rang, but my students didn’t jump up from their desks like they usually did. “Form a line,” I said. Then I gave each of them a hug with an extra special squeeze.
“When Markus comes,” I said to Mentayer when it was her turn, “would you help him wipe the blackboard and straighten the desks before you leave, and give him a hug from me?”
She nodded and stood to the side to wait for her brother. I gathered up my books and papers and headed for the principal’s office to keep my promise.
I walked down the steps slowly in an attempt to control the heat of my fury and my skyrocketing blood pressure. I strode into the main office filled with determination, to the surprised looks of the office staff. I yanked up the end of the counter and bolted around the filing cabinet without asking permission. I pushed in the door to the principal’s office without knocking.
“Mrs. Waters,” Miss Huskings said from behind her desk. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I blinked. So Frascatore had already got to her. I stiffened my back and stepped into the room. He isn’t going to get away with it again. Not this time. “Then I guess you already know why I’m here.”
The office smelled of tobacco fumes and ash; a smoky haze floated up to its towering ceiling. Gray clouds outside the soaring windows added to the gloom of the room’s dark mahogany walls.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Waters.” Miss Huskings’s tone contained no inflection, no hint of impatience or anger.
“Anthony Frascatore assaulted a student,” I said.
She peered into a plastic bag filled with what looked like homemade chocolate chip cookies, then held it out to me. “Have you had lunch?”
I took two steps toward her desk, then paused to take a breath. “He slammed a boy’s head against the wall.” I took another step forward. “But I’m sure that’s not what he told you.”
Miss Huskings poked a fork into a Tupperware container on her desk and lifted a forkful of pasta up to her mouth. A mantra played over and over in my head: Will she believe me? If she does, what will she do? If she doesn’t believe me, what will I do? Will she believe me? What if she doesn’t?
She stopped chewing, placed her fork down, and moved the container off to the side. “Are you saying you saw Anthony hit a boy?”
I hesitated, confused by her neutral tone of voice.
“I heard it.”
Miss Huskings scrunched her eyebrows together. Not a good sign. She motioned for me to sit down with a tip of her head. But I didn’t sit. Instead, I leaned forward and pressed the palms of my hands onto the edge of her desk.
“I know what happened. I heard the boy’s head hit the wall. When I got there, Mr. Frascatore had him pinned against it. The boy wasn’t even in his class. I saw him holding him there by his shoulders. He was right in his face. I yelled and he let go. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew I caught him. That’s why he made sure he got to you first. I’m sure he told you a different story.”
“Slow down, Mrs. Waters. Can I get you some water? Or coffee?”
I shook my head, sharp, shook it again. I lifted one foot, then the other, then back to the first foot, back and forth. I kept shifting my feet until I was almost stomping, but my insides felt like they were being tied into knots. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak. I gave up and dropped down onto a chair.
Miss Huskings scrutinized me but said nothing. I crossed my legs, and my dress crawled up my thighs. I uncrossed my legs and pressed them together. My chair creaked. I yanked the hem of my dress down to cover my knees. I tugged at my oversized silver hoop earrings, first the left one, then the right. I rubbed the back of my neck.
The room was silent. A heavy white mug appeared on the desk in front of me. I saw the principal’s hand withdrawing. I reached for the mug, took a sip of coffee, my hand shaky. It was thick and bitter. I almost spit it out.
Miss Huskings scrunched her upper body forward and encircled her container of pasta with her flabby upper arms. “I had hoped, Mrs. Waters, that you and Anthony might have resolved your differences about discipline by now.”
I slammed the mug down on her desk. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “What he did to that boy was not discipline.”
“Maybe not what you think of as discipline,” Miss Huskings said. She picked up a pack of Camels, tapped it on the desk, and pulled out a cigarette. She brought it up to her lips and lit it with a gold-plated lighter. “You know”—she inhaled, blew out the smoke—“I’ve always prided myself on how well my teachers get along. I want the two of you to work this out.”
I stared at her, my mouth open. Was she kidding? Was this for real? “What did Mr. Frascatore tell you?” I managed to ask. “I’m sure it’s not what happened.”
“He had to run to a special union meeting,” Miss Huskings said. “There’s a lot of tension right now. Hundreds of cops had to go into Ocean Hill—Brownsville to break up a parents’ blockade this morning. The community board is acting like a bunch of vigilantes. And as if that weren’t enough, some union members have walked out in protest. Anthony’s under a lot of stress right now.”
“That’s no excuse for assaulting a child.”
Miss Huskings took another drag from her cigarette. “Mrs. Waters,” she said. “I know you don’t rely on discipline to control your students, and I applaud you for that.” She flicked the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. “Anthony could learn something from you.”
I blew out my breath. Drops of rain were now hitting the windows, a clap of thunder in the distance.
“Some appreciation of his years of experience and his union position would go a long way,” Miss Huskings said. “All he wants is for his students to respect his authority.”
“Like a drill sergeant,” I mumbled.
“Let’s face it, Mrs. Waters, our students could do a lot worse with their lives than enlist in the army.”
I bit my tongue. It was useless to argue. Everyone knew Miss Huskings made sure all P.S. 457 students were trained, starting in kindergarten, to respect authority. I’d cringed the first time she visited my class. Without any prompting, my students jumped up from their desks, stood at attention, and shouted “Good morning, Miss Huskings” like they were in a military brigade.
“Miss Huskings,” I said with a quick intake of breath, “do you remember last November, when you told me that you expect your teachers to let you know right away if they ever see a teacher assault a student?” I pause and wait for her confirmation. She takes another puff of her cigarette. “Well, I am here to tell you that Anthony Frascatore assaulted a student. Only. A. Few. Minutes. Ago.”
The principal put her cigarette down, left it burning in the ashtray. I stood up. Shoved my chair back. She didn’t believe me; she didn’t want to. So what did I do now? Frank would tell me I’d done all I could do and that I should let it go. But he was wrong. I wouldn’t let it go. I couldn’t. No. Not this time.
“The boy’s name is Dion Brown,” I said. “If his parents complain, I will back them up. If they don’t, I will file a complaint myself.”
