Alice in Charge

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  Her lips quivered.

  “If we don’t report it, he’ll go on doing this and embarrassing other girls. He may do more than kissing and touching, and that’s not being a good teacher.”

  “I … I know,” she said in a small voice.

  “Do you want to be a good friend to other girls?”

  She looked up at me and nodded seriously.

  “Then you’ll report this so it won’t happen to anyone else. I’ll go with you, okay? I’ll tell Mr. Beck how Dennis Granger pressed up against me at the drinking fountain, and then it happened to you.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But I wasn’t getting a drink of water.”

  “I know.”

  Student Jury would be starting soon, but I didn’t care. Like soldiers, we marched to the school office and asked for Mr. Beck.

  Mrs. Free, his personal secretary, was at Student Jury, so we talked to another woman.

  “Mr. Beck’s in a meeting right now,” she said. “He’ll be at least forty minutes.”

  “It’s important!” I said.

  “Well, so is this meeting,” the secretary said, smiling sympathetically, and added, “School board members.”

  I tried to think. “Is Mr. Gephardt available?”

  “I’m afraid not. He had to leave early.”

  This cannot be happening! Not after I had to beg and plead to get Amy here.

  “Could we make an appointment, then, for Mr. Beck at three thirty? We can’t leave until we’ve seen him,” I said. “It’s urgent.”

  I could tell she took me seriously now.

  “I’ll put you down and ask him not to leave until he’s met with you,” she said, and took our names.

  I looked at the clock. A quarter of three. Student Jury rarely took more than a half hour. Amy and I went out in the hall. She seemed more perky now, more confident. We had an appointment, and I was going with her. Our names were in the book.

  “Look, Amy,” I said. “I’m going to Student Jury. Why don’t you come down to the library. I’ll be just across the hall, and as soon as it’s over, I’ll come and get you. Do you mind waiting in the library?”

  “I like to look at National Geographic,” she said. “Except that I would never take off my clothes for a picture. Mom says they didn’t have any clothes on in the first place. I wouldn’t want to live in a place you didn’t wear clothes.”

  “How were you going to get home today?” I asked. “I’ve got Dad’s car, so I can drive you. Should you call your mom and tell her you’ll be late?”

  She pulled her cell phone out of her bag, and we stopped in the hallway to make the call. Amy carefully pressed her index finger on each number, concentrating hard.

  “Mom?” she said. “It’s Amy. Alice is going to drive me home because we have a meeting.” She listened, then looked at me. “What time will we be home?”

  “We might be as late as five,” I told her. “If we’re going to be later than that, we’ll call.”

  “Five o’clock, Mom. And Alice is driving because I wouldn’t know the brake from the clutch.” Another long pause. “Okay. Love you too. And Dad and God. Bye.”

  I waited until Amy was settled in the magazine area just inside the library door. I pointed out the conference room across the hall.

  “I’ll be right over there, Amy. And if Student Jury isn’t over by three thirty, I’ll leave anyway and we’ll go to the office.”

  “Right,” Amy said. “And you’re going to tell on him too.”

  “We’re in this together,” I promised.

  17

  ALICE IN CHARGE

  I felt blood throbbing in my temples as I made my way to the conference room. And I almost stopped breathing when I walked in, because there was Dennis Granger.

  I knew that teachers took turns as faculty adviser, but I felt sick as I listened to him tell Darien that he was substituting this time for the chemistry teacher. I could barely stand to look at him.

  “You’ll have to tell me how this works,” he said cheerfully, glancing around the room. “Everybody’s presumed innocent until declared guilty, right? And that’s where you guys come in?”

  I didn’t even acknowledge him. Just settled myself in my chair and opened my bag, looking for a pen.

  “Not exactly,” I heard someone reply. “The offenders have already admitted to whatever it was they did; we simply decide the sentence. You know—the solution.”

  Mr. Granger sat down and pulled his chair up to the table. So far the faculty advisers had always sat off to one side, more observers than participants. Sleazebag looked as though he were here to take over.

  He must have caught me studying him covertly because his eyes fastened on mine for a moment before I chickened out and looked away.

  The case this time was a freshman who had been trashing one of the boys’ restrooms. He’d been caught twice tossing wads of wet toilet paper at the ceiling where they stuck and dried, and the ceiling looked like the beginning of a hornet’s nest. The kid was small for his age and wiry. He stood with his arms straight down at his sides, like he was about to be executed and deserved whatever he got.

  “Is this new behavior for you, or did you do this kind of stuff in middle school?” Darien asked.

  “I did it some,” the boy answered.

  “Ever get caught back in middle school?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Do you do this in front of other guys, or when no one else is looking?” I asked.

  “Mostly by myself,” he said. “Sometimes with other kids … if they dare me.” His voice was barely audible. This was probably the least serious case we’d had to deal with, and I was glad that we would be able to settle it quickly.

  Dennis Granger leaned forward and rested his arms on the conference table. “Sometimes,” he began, in a paternalistic tone, “people do destructive things simply because they know they can, and others do it for attention.” I glared at him even though he wasn’t looking at me.

  “So which would you say it was?” Granger continued. “To see if you could get away with it or to get attention?”

  The boy’s face reddened a little, and he shrugged. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

  Darien interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr. Granger, but this is Student Jury. We’re supposed to ask the questions and impose the penalty.”

  Mr. Granger looked annoyed for a minute, then smiled and waved one hand as though to excuse himself and pulled back away from the table. “I guess I’m just here for decoration,” he joked.

  When the school secretary escorted the boy out of the room to await our verdict, it took us only a few minutes to talk it over.

  “This seems pretty cut-and-dried to me,” said Darien. “An ‘experience-the-consequences’ sort of thing. He did the damage, he undoes it.”

  “Does the school want him up on a ladder unsticking those wads of paper, though?” Kirk asked. “Is there an insurance factor here?”

  “The school would be liable if he fell,” Murray said. We looked at Mr. Granger.

  “I can check that out for you,” he said.

  “Nix the ladder,” said Lori. “Give him a long pole with a sponge on the end. He needs a workout.”

  “Why not tell the custodian to get the materials together and the boy does the job?” said Murray.

  We all agreed. As the boy was brought in again—Betty Free came first and held the door open for him—I caught sight of Amy in the background. She was standing in the doorway of the library, waiting for me to come out, and in the five seconds or so that the door was open—the boy was taking his time—she saw Dennis Granger sitting there at the table. I saw the surprise on her face, the way she stared at him, at me. And then the door closed.

  I gathered up my stuff. What if she thought I had talked to Granger about what she’d told me? What if she left the building?

  Darien read the penalty, and when the kid agreed that it was fair, I pushed back from the table, slinging the strap of my bag over
my shoulder. Darien set a date, and Mrs. Free told the boy he could leave. He skedaddled like a frightened mouse, and I stood up, ready to go. But when the boy opened the door to go out, I was astonished to see Amy Sheldon walk in.

  Her cheeks were flaming red. She stood at one end of the long table and, in her high-pitched voice, announced too loudly, “I want to make a complaint.”

  Everyone turned.

  “A complaint goes to the principal or vice principal first—,” Darien began.

  “No, I have to make it now, because what if nothing happens?” Amy said. She didn’t look to the right or left, just straight at Darien.

  “What’s the problem, Amy?” someone asked.

  I stood riveted to the floor as I heard Amy answer, “Yesterday when Mr. Granger was tutoring me, I got molested.”

  The school secretary stared at her, speechless.

  “Now, Amy, what in the world …?” Mr. Granger started, an incredulous look on his face.

  She refused to even glance his way. Just stood there, tilting slightly to one side as though facing a hurricane gale, struggling not to blow over. If ever I admired anyone, I admired Amy Sheldon at that moment.

  “That’s what happened,” she said. “I said he could kiss me, but I didn’t want to take my clothes off.”

  “What?” said Mr. Granger.

  The school secretary hastily got to her feet. “Amy, this is something we need to talk about with Mr. Beck,” she said, putting one arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go back to the office.”

  “We all know that she’s disturbed,” Mr. Granger said softly as he rose from his chair, but I was furious.

  “What she’s disturbed about is what happened to her in that room, Mr. Granger,” I said. “And she deserves to be heard.” The other kids turned toward me, openmouthed. “I’m going with her. We have an appointment with Mr. Beck at three thirty.”

  Mrs. Free looked at me in astonishment.

  Dennis Granger continued to shake his head. “She has these fantasies,” he said.

  Mrs. Free guided Amy toward the hall. “I think I’ve got some apple cider in our little fridge,” she said. “We’ll have a cup while you wait.”

  Amy twisted around to look at me. “Did I do okay, Alice?” she asked, as though I had put her up to this. “Am I a good friend?”

  Now everyone was staring.

  “Absolutely,” I told her. “I’m right behind you.”

  Mr. Granger had exited the conference room through another door by this time, but as Amy walked out with Mrs. Free, Darien turned to me. “What the hell was that about? Do you think she’s serious?”

  “Dead serious,” I told him, and followed Amy down the hall.

  Mr. Beck was still in his meeting when we reached the office, but Mrs. Free invited us back to a little rest area near the copy machine and poured us each a cup of cider. My stomach felt jumpy so I took only a sip, but Amy gulped hers down and even drank another cup. As long as I was with her, she seemed to be relaxed, but I wasn’t at all sure they’d take us seriously.

  When Mr. Beck’s door opened at last, I heard one of the clerks tell him that I had asked for an appointment.

  “Now?” he said, and I saw him glance at the clock. “What about?”

  She shrugged.

  Mrs. Free stepped into his line of sight then. “Alice McKinley and Amy Sheldon are waiting back here,” she told him. “I’ll bring them in.”

  Mr. Beck was holding the door open for us as we walked into his office.

  “What can I do for you girls?” he asked, closing the door behind us and motioning for us to sit down. But instead of taking his office chair, he sat on the edge of his desk, as though we all agreed that this wouldn’t take long.

  Amy looked at me.

  “We’re here to report that we were both molested by Dennis Granger,” I said, a slight tremor in my voice.

  Mr. Beck’s face changed from casual friendliness to surprise, and his eyes grew intent, serious. “This … happened today? To both of you?” he asked.

  “No. It happened to Amy yesterday. But just recently I was getting a drink at a water fountain and Mr. Granger came up behind me. He … pressed up against me … in an inappropriate way.”

  Mr. Beck nodded slowly, and this time he stood up, went around his desk, and sat down, pulling a pen out of his jacket pocket. “Do you remember the day and the time?”

  “I could figure it out by looking at a calendar and let you know. But it was right after gym. And there were other times I wasn’t sure … when he brushed his hand against my breast … It didn’t seem definite enough to report. But this last time I was sure.”

  Mr. Beck nodded again. “I’m glad you girls came to me. This was the right thing to do.” He turned toward Amy and waited.

  She was a little less confident when she told her story, and I saw Mr. Beck wince when she said she had kissed Mr. Granger. I tried to help fill in the gaps where I could—things she had told me but was leaving out now—and the principal asked me not to comment on anything I hadn’t seen directly. Somehow—without the convulsive sobbing I had witnessed and Amy hiding her face and the front of her skirt—it came off as less offensive somehow, less of an assault, and I wondered if Mr. Beck was taking her seriously. But I needn’t have worried because he listened patiently, and when she was through, he said, “Amy, this is a serious matter and your parents need to be in on the discussion. Would anyone be home now if I called?”

  Amy looked apprehensive. “Dad will say, ‘Amy, I am not pleased,’ if he is in an important meeting.”

  “Well, this is important too,” Mr. Beck said gently. “What about your mom?”

  “She’s home.”

  “I’m sure they’ll want to know that we are doing our best to protect you while you’re at school, and they’ll want to know what happened,” he said. “Let’s see if we can reach your mother.”

  When he did, once Mrs. Sheldon said she’d drive right over, Mr. Beck turned to me. “Alice, I appreciate you coming in and telling your version of the situation. I think it would be better if Amy told her parents the story in her own words, so you may go. But I want you to know we take this very seriously.”

  I wasn’t sure of anything. Would Amy’s story fizzle out when her parents were there to hear it? Would they think I had put her up to it—exaggerated it somehow? And where was Sleazebag Granger while we were there in Beck’s office? He certainly wasn’t sticking around. Suddenly I realized that The Edge was going to press tonight, at our usual five o’clock deadline.

  I walked swiftly to the newsroom. It was my job to do a brief write-up of each Student Jury meeting—describing each case and the jury’s recommendation—without naming names. Today the staff had held off on finalizing the paper until I could insert this last item.

  I was the only one in the newsroom. Phil had left a note:

  Alice,

  Got an appointment with the dermatologist, so you’re in charge. Ames is at a conference. Wrap it up and send to printer.

  Phil and Sam would drive to the printer’s early the next morning to pick up the printed papers and bring them to the newsroom, then I’d help divide them up and distribute the bundles around school.

  I sat down at the computer, where the unfinished page was already open. Phil had left very little room, but under the Student Jury headline, I typed:

  The jury heard the case against a freshman student for vandalizing a boys’ restroom. He was assigned the job of removing the paper wads he’d thrown at the ceiling….

  My heart beat faster, an almost painful thumping. There was space left for two or three more lines. My fingers moved again:

  Jury was approached by an unscheduled student who reported molestation …

  I took several deep breaths to allow myself to continue:

  … in room 208 after school hours. Complaint was referred to Mr. Beck.

  —Alice McKinley, Student Jury

  I felt perspiration trickle down my sides, my b
rain sending off sparks in my head. I went over the rules again about reporting jury activities. I hadn’t named names. I hadn’t used dates. But …

  I had one finger on the DELETE key. I thought of Amy’s reddened face. I thought of Dennis Granger’s smug smile. I thought of the wet spot on the front of Amy’s skirt…. Taking my finger off the DELETE key, I pressed SAVE instead. Then I typed Final Copy in the subject line of the e-mail and sent the file off to the printer.

  At home I went around all evening in a little protective cocoon, telling myself, You did the right thing. But the fact that I didn’t tell Dad or Sylvia about it meant I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have any particular reason for believing that the principal might not believe Amy’s side of the story, but I felt rage toward Dennis Granger. Not just about what he had done to Amy—her confusion and embarrassment—but that he had walked out on her so quickly afterward and left her to deal with her feelings herself. I can imagine he said something like, I just can’t help myself, Amy—you’re so sexy. And I can imagine she didn’t start crying until after he’d left. But he did leave her there alone, so eager was he to get out, and I wanted to smack him down. I wanted him to suffer.

  I worked on a physics problem after dinner and read another chapter in history. Didn’t call anyone, but I checked my e-mail a couple times, looked up a few friends on Facebook without posting anything, then put on my pajamas.

  Phil called around nine thirty. “Paper put to bed okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I sent it in.”

  “Did I leave you enough room for the Student Jury update?” he asked. “You didn’t have to cut anything?”

  “It was enough,” I said. “I probably wrote too much, I don’t know.”

  “If you didn’t move anything around, you’re okay. See you tomorrow. I’ll try to get some other staffers to help distribute,” he said.

  “See you,” I said.

  When I realized I was reluctant to tell even Phil what had happened, I knew I may have made a mistake. But then I thought of Amy, and said, It’s done.