Chapter 7: The Meeting
The meeting was Wednesday at 3 p.m.
Mrs.
Alderton's office had four chairs arranged in a loose square.
A box of tissues on the corner of the desk that no one had touched yet.
A framed print on the wall that said *Every Student Belongs Here* in a font designed to feel warm.
Diane arrived seven minutes late.
She came in with her coat still on and sat down like she was doing everyone a favor.
Brooke wasn't there.
Neither was Eliza.
Mrs.
Alderton had suggested keeping the students out of the first meeting.
I'd agreed.
Diane had agreed too, which told me she'd already decided what this meeting was going to be.
"Thank you both for coming," Mrs.
Alderton said.
"I want to start by saying that the school takes the events of Friday night very seriously."
"As we all do," Diane said.
She looked at me with an expression of careful sympathy.
"Carol, I want you to know I've spoken with Brooke.
She understands that her comment was hurtful.
She's prepared to apologize."
"To Eliza's face?" I asked.
"In person?"
"Of course.
When the time is right."
"When would that be?"
Diane's expression didn't change.
"When things have settled down a little.
The video has created a lot of emotion.
I think we all need to let that pass before we put two teenagers in a room together."
"The video didn't create the emotion," I said.
"Brooke's comment did."
"Carol—"
"Diane, I want to ask you something directly." I turned to face her fully.
"Have you made comments to children at school events about the way they look?
About appearance being a liability?"
The room went very quiet.
Diane's chin came up by exactly half an inch.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I've spoken to other parents.
And students.
Multiple people remember hearing you make remarks — at pickup, at the spring concert — about how certain children would need to work harder because of the way they look."
"That is completely—"
"I have it in writing," I said.
"From more than one source."
That wasn't a bluff.
Marcus had sent me three paragraphs the night before.
Another parent — a woman named Greta whose son was in Eliza's English class — had texted me that morning after seeing the video.
She'd written: *I've been wanting to say something about Diane for two years.
Tell me what you need.*
Diane looked at Mrs.
Alderton.
"This is not what I came here for."
"What did you come here for?" I asked.
"To resolve this.
Quietly.
For the sake of both girls."
"Brooke isn't suffering," I said.
"Eliza is.
There's a fake account online calling the video staged and calling my daughter an attention-seeker.
That account appeared the same weekend as the talent show.
I'd like to know if you know anything about that."
Diane stood up.
"I'm not going to sit here and be accused—"
"Sit down, Diane."
It came from Mrs.
Alderton.
Quiet.
Firm.
Diane sat.
Mrs.
Alderton folded her hands on the desk.
"I've also received information this week that concerns me.
Not just about Friday, but about a pattern of behavior at school events." She looked at Diane steadily.
"I'd like to address that directly."
May you like
Diane's practiced smile was completely gone.
For the first time since Friday, she looked like she didn't know what was coming next.
