The Weight of Blood (5)

Tanya: Okay, let’s hear it!

Michael: I believe Maddy Washington is still alive.

Tanya: Oh God, Mike. You’re not serious?

Michael: Remember the lead I mentioned earlier? I spoke to someone who may have proof Maddy didn’t die in those fires. And that she had help escaping.

May 1, 2014

Maddy sat on a bench outside the principal’s office, clutching a notebook, her heavy book bag by her feet. She rocked softly back and forth, nibbling on her thumb. Her hair, now three times its normal size, draped around her shoulders like a frizzy blanket. Above the bench hung a painted green-and-white banner: SPRINGVILLE HIGH! Home of the Pirates! 4× State Champions! surrounded by framed photos of students both current and past. Maddy kept her eyes focused on her lap, ignoring the gawking stares from the administrative staff, mostly women in their midsixties, dressed in mom jeans, grandma sweater vests, shift dresses, and clunky loafers. On the school secretary’s red oak desk sat a small white block with a scripture: For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.

Maddy prayed that was true.

Mrs. Morgan watched Maddy through Mr. O’Donnell’s office window, arms crossed around her stomach. She replayed that morning several times, frustrated by all the witty responses she had finally come up with that eluded her while the students had been mocking Maddy’s hair. Why hadn’t she put those punks in their place? She wouldn’t have thought twice about it at her previous school. Her old kids respected the way she could dish it right back to them. But at this new school, it felt as if the kids knew they were untouchable, that they were the ones really in charge, and that unemployment was just one complaining parent phone call away.

“You’ll have to move rooms,” Mr. O’Donnell said behind her. “Probably for the rest of the school year until we can have those windows replaced.”

The incident with Maddy had left her so rattled that she’d almost forgotten about the broken glass carpeting her classroom floor. That could wait. Her priority was the frightened, mousy student sitting outside Mr. O’Donnell’s office. She couldn’t fail her again.

“I don’t care about the stupid room, Steve,” she huffed.

“Okay. So . . . what happened?”

Mrs. Morgan turned in time to catch Mr. O’Donnell reorganizing his desk for the second time and rolled her eyes. She had always made him nervous, jittery. Which wasn’t what one would expect from a school’s top official. It annoyed her that students were left in the hands of such a spineless slug who bowed at ignorant parents’ feet.

“Kids were throwing pencils at her right before the earthquake,” she said. “They were making fun of her hair.”

He stopped fidgeting long enough to give her a measured glance.

“This all over a bad hair day?” he asked incredulously. “Laurie, your classroom was destroyed. Don’t you think we—”

“Steve,” she said through gritted teeth, leaning over his desk. “You’re not paying attention! Take a look at her hair. Take a real good look.”

Mr. O’Donnell reeled back in his chair, distancing himself with a gulp. He then tilted sideways, peering out his window. Five long seconds passed before he blanched.

“Oh. Oh! Is she . . . I . . . she couldn’t be.”

She crossed her arms. “I think so.”

He stole another glance and rubbed a hand over his pasty face, stunned. If not in her features, her hair left little to no room for doubt.

On the bench, Maddy squirmed, her foot tapping against the green carpet.

Mrs. Morgan tried hard not to pity her. Maddy didn’t need pity. It would only add insult to injuries she might not even be aware of. But Mrs. Morgan failed at her attempt with every passing thought.

That poor girl. That poor, sweet girl. She’s been living a lie all this time . . .

Mr. O’Donnell dabbed his forehead. “This is not good. Students picking on a . . . girl? We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“A Black girl, you mean to say,” she corrected him, her tone clipped. “And shouldn’t you be more worried about Maddy?”

“Right, of course,” he stuttered, rising to his feet. Mrs. Morgan yanked open the door and waved her arm as if to say, After you.

He bravely nodded and marched out into the main office, her following.

“Madison,” he shouted.

Maddy flinched, scooting down the bench, pulling her knees up to her chest, her bottom lip trembling.

“Jesus, Steve,” Mrs. Morgan muttered, rushing to sit beside her.

“It’s okay, Maddy, you’re not in any trouble,” she assured her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Maddy whimpered, squeezing herself into the armrest.

Mrs. Morgan gave Mr. O’Donnell a nod, urging him to say something. Anything. But Mr. O’Donnell had the paternal instinct of a paper clip. He reset himself and tried again, not for Maddy’s sake, she knew, of course. More for his pride.

“Madison,” he started, adding some bass to his voice. “Do you know who threw those pencils at you?”

Maddy kept her eyes down and shook her head. She rubbed a palm against her thigh over and over again, as if trying to polish herself right down to the bone.

“You sure you didn’t see anyone?” he pushed. “And don’t worry, we won’t tell a soul what you say in here.”