What was she going to tell Rachel about first? The thing she did with the teacher? Had telling Amy been practice for that? Or was it not telling Nan White, the admissions director, last year when she was admitted—even though that was her father’s responsibility, because he was the grown-up? But she never expected that much integrity from her father, and she was sick of feeling guilty. She couldn’t talk to her father about it any more than she could to Mr. Gaylord Frothingham, the headmaster who’d caught them. He’d made it perfectly clear to Nan White that Claire had been sexually active. That was the term, those were the words: sexually active, like she did it jumping up and down, in a gym, maybe with lots of boys when she’d never actually done it with any boy in her whole life—and her father was being transferred to London, so they needed a boarding school, especially one without any boys. He just didn’t say sexually active with whom, that’s all, and who could blame him? He needed to get rid of the teacher and keep everything quiet. Mr. Alford, only twenty-three years old. His first year of teaching. She had no idea where he went. Or what he told his wife when she asked him why he was fired.
One thing she did know: Amy was the only girl she’d want to have a burping contest with every Labor Day weekend for the rest of her life. It wasn’t coincidence that their fingers touched when they lay on their backs and looked up at the stars. They both had reached for each other’s hand. Like sisters. Maybe it was even lonelier to be ashamed of a father when all he needed was for you to love him back than to have a mother who ran away and a father who’s too busy. Amy had planned to spend the second half of the academic year on exchange at St Anne’s School in England, but she’d decided to wait till next year so she and Claire could be together this year while Claire was still at Miss O’s. Only sisters do things like that for each other.
CLAIRE WAS HALFWAY across the lawn, getting closer, getting nervous. Did she dare? Up ahead, that tree she’d painted. Her teacher, Eudora Easter, a perfect name for her, a black lady too, built like a snowman, said, “Paint what you see,” but Claire didn’t, she painted what the tree made her think about instead. What she felt while she watched it grow. Because if you can see it, why bother painting it? That’s why Rachel loved it so.
No, she didn’t have the nerve. No way she was going to tell. Stop and turn around. Rachel was never going to find 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