Death, Unchartered. Dorothy Van Soest

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.”

      Miss Huskings picked up her cigarette and took a puff, studying me as she inhaled. I stood still as a statue in front of her desk and studied her. We both jumped when someone pounded on the door. A secretary burst into the office, out of breath.

      “I hate to interrupt, Miss Huskings, but someone found a student unconscious on the floor in one of the bathrooms. His teacher called 911. The ambulance is here.”

      Every nerve in my body shot out in an electrical current. Please, oh please, oh please, don’t let it be Dion.

      The secretary’s thick fingers shook as she held out a piece of paper. “Here’s the phone number for the boy’s parents. His name is Dion Brown.”

      Beads of sweat sprang up on my forehead. “Where is he? Is he okay? What are they saying? Are they still upstairs?” I turned and took a step toward the door, ready to run out.

      “Hold on, you’re not going anywhere, Mrs. Waters.” The unusual harshness in Miss Huskings’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “I’m sure the boy will be okay.” She put out her cigarette and pulled herself up in the chair.

      “I think they’re going to take him to the hospital,” the secretary said.

      “Find out which one,” Miss Huskings said. “I’m sure his parents will want to know more about his condition, too. Who’s his teacher?”

      “Mr. Bernstein. He’s with them now.”

      “Good. Tell him to come see me after he’s talked to the medics.”

      The secretary rushed from the room. Miss Huskings brought the piece of paper close to her face and squinted at the number. Then she picked up the receiver and dialed.

      I fell back onto the chair and covered my face with my hands. I felt tears stinging my eyes. “This is my fault. I should have walked back to his class with him. I should have stayed to make sure he was okay.”

      The principal covered the receiver with her hand and shot me a warning look. “Please, Mrs. Waters, your anxious self-regard is wearing a bit thin.”

      “I should have told you before. I should have told you the first time.”

      Miss Huskings shook her head and placed the receiver back on the hook. “Their phone’s been disconnected,” she said. “Please, Mrs. Waters. You told me. Now pull yourself together. First we’ll