Read Where You Are Online

Authors: J.H. Trumble

Where You Are (30 page)

Chapter 41
Robert
 
“How did it go?” I ask.
“Well, the locks weren't changed, and she's still allowing me to be alone with my daughter.”
Andrew's at the lake with Kiki right now, feeding ducks. I wish I could be there too. I feel cheated. I passed out and slept away our entire night together. I didn't even get to wake up with him. When I woke, feeling like I'd been dividing by zero, it was already ten o'clock in the morning, and Andrew was in the shower.
“Look who's up,” he'd said when I pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped into the spray with him. I can still see the little soap bubbles clinging to him in all the right places and his smile when I wiped them away. And then he howled.
He calls out to Kiki to be careful with the big duck.
“I have one group session to go. Maybe I should just not show up.”
“Oh, that won't confirm her suspicions.” He laughs into the phone. “Nope, you gotta show. Act totally normal. If we just keep it up and don't give her any other reason to think otherwise, she'll start doubting what she saw or what it means. I'm done worrying about it.
“Hold on. That big mallard is about to trample my daughter for that bread.”
I listen while he takes on the duck. I'm pacing on my driveway, but I should be there with them. Movement down the street catches my eye. A dog. As he gets closer, I notice he's limping. A little closer and I realize it's the little Boston terrier that had been sniffing around Nic that day I installed my stereo.
I quietly head out to meet him. His eyes are focused on the road, so he doesn't see me until I've closed the distance between us. Then he looks up and falls over himself in his rush to get away from me.
I try to calm him with my voice. “It's okay, boy,” I say gently. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“It's a stray dog. He's hurt, but he's skittish. I'll call you back, okay?”
I end the call and slip my phone in my pocket. The dog is back on his feet and hopping madly away. I grab him and he reaches back and nips at me. But it's just a nip. His bulging eyes make him look even more terrified than he already is.
I run my hand over his trembling hips and legs. They feel okay. I have to pick him up to check his feet and this sets off a new panic. He squirms, and it's like trying to hold on to one of those liquid-filled rubber squishy toys.
“Take it easy.” I can see right away that the pads of his feet are all chewed up. The back right is the worst. The entire pad is hanging by a narrow piece of skin and bleeding. “Where you been, little fellow? Have you had a long walk?”
His skin is stretched tightly over his prominent ribs, and now that I've got him tipped back I can see the rash on his belly and on the insides of his back legs too. It looks raw and painful. I turn him right side up again and tuck him securely under my arm, then take out my phone and snap our photo.
My new dog.
Aaah. What a cutie. You'll make a great doggy daddy.
What shall I name him?
Kiki says Spot.
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.
Chapter 43
Robert
 
Ms. Momin pulls into the driveway at dusk. I'm waiting on the front porch.
The garage door rumbles down, and I can hear her chatting cheerfully with Kiki. A minute later the front door opens. I stand and turn to her.
“Is he okay?”
She fixes cold eyes on me and folds her arms. “He's in a holding cell right now. I've already contacted an attorney. With any luck, he'll appear before a judge tonight for an arraignment. In any event, the attorney thinks he'll be out in forty-eight hours. I haven't talked to him.”
“What's he charged with?”
From inside, Kiki calls out, “Mommy!” Ms. Momin calls back that she'll be right in and pulls the door closed behind her a little more. She looks at me again. “I want to know what's going on between you and my ex-husband.”
I knew this was coming. “He's my calculus teacher.”
“Don't lie to me, Robert. You've lied to me enough. Were you with him Saturday night?”
I don't answer.
She smirks, but in a way that looks like a prelude to tears.
“I want to know what he's being charged with,” I say quietly.
“They're saying he sent sexually explicit text messages to a student, among other things.”
“He wouldn't do that.”
“He wouldn't?” She lets that settle on me, then huffs. “I don't know anymore what he would and wouldn't do.”
“How can you say that?” I'm angry now, and I don't care that she knows. “He's a good, decent person.”
“He's a teacher,” she hisses. “And you're just a boy, a student,
his
student. And you! Do you have any idea what you've done? What you've cost him?”
“I love him, and—”
Her breath catches.
“—he loves me.”
Kiki appears at her mom's side, her face a pout. “Mommy, I hungry,” she says around the thumb in her mouth.
A tear spills down Ms. Momin's cheek. She brushes it away as she runs a hand over her daughter's hair. “I'm coming, baby.”
Kiki notices me just then. Her pout transforms into a bright smile. She plucks the thumb from her mouth and holds out her dog to me. “Spot.”
I reach out to pet her dog, but Ms. Momin snatches it back. “Stay away from Drew. Stay away from my daughter.”
She pushes Kiki back inside the house and makes like she's going to shut the door in my face, but I take a step forward and put my hand on the door.
Her look is at first one of alarm, then hatred. “Don't,” she warns. “Don't you dare try to insert yourself into our lives. Do you really think you're the only one?” She scoffs. “You're not the first pretty boy that he's fallen for. You're just the first one
stupid
enough to believe you actually had some kind of future with him.”
“I don't believe you.”
“You don't need to come for group Wednesday. I'll e-mail your counselor and tell her you completed your hours.” She backs away and shuts the door in my face.
He didn't do it, and I intend to prove it.
“I heard it's going to be on the news tonight at ten,” Luke says as we head up the stairs to his room. “It's all over Facebook already. Some kid is bragging about taking him down.”
“Who?”
“Some freshman.”
Something clicks. “A kid named Newman?”
“Stephen Newman. Yeah. How'd you know?”
“He's Anna Newman's little brother. The kid who's been giving Andrew a hard time in class.”
“That's Anna's little brother? No kidding. Well, the story is that Mr. McNelis sent him a text with a dirty picture.”
“That's bullshit.”
“Well, apparently Stephen got some photos and some racy messages, and they came from Mr. McNelis's phone. Somebody made an anonymous call to Mr. Redmon, Mr. Redmon called Stephen in, looked at his phone, and he unloaded.”
He shakes his mouse and his computer screen lights up.
“He didn't send them, Luke.”
“I believe you. But then how did they get sent from his phone? You think somebody hacked him?”
He opens Facebook and points out some of the posts. “These are just the ones that other kids reposted. I'm not actually his Facebook friend.”
One in particular catches my eye.
That faggot's getting what he deserves. Ha!
“Nice guy, huh?” Luke says.
Suddenly, I know exactly what happened. “He stole his phone.”
“Somebody stole his phone?”
“Yeah. He wasn't sure. It disappeared Friday morning. At first he thought he lost it, then he thought maybe his ex-wife had taken it. He didn't have his SIM card disabled until the next day just in case he found it. If that kid took his phone, he could have sent the pictures himself, right?”
Luke studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. You really think he'd do something like that?”
“You read the posts. What do you think? Andrew wouldn't do this, Luke. I know him.”
He nods and turns back to his computer. “Let's see if we can see who Stephen's friends are.” He opens his page and shakes his head. “Uh, uh, uh. Look at this—he doesn't even have his page protected. Shame, shame. Friends, let's see.” He opens up the entire list and scans through the photos. “Looky here. Your number-one fan.”
He points his cursor to a photo near the bottom.
 
A fan club has to be good for something. I'm counting on that right now as a familiar voice answers the phone.
“Caleb, hi. This is Robert Westfall.”
“Oh. Robert. Hi. Um, what's up?” He covers the microphone, but I can still hear a muffled,
“It's Robert Westfall. Oh my God!”
“You got a minute?”
Muffled talk:
“He wants to know if I've got a minute.”
Then, as if he hadn't been about to pee his pants, “Sure. Whatcha need?”
“A favor. You're friends with Stephen Newman, right?”
“Yeah. Why?” he asks cautiously.
Someone rings the doorbell. I leave it for Mom.
“Good friends?”
“No. Not really. We rode the same bus in junior high.”
I realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure. Anything,” he says eagerly.
I honestly think he means that. I tell him what I need, and he promises he'll get it done.
Mom sticks her head in my room. Her face is white. “Robert, I need you in the living room.”
I try to read her expression as I say, “I really owe you one, Caleb.”
“Robert, did something happen?” she asks as I end the call. “There are some police officers at the door.”
My heart sinks.
The officers begin to introduce themselves as we enter the living room.
“What is this about?” Mom asks, cutting them off.
“Ms. Westfall,” one of them says, turning to her, “we believe your son may be involved in a relationship with Andrew McNelis.”
She looks at me, her face a question. “Who's Andrew McNelis?”
I glare at the officer.
“He's one of your son's teachers, ma'am. Math, I believe.”
“Robert?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“I'm not here to discuss with you what he did or did not say to us. I am merely asking you a question. You should know that we have his cell phone in our custody.”
That means nothing to me. “Are you arresting me?”
“What?” Mom's face blanches even further if that's possible, and she takes my elbow like she'll fight for me if it comes to that.
“We're just here to talk, son.”
“Well, I'm not interested in talking.”
“There's a photo of you on his phone.” He lets that sit there for a moment. “Did you send him that photo?”
I can't believe Andrew kept a photo of me. After all his talk about being careful. What else did he keep? Text messages?
When I don't respond, the officer says, “We can subpoena you.”
Mom steps between us. “Then you need to do that. My son is not answering any questions tonight.”
The officers exchange a look, but after a brief standoff, they allow Mom to show them out.
When she returns, I'm sitting on the couch, nervously picking at my cuticles. She sits opposite me and waits. Finally she gives up. “It's true, isn't it?”
My eyes flood with tears. “He's in trouble, Mom. Some jerky kid set him up. He's being accused of something he didn't do.”
She wrinkles her brow. “Are you telling me that this is not just about you? Oh, Robert.”
 
I don't sleep. And every time I turn over, Spot II starts and his little heart races.
“It's okay, boy,” I say each time. His belly is full and round, but his ribs are still achingly prominent. I run my hand over his soft fur and he relaxes again.
The ten o'clock news had run the story just like Luke said. Mom and I had watched it together.
The field reporter didn't mention any student names but used Andrew's name repeatedly, then cut to a video of him being escorted from the police cruiser to the jailhouse. That is the reel that keeps looping in my mind—his hands secured behind his back, a police officer gripping his arm. But Andrew didn't walk with his head down like a common criminal, nor did he tip his nose in the air in haughty defiance.
I was proud of him, but angry and frustrated that I couldn't do a damn thing for him.
Mom moved to the couch next to me and put her arm tentatively around my shoulders.
“What do you know about the students involved?” the anchor woman in the studio asked.
“All I can tell you, Hannah, is that there are two students, both minors. Sources tell me that both are, in fact, students of this teacher.”
“Wow,” Hannah said to her coanchor. “I'd say that Mr. McNelis is facing some very serious charges.” Her coanchor shook her head and said, “You know, stories like this are so disturbing. What are these teachers thinking? It seems like every week we're hearing about another teacher being accused of sexual misconduct. You send your kids to school, you expect them to be safe”—she turned to the camera—“and then you hear about things like this.”
“I know what you mean,” Hannah said.
“They've already convicted him,” I'd said angrily to Mom.
When I can't bear to think about him in jail anymore, I turn my attention to Stephen Newman. He set him up; I know it as surely as I know that Andrew would never send a sext to anyone, even me. It's the only thing that makes sense.
I still find it hard to believe that anyone could be that cold and vindictive though. To ruin an innocent man's life and then to brag about it? I swear to myself, he will not get away with it.
Spot II makes a noise that sounds like a bark through sleep-paralyzed vocal cords. His little legs twitch like he's running. I notice that one of his pads is bleeding again and there's a watery blood spot on my sheet. “Shhhh, boy,” I say quietly. “You're okay.” I place my hand on his head and he jerks awake and yelps. When he realizes he's in no danger, he nudges my hand with his wet nose.

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