wait,” I said dryly.

“Lize?”

“Hmm.”

He looked very puzzled. “Liza—does it mean—you know. Does it mean you aren’t—weren’t ии? But I thought—you know.”

“Oh, God, Chad,” was all I said, all I could say. And then I went out of the room to call Annie, leaving my poor little brother even more bewildered than before. After I called Annie, I tried several times to call Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer but wasn’t able to reach them. I tried again on Sunday and Annie and I even talked about walking over there, but Annie pointed out that it might be more sensible not to let anyone, especially Ms. Baxter, see us there at least until everything had died down a bit.

Monday was the first really hot day we’d had, almost like summer, but I knew that wasn’t why I was sweating by the time Chad and I arrived at school. I wanted to walk in confidently, looking as if nothing had happened, but as we went up the steps, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. “If you want us to go in separately, it’s okay with me,” I told him.