The Word of a Child. Janice Johnson Kay
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both Zofie and her friend Lily Thalberg. I know nothing happened, but you were alone with the girls.
But he had not asked that or anything else. He had not been grieving for Lily, nor bewildered at such a terrible accusation. He had been in a rage that anyone would believe the word of a three-year-old child.
A child the age of his own Zofie, who was just as pretty as Lily Thalberg.
CHAPTER ONE
“MS. STAVIG? CAN I TALK to you?”
Mariah looked up with a smile. “Tracy! Of course you may. Come on in.”
A seventh-and eighth-grade literature and drama teacher, she kept her classroom door open during her planning period specifically so that students would feel free to drop by. Most often it was the theater enthusiasts who hung around her classroom during breaks, but she wanted to be available to kids like Tracy Mitchell who were falling behind with their assignments, too.
Mariah had been grading papers in which her eighth-grade advanced lit students were supposed to be analyzing To Kill A Mockingbird. Josh Renfield’s opening sentence was a tangle with no subject. He liked big words and multiple clauses, but basic grammatical structure apparently eluded him. Mariah laid down her red pencil with relief.
“Are you here to talk about your missing assignments?” she asked.
“No. Um…” Tracy fidgeted in front of the desk. “Can I tell you something? I mean, something…well, that I’m not supposed to?”
“Not supposed to?” Was Tracy mature enough to realize that a friend was in over her head with drugs or boys, that some secrets weren’t meant to be kept?
“Mature” was not the word that leaped to mind with Tracy Mitchell, who tended to spend classes passing notes and giggling.
“Yeah.” Her blond hair swung down, a curtain hiding her face. She spoke so softly, Mariah had to strain to hear. “This guy made me do things. He said no one would believe me if I was stupid enough to talk. I’ve been…I’ve been really scared.”
“Scared,” Mariah echoed, a chill hand closing on her heart. “Somebody threatened you?”
“I didn’t think anybody would believe me.” The girl looked up, her blue eyes full of hope. “But Lacy Carlson says you will. That you listen to kids.”
No. Please not me, Mariah begged silently. Choose someone else to tell.
Even as she had the pitiful thoughts, Mariah knew she was being selfish. Tracy had come to her because she had developed a reputation among students as trustworthy. She should be glad that the teenager felt she could safely tell her story. She should even be flattered that the girl had chosen her. It meant she had done something right as a teacher.
But, oh, she didn’t want to hear it. Not if the hearing meant she had to report the story to authorities and loose them on some man and his family.
Showing none of her inner turmoil on her face, she rose to her feet and closed the door to the hall. Coming back to the girl, Mariah placed a gentle hand on her arm.
“Why don’t we sit down.” She pulled a student desk to face the one Tracy chose. “Okay. Whoever ‘he’ is, it sounds like he doesn’t want you to think anybody will believe you. Which doesn’t mean they won’t.”
Tracy thought about that. “Maybe. Except—” she blushed “—I’m not a very good student. And I dress kind of…”
Like a slut, Mariah filled in. Aloud she said, “Provocatively?”
Tracy knew that word. She nodded.
“It’s against the law for a man to rape a prostitute, you know.”
“You mean, a whore?”
“That’s right. In other words, your clothing or even, in the case of a prostitute, your profession do not constitute an invitation. No one can touch you without your permission.” She paused a beat. “Is that what happened?”
Tracy’s blue eyes filled with tears. After a moment, she gave a jerky nod.
“Will you tell me about it?” Mariah asked gently.
“The first time, he, um, just touched me.”
“Where?” She kept her voice patient.
“My…well, my breasts. And, um, he kissed me.”
“Did you mind? Or did you like it?”
“I guess I kind of… I mean, he’s older and everything,” the thirteen-year-old mumbled to the desk.
“You were flattered.”
Tracy squirmed. “Kind of.”
“Okay. Any of us might be.”
“Only then, um, the next time he unzipped his pants and he made me touch his…you know.” She was crying in earnest now, and her nose began to run.
Mariah stood long enough to grab a box of tissues and hand her several.
Tracy blew her nose.
“He made you fondle him.”
“And…and put my mouth on him. He tasted…it was really gross. Especially when he…”
Mariah hid her shudder.
“Did anything more happen?” she asked quietly.
“Last time he…” She stole a look up. “He made me have sex. It hurt so bad! And I’m afraid I’ll be pregnant!” With her face puffy and wet, she looked like a frightened eight-year-old, not the teen she was.
Mariah took her hands and squeezed them. “How long ago did you have sex?”
Tracy snuffled. “It was…it was the day before yesterday.”
“There are morning-after drugs to keep you from being pregnant. That’s the first thing we’ll have to see to.”
Her voice lightened. “You mean, I don’t have to be pregnant?”
“No, you don’t have to be pregnant.” Mariah hesitated. “Tracy, is this man related to you?”
Her head ducked immediately, but she shook it no.
Actually, to the best of Mariah’s knowledge, Tracy’s biological father wasn’t in the picture. On the two occasions when Mariah had called the mother in for a conference, she had left a different unsavory-looking boyfriend lurking in the hall. Mariah wasn’t as surprised as she wished she could be that one of them, or another just like them, had molested the pretty young girl who dressed in tiny miniskirts and baby Ts that showed rapidly ripening breasts to superb advantage.
“Will you tell me who he is?”
“Will he have to know?” she whispered.
“If he’s an adult, he should be punished. In the eyes of the law, you’re a child. He cannot force you, or even persuade you, to have sexual relations. You did say he’s older?”
Fresh tears flowed. “He’s a teacher.”
Mariah’s heart sank even as her mouth made an O of surprise. Not one of the boyfriends.
A teacher. This was going to be ugly, and she wanted no part in it. Teachers were so vulnerable to these accusations. Look at her now: alone in the room with Tracy, the door closed. A student could say anything happened, and how would it be disproved?
“Oh dear,” she said weakly.
“He…he told me he’d give me a good grade if I…you know. And if I didn’t, he’d flunk me.”
“I wish you’d reported him then and asked to be transferred from the class.” She immediately regretted saying even that; she didn’t want poor Tracy to feel as if what happened—assuming it had happened—was