The St. Ambrose School for Girls(78)

“If you want to stay, then tell me why your door is closed.”

“I smoke. It’s closed because I smoke.”

Mr. Pasture smiles a little, and almost, but not completely, manages to keep his nastiness out of it. “You realize that is a violation of school rules.”

“Yes, and for a first offense, I am to be put on probation. You can’t expel me. It’s in the handbook.”

“If you smoke frequently, it is not a first offense.”

“Then I’m only admitting to doing it once, and by all means, try to prove it’s a habit. I’ve never been caught.”

The dean of students studies me for a long moment, and I sense a shift of position in him, but it’s not one that will help me. “Has Ellen Strotsberry ever made any advances toward you?”

I purposely recoil. “Absolutely not. She’s not gay. Are you serious?”

His eyes narrow. “Yes, I am very serious.”

“Well, I’ve never seen anything to suggest that, and she certainly hasn’t done anything inappropriate toward me. Now, come on, what’s she really being accused of? Because you aren’t asking me anything about what happened yesterday in the phone room.”

Mr. Pasture continues to stare at me for a while. Then his disdainful demeanor eases, as if he has come to the conclusion that not only am I not attractive enough for even a lesbian to bother with, I have no such immoral tendencies myself. This makes me wonder what he would think of the impure fantasies I had about my residential advisor. Then again, no doubt they are preferable, on the sliding scale of wickedness, because at least they are not against God’s word.

I consider making a revelation about the marriage vows that have been broken at his school of lofty Christian standards. But my roommate’s sexual orientation is at the base of all of this, and going into the Greta and Nick affair would be a distraction I’d have trouble backing up with solid evidence. I must present my case solely as it relates to me, and do it quickly, as I sense that, now that I’m not an avenue to further condemn my roommate’s behavior, he is going to kick me out of his office pretty quickly.

“Greta Stanhope has been bullying me since I arrived here on campus.”

Mr. Pasture frowns and leans forward in his chair, as if I’ve addressed him in a foreign language and he is trying to place my nouns and verbs somewhere in the context of the Latin tradition.

“It started with my shampoo,” I hurry on. “She emptied it out and put water in the container. Then she poured bleach into the washing machine my clothes were in. She put a falsified memo about a geometry test in my mailbox, and she tried to get a student from St. Michael’s to ask me to dance at the Fall Fling to embarrass me. She’s been coming after me this whole semester, and yesterday was the final straw. She got ahold of my essay, the one that was used to get me in here, and she had someone make copies of it. She filled the dorm’s mailboxes, all of them. Everyone read—” As the horror of that moment comes back, my voice wavers, but I force myself to go on. “Everyone read it. Everyone knows that I have bipolar—I mean, that I am bipolar.”

I could have done without the hiccup at the end. Otherwise, it’s a pretty good speech, considering how scared I am. How lonely. How sad. This man, this officious, disapproving man, managed to beat down even Strots, so it’s no surprise I’m losing my momentum. But I have to go on.

“I told Strots about what Greta has been doing to me a while ago. I told her everything. She knows what Greta is like, and she—”

Mr. Pasture holds up his hand. “I’m going to stop you right there.”

“But it’s the truth—”

“Is it?”

“Yes! I’m telling you, you’re blaming the wrong person for what happened in the phone room! You’re totally wrong. Greta deserved what she got and—”

“May I remind you for a second time that here at St. Ambrose, we do not promote physical violence as a method of conflict resolution,” he says in a bored tone. “And as for your accusations, Miss Taylor, they are quite serious. Where’s your proof?”

“I know what happened when I squeezed my shampoo bottle. I know what was done to my clothes—”

“What shampoo bottle? Which clothes?”

“I can show you the spots.” I stand up and pull my black shirt out between the halves of my jacket, pointing to the bleached areas that I’d had to dye black. “See? They’re right here.”

I lean over his desk, pushing at some of the frames, holding the shirt forward, knowing it is the vital clue that will save Strots, that will take down our tormentor.

Mr. Pasture glances down. “I see nothing.”

I jab my forefinger at the subtle variations in the color. “It’s right here.”

“That does not look like a bleach spot to me. And sit down. Now.”

My legs go weak and I fall into the chair. Dropping my eyes to the front of my shirt, I see what he does. Or rather, everything that he does not. The variation in the black is so minor that it could be explained away by wear and tear or manufacturer’s error.

I never in a million years thought my solution to the problem Greta created, the one that she intended to throw me off my wardrobe stride, would prove to be too successful.

“I am not unaware of your… difficulties.” Mr. Pasture’s voice shifts away from disapproval to a chilly kind of dispassionate compassion, as one might feel for a squirrel that has ended up under the tires of one’s Mercedes. “I realize that you have struggles other students do not.”