Her Name in the Sky (32 page)

“Baker has nothing to do with this,” Hannah says, her voice shaking, her eyes still wet with tears.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Michele says. “You two haven’t even talked in, like, weeks. We’ve all noticed it.”

“She was trying to distance herself from me,” Hannah says, lowering her eyes to the table. “I told her how I’ve been feeling about—about girls—and—” she swallows—“she wasn’t sure we should be friends anymore. She didn’t want to compromise her beliefs.”

Clay’s voice is the first one to break the courtyard’s silence. “Is that true, Bake?”

Every face turns away from Hannah and back to Baker. Baker meets Hannah’s eyes, her expression still terrified. For an infinite moment they read each other, and Hannah nods her head forward a fraction of an inch.

“Yes,” Baker says. 

Hannah breathes.

“So, what, you were gonna take the fall for Hannah?” Clay asks incredulously.

Baker doesn’t answer. In the distance, somewhere far, far away, Hannah hears the bell ring. The sound of it seems to startle everyone back into the reality of the school day. In an uncomfortable silence, people all around the courtyard pick up their trash and step away from their tables. Then the silence gives way to a buzzing whispering, and Hannah watches in a daze, feeling like she’s in a movie, as classmates walk past her, some of them staring, some of them ignoring her, others outright glaring at her.

But the only person Hannah watches is Baker. She rises unsteadily from her table and seems unaware that Clay is speaking into her ear. She meets Hannah’s eyes one more time, and Hannah feels the weight of the world between them. Then Baker walks loosely and clumsily toward the B-Hall doors, her head down and her hair hanging over her eyes.

And then everyone is gone. Everyone except for Joanie and Wally.

Hannah slumps down into her seat. Everything around her seems dim, surreal. Joanie gawps at her. Wally sits with his back rigid and his hands clenched.

“Wally—” Hannah says.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Wally, wait—”

But he jerks himself away from the table and yanks his booksack over his shoulder. He throws his bag of trash at the trashcan; it hits off the side and falls to the ground, but he doesn’t stop to pick it up.

Joanie gathers up the contents of her lunch, sealing her sandwich bag with trembling thumbs. She reaches for her water bottle but knocks it over onto the table. Hannah watches the water spread over the wood while Joanie picks up the bottle with shaking hands.

“I had to,” Hannah says.

“Bullshit,” Joanie says. She stands up and tucks her blouse into her skirt over and over and over, until the fabric is stretched taut across her stomach. “Do you realize Mom and Dad are gonna find out now? Is that how you wanted this to go?”

Joanie’s hands continue to shake as she raises her water bottle to her mouth and takes a clumsy gulp from it. Hannah still sits at the table, her arms and legs numb, her mind foggy.

“Stupidest thing you’ve ever done in your life,” Joanie says. 

Her classmates stare at her all through third block. The only person who doesn’t look at her is Wally, who sits with his jaw clenched and his head bent over the desk. Hannah’s mind replays the scene in the courtyard again and again while Mr. Creary prattles on about the format of their Government exam.

And then the overhead intercom beeps.

“Mr. Creary?”

“Mm?”

“Please send Hannah Eaden to the office.”

She tries hard to ignore the stares of her two-dozen classmates, but she can feel their eyes on her as she crosses the classroom. She closes Mr. Creary’s door and stands in the hallway with a feeling of panic in her stomach. Her vision dims. When she starts to walk, she can feel air beating against her sweaty palms. She stops off into the bathroom and throws up.

The front office secretaries seem to be waiting for her. “Hello, Hannah,” one of them says, her smile forced. “Mrs. Shackleford would like to see you. You can go on back to her office.”

Hannah opens Mrs. Shackleford’s door to find a half-dozen people inside. Mrs. Shackleford sits at her desk, her expression grim; Mr. Manceau and Father Simon stand together at one window, Mr. Manceau’s arms crossed over his stomach and Father Simon’s hands clasped behind his back; Ms. Carpenter stands at the opposite window, her angular eyebrows drawn together; and Hannah’s parents hover just inside the door, their skin pale and their eyes nervous.

“Hi, honey,” her mom says. She looks like it’s costing her everything she has to look at Hannah. Hannah’s dad stands silently at her side, mechanically rubbing at his elbow. 

“Hello, Hannah,” Mrs. Shackleford says. “Have a seat, please.”

Hannah sits in the designated chair in front of Mrs. Shackleford’s desk, with the adults circled around her. She feels like the center pawn in a child’s game of Duck-Duck-Goose.

“Hannah, do you know why we called you in?” Mrs. Shackleford asks.

“Is this about the e-mail?” Hannah says, trying to sound braver than she feels.

Mrs. Shackleford nods a few times. “Yes, it is. Hannah, we’ve had several students tell us that you’ve taken ownership of that e-mail. That you told some friends that you’re the one who wrote it.”

“I told the whole senior courtyard,” Hannah says. In her peripheral vision, she can see her mom flinch.

“Hannah…” Mrs. Shackleford brings her hands together and stares hard at her. “Do you understand the implications of telling people you wrote this e-mail?”

Hannah casts her eyes to the objects on Mrs. Shackleford’s desk: the name placard, the dove-shaped paperweight, the photographs of her husband and children. She feels acutely aware of everyone watching her. “Yes, ma’am. Everyone will think that I’m—um.” She clears her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ms. Carpenter tuck her head down. 

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Hannah,” Mrs. Shackleford says.

“How?”

“So you did write the e-mail?” Mr. Manceau cuts in.

“Bob—” Mrs. Shackleford says.

“I think you should let her answer the question, Mrs. Shackleford,” Father Simon says. “She hasn’t confirmed yet.”

“Can you confirm that you wrote this e-mail?” Mr. Manceau says, thrusting a piece of paper into Hannah’s hand. Hannah smoothes out the paper and reads the topmost line, but then her parents step up behind her and peer over her shoulder.

“Don’t,” Hannah says.

“We’ve already read it,” her mom says.  

“What?”

Her mom swallows. “Mr. Manceau already showed us.”

Hannah glares at Mr. Manceau. He raises his eyebrows, and his challenge is clear:
What are you gonna do about it?

“Please just give me a minute,” Hannah asks her parents.

Her mom nods in a resigned way. Her dad continues to rub his elbow. Hannah, with the force of a hammer on her heart, reads:

DATE May 11, 2012

TIME 1:03 AM

FROM [email protected]

TO [email protected]

Ms. Carpenter, please, I need your help. You’re the only person I know who can hlep me. I’m so scared right now. I have feelings for another girl, feelings I’m not supposed to have. We did things together that you’re not supposed to do, things I only should have done with a boy. i’m so shocked at myself that I feel like it didn’t even happen, like it’s not real. Sometimes when I think about it I’m just disgusted with myself and I feel so dirty, I feel so wrong and like god hates me. But the scariest part is I was so happy when we were togehter. It felt so amazing, it felt like everything I always wanted to have with someone. But I know that can’t be true, I know that can’t be what god wants for me. But then why did he make me like this? Why did he put this inside of me? Why did he make me feel like I’m always happiest when I’m with her?? I don’t understand because I didn’t ask for this and I’ve tried really hard to make it go away. Every time I get these feelings I feel like there’s a monster inside of me, an evil monster that’s trying to take me away from god and lead me to sin. I wish I could be better. Everyone esle expects me to be better. I’m dating a boy right now to try and make everything better but it’s not working, it’s nto working, and now I’m ruining my group of best friends too. Everything is getting out of control, I can’t stop crying all the time, and now I’m drinking a lot too and I don’t know hwy. I’m sorry to bother you with this but it’s late and I’ve been drinking and I’m crying and I’m just so scared.

Hannah blinks back the tears in her eyes and raises her head to face the room again. Mr. Manceau leans forward off the window, his fat face hungry for an answer; Father Simon wears that too-kind expression Hannah has seen him wear during Confession; Mrs. Shackleford stares hard at Hannah over the knuckles of her folded hands; Ms. Carpenter still leans against the window and says nothing.

“Ms. Carpenter?” Hannah says.

“Yes, Hannah?”

“Where’s your response?”

“Do you really need to read it?” Mr. Manceau says, holding up another piece of paper. “Don’t you have it starred in your inbox?”

“Bob—” Mrs. Shackleford says.

“Did you write it or not?” Mr. Manceau demands.

Hannah grips the seat of her chair. She commands herself not to look back at her parents. Instead, she looks defiantly at Mr. Manceau and Father Simon. “Yes,” she says. “I wrote it.” 

Her mom makes an involuntary sound behind her. Mrs. Shackleford drops her head onto her folded hands. Mr. Manceau smirks and glances to Father Simon, who taps his fingers to his mouth and says, “Well, I think that settles it.”

“What?” Hannah asks.

Mrs. Shackleford leans back in her chair and moves her glasses up to the crown of her head. She rubs her eyes and takes a deep breath. “The thing is, Hannah,” she says, her voice weary, “until now, we had no way of proving that this e-mail was written by one of our students. It could have been written by any random person with Internet access. If that had been the case, then Ms. Carpenter’s response to the e-mail would have been…less of an issue. But because you’re a St. Mary’s student, and because Ms. Carpenter, your teacher, replied to your e-mail with advice that—” she stops, clears her throat, glares at the two men by the window—“advice that some in this diocese would deem
inconsistent
with the views of our Church and school…” She trails off and gestures at the air.

“What?” Hannah asks again. She shifts in her chair to look at Ms. Carpenter, who smiles sadly at her.

“It means they can fire me, Hannah,” Ms. Carpenter says. 

Hannah’s stomach drops. “What? But—I don’t understand—”

“It’s okay, Hannah,” Father Simon says kindly.

“No, it’s not! Ms. Carpenter didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Ms. Carpenter gave you guidance that is absolutely contradictory to the practice of our faith,” Father Simon says patiently. “You trusted her, Hannah, and she failed you.”

“She didn’t fail me! And why are you talking about her like she’s not in the room?”

Father Simon looks over to Mrs. Shackleford. “This is exactly what I was talking about, Brenda. She inspires this sort of misplaced passion in her students.”

“Excuse me,” a new voice says. Hannah’s dad steps forward and the faces in the room turn toward him. “Did you know you were writing to Hannah?” he asks Ms. Carpenter. He looks to Mr. Manceau and Father Simon. “If we follow the logic you’re using, then Ms. Carpenter can’t be fired if she didn’t realize she was writing to a student.”

“Actually, Tom,” Father Simon says, “just based on the fact that she was using her St. Mary’s e-mail address, she can absolutely be fired.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eaden,” Ms. Carpenter says, still wearing her sad smile. “I did actually know I was communicating with a St. Mary’s student. That’s why I had to respond.”

Mr. Manceau shakes his head. Father Simon moves his mouth around as if experiencing lockjaw.

“Mr. Manceau,” Hannah’s mom says, “I’d like to see Ms. Carpenter’s response to Hannah.”

“I’d rather we not go into that,” Father Simon interjects. “Suffice it to say, Anne, that the e-mail encouraged Hannah to give in to her feelings of same-sex attraction—”

“With all due respect, Father Simon, I’d like to see for myself what Ms. Carpenter wrote to my daughter.”

Mr. Manceau hands Hannah’s mom the other piece of paper. Hannah’s mom reads the e-mail slowly, her face expressionless, and then hands the paper to Hannah’s dad. He reads it fast, his eyes jumping down the page and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Thank you,” Hannah’s dad says when he’s finished. Hannah looks at him, then at her mother, and waits for them to meet her eyes. They both stare at the carpet instead.

“Tom, Anne, please let me be clear,” Father Simon says. “Not a single one of us in this room thinks there is anything wrong with Hannah. Every person has her own burdens—every disciple of Christ has her own Cross to carry—and same-sex attraction is a particularly difficult one. But I don’t want Hannah to settle for thinking that she has to resign herself to living this way. Same-sex attraction is something she can move past and heal from.”