out, she didn’t need to tell her first.
Too late. Rachel was waving to her. Well, I’ll just say hello.
HOW BEAUTIFUL SHE is! Rachel thought. She would have been hurt if Claire had pretended she hadn’t seen her waving. She opened the French doors and stood in them, watching Claire come toward her across the lawn. For any other girl, she might have waited at her desk, but it was hard not to stare at Claire. She had presence, a power to draw attention, and to get what she wanted at the moment, part instinctive, part calculated, Rachel thought, that emanated from an unruly will and stunning, good looks. If anyone needed guidance, it was Claire.
And any other girl would be coming through Margaret’s anteroom, but Rachel liked to think every girl on that campus had an adult she could go to as a surrogate parent, and she was glad to be that person for Claire. Since when does a child need to check with a secretary to talk with her mom?
A moment later, as Claire came through the French doors, Rachel reached to hug her, but Claire hesitated. Surprised, and a little bit hurt, Rachel kept reaching and hugged her anyway.
Claire turned full circle, after Rachel let her go, looking around the office, and Rachel realized she was trying to decide whether to sit on the chairs, for business, in the center of the room, or the sofa, for just visiting, under her art. Before she had been appointed head, Rachel had organized her office in the Science Building the same way: businesslike chairs and table in the center, comfy sofa against the back wall. Soon after Claire was admitted last January, she had started to spend some free time in Rachel’s office. She always headed straight for the sofa and plunked herself down. Some nights she would bring her books and do her homework on the sofa while Rachel worked at her desk. Rachel had confessed to her that she had no desire to take her work home to an empty house.
Rachel put her hand on Claire’s elbow and led her away from the chairs to the sofa, and pulled a chair up close for herself. “It’s good to see you again, Claire. Did you have a good summer?”
“It was okay.” Claire’s face was blank.
“Did you get some art done?”
“Yeah, some.” Claire looked out the doors, fidgeting.
“Paintings? Drawings?”
“Just drawings. “
“I’d love to see them.”
Claire shrugged. “Okay.”
Rachel waited, not wanting to prod anymore, but Claire still offered nothing. Her eyes refused to meet Rachel’s, and at last Rachel understood she’d have to be direct. “What’s up, Claire?’” she said, speaking very gently. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing. I just came to say hello.”
Rachel smiled. “We already did that.”
Claire tried to grin. It came out as a smirk. “Okay, let’s say hello again then.”
“Come on, Claire. This is me. Rachel. I’m not the sheriff.”
“I know,” Claire murmured.
“Well then?”
Now Claire looked like a person counting to three. She took a big breath and said, “I didn’t do it with a lot of boys. I didn’t do it with any boys.”
It took a moment for Rachel to absorb this news. Then she reached and took both of Claire’s hands in hers, flooded with motherly protective love. This was not the first time a girl had come out to her. Boys, too, in her other school. That was the kind of person she was—and what place could be safer than this? Why didn’t that headmaster just say it?
Claire frowned. “No, Rachel,” she murmured. “A man.”
“A man?”
Claire nodded. “A teacher.”
Rachel pulled her hands away. It was a while before she found her voice. “A teacher, Claire? Really?”
Claire kept her eyes on Rachel’s and didn’t answer.
“Oh my goodness!” Rachel said. She stared at Claire, and, horrified, saw a classroom, empty of students except for Claire standing in the center like an actress in a soap opera, watching the open door. Rachel couldn’t tell whether Claire’s expression was provocative or curious or regretful. And was she waiting for the teacher to enter through that door, or was it after it had happened and she was watching him escape?
“Yeah, a teacher,” Claire murmured, bringing Rachel back. Her tone was matter of fact, resigned. “Now you know.”
Rachel looked down at her desk. There was a tiny scar in the varnished surface she’d never noticed before. Claire continued, “I’m sorry. I should have told Nan White. My father and my headmaster should have too.”
Rachel willed herself to look up from the scratch. It had begun to look like a child’s drawing of a bird flying up near a big yellow sun. “But if it hadn’t happened, there wouldn’t have been anything to tell.” She didn’t want to talk about Claire’s not telling. That was beside the point.
“But I really am sorry,” Claire said.
Rachel put up her hand. “Who was this teacher?”
Claire stared. “I’m not going to tell you that!”
“Oh, Claire, I don’t want his name. How old was he?”
“Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six,” Claire said, shrugging and adding several years. Then, after a pause, “Maybe I should find a school in London. Maybe you shouldn’t have started a post-graduate program just for me.”
“Please, Claire. Don’t try to change the subject.”
“But what if someone finds out?”
“Claire! You didn’t hear me.”
“But that is the subject,” Claire insisted.
“No, Claire. What you and the teacher did. That’s what we need to talk about.”
Claire turned her face away from Rachel.
“Isn’t it?”
Claire said nothing, still looking away.
“Please look at me. I’m talking to you.”
Claire slowly turned her face to Rachel. She wore a stubborn look.
“Tell me one thing,” Rachel said. “Did you let it happen, or did you make it happen?”
Claire shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
Claire sighed, exasperated. “Okay—both.”
“Both, really?”
Claire dropped her head. She seemed relieved to surrender at last “No, just me.”
