Chapter 42
Andrew
Screw it. I’m keeping that photo on my phone. And third period, I’m going to start apartment hunting. A few more months and this nonsense is O-V-E-R.
I look at the ugly little black-and-white face with the bush-baby eyes. You may be terrified now, I think, but you are one lucky pooch. I think about the angels that burned and how Robert cried over them. He may have a weak stomach, but he has a compassionate heart.
And once again my own heart swells with pride.
I feel like this is one of those days where everything is new again, like it’s truly the first day of the rest of my life. And it feels good.
I greet my students with a cheeriness I haven’t felt in quite a few months. There is nothing they can do to kill my mood today. I feel empowered, in control, and ready to engage them with the beauty of math.
And it goes pretty well. I still have some damage control to do; I accept that.
Then, a few minutes into first period, a student steps into my classroom with an office request for Stephen Newman. He’s instructed to bring his things.
Stephen goes and he doesn’t return, and I’m thinking the day is getting better and better, and then I chastise myself for that thought. I am above that. Still, I make a mental note to check his behavior record later in the day to see what he’s being disciplined for. In my experience, when a kid is misbehaving in one class, he’s misbehaving in others. Best to get it all out on the table and get as much mileage out of it as we can.
By third period I’m in my head, picturing Robert sleeping over in my new apartment, waking up in my apartment, dancing on my bed with his pants off. It’s a pleasant thought, and I’m smiling to myself as I Google apartments in our area and jot down addresses and phone numbers.
“Mr. McNelis.”
It’s Lauren Crew, a first-year AP responsible for eleventh graders. She’s standing in my doorway. I find her formal address funny since we were on the same math team last year.
“Hey, Lauren. What can I do for you?”
“I need you to come with me, please.”
Mr. McNelis and a please. That’s when I take a good look at her. She’s gripping her walkie-talkie in her hand and her face is grim. I know that face.
“Okay,” I say. Fear floods through me.
Logan Hough, the twelfth grade AP, is waiting in the hallway. He’s looking at his feet, then at Lauren. He doesn’t look at me until I speak to him.
“What’s going on, Logan?”
“Sorry, I don’t know, Drew. We were just instructed to escort you to the office.”
“You’re kidding, right? Why didn’t you just send me an e-mail? I know my way.”
He doesn’t answer.
I don’t wait to be escorted. I lift my chin and stride smartly down the hallway. They fall in step on either side of me.
I will not fall over and play dead, and I will not collapse into a heap of Jell-O, even though I feel like Jell-O inside. Someone saw us this weekend. Or maybe I’ve misjudged Maya. I can’t believe she’d do this. I try to remain calm, but I am gripped by panic and my knees threaten to fail me as we head to the office.
For the most part, the halls are clear, but we do cross paths with a handful of other teachers. They look at me walking between two APs and quickly avert their eyes. It’ll be all over school before the end of the period.
There’s a police officer standing off to the side when we enter Mr. Redmon’s office. Logan closes the door behind us and Mr. Redmon begins to introduce the officer, but I cut him off.
“Mr. Redmon, what’s going on?” I ask. He stops and then drops his eyes.
“Are you Andrew McNelis?” the officer asks.
“Yes.” I know they’ve found out. All I can think is second-degree felony, second-degree felony, second-degree felony.
“Mr. McNelis, can I see your cell phone, please?”
I hesitate. “Do you have a warrant?”
He studies me a moment, then says, “I can hold you right here until I get one. We can drag this out, or you can cooperate. Your choice. I’m fine with it either way.”
I remove my phone from my pocket and hand it to the officer. He takes a moment to verify what I already know—nothing in any in-box, sent box, or drafts. No contacts except family, Ms. Smith’s Village, the school’s main number, and roadside assistance. No calls dialed, missed, or received that would link me to Robert. Photos of Kiki and Maya.
Ah, shit. And one of Robert.
The officer pauses at something on the screen, then turns it to Mr. Redmon. “Do you know who this boy is?”
Mr. Redmon steps around his desk and looks at the screen. “That’s one of our seniors. Robert Westfall.”
“It’s a photo of him with a dog,” I say emphatically. “A dog. A little stray dog he took in. He sent me the photo. That’s it. I told you, Mr. Redmon, he sees me as a big brother. I’ve tried to keep a professional distance from him. I can’t help it that he still reaches out to me.”
I’m rattled. What do they know?
The officer places my phone on Mr. Redmon’s desk and picks up another, one I hadn’t noticed.
“Mr. McNelis, do you recognize this phone number?” He thumbs a few buttons on the phone, then reads off a number. The phone he’s holding is not Robert’s phone and I’m confused.
“Yes, that’s my cell phone number.”
And that’s when everything changes.
The officer produces a zip tie handcuff.
“Mr. McNelis, please place your hands behind your back. You are under arrest for solicitation of a minor for sex, indecency with a child, and child pornography. You have the right to remain silent. If you . . .”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, angry. And then I realize something else. This may not be about Robert at all. I’m doubly confused. “Who’s accusing me?” I demand. “I have a right to know who is accusing me. This is insane. I haven’t done anything wrong.” I’m talking to the officer, talking over him, but he continues to inform me of my rights as if I haven’t spoken at all.
I turn to Mr. Redmon. “I want to know what, exactly, I’m being accused of.”
When he tells me, I’m left speechless.
The officer tightens the zip tie around my wrists.
My head is a jumble of discordant images as I try to reconcile the accusation with reality. I have never, never sent a sexually explicit message in my life, and I damn sure didn’t send one to that kid. And there is no way in hell calling him a prick can be misconstrued as soliciting sex, as indecency, or as child pornography. This is batshit insane. I will crucify that kid when I get a lawyer.
I struggle against the cuffs.
“This is outrageous. This is where I work. You cannot parade me out of here in handcuffs like a criminal. I have done nothing wrong. Whatever that kid told you, it’s a bald-faced lie. I want to see your proof. Mr. Redmon,” I say, turning to him again. He has to know how crazy this is. “There is no way I would ever do such a thing. That kid has it in for me. You know that.”
The officer indicates a chair and tells me to sit.
I don’t want to sit. I want to defend myself. I want them to listen. I want them to show me whatever proof it is they think they have, but they’ve clammed up.
The officer puts his face close to mine. I can smell his morning coffee on his breath, and I want to gag. “Sit, or I’ll make you sit,” he says like he would actually enjoy forcing me down.
I don’t give him the chance. “Can I at least call my ex-wife? I have a daughter, for God’s sake. She needs to know.”
“You’ll get a chance to make a phone call soon enough.”
A squad car is parked at the curb just outside the school’s front door. When the bell rings to start fourth period and the halls clear, I’m escorted to it, past secretaries and other staff members who drop their heads and suddenly become very busy. It’s humiliating, but I am so angry I barely notice.
Robert
The first hint that something’s up comes during fourth period—band. It pretty much amounts to this: Someone’s been arrested.
One of the bassoonists was doing some research and got a glimpse of the police escort through the READ posters fixed to the library windows. I don’t think too much about it. The drug dog was probably here today and someone got busted.
In fifth-period English, Ms. Weatherford spends a good twenty minutes of class time just outside her door talking in a low voice to a colleague. We’re supposed to be reading on our own—The Catcher in the Rye—but there’s a lot more whispering than reading going on.
It’s the first time I hear teacher, and I go cold.
When I walk into Calculus sixth period, I know, even before I see the sub at Andrew’s desk. I drop my things and ask if I can go to the bathroom, then I call his phone. An unfamiliar voice answers.
“Sorry, wrong number,” I mumble.