“No. He’s not in trouble. But wearerequesting that you come directly to the office so that we can fill you in on the day’s events. I’ll have Julien here with me.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s okay. He’s a little shook up, but he’ll be okay. I’m afraid I can’t explain more over the phone, it’s school policy in situations like this. Be certain to give the guard your name at the gate, they’re holding a spot for you in front of the main building.”
My anxiety begins to mount. Situations likewhatexactly? And a spot in front of the main building? Not the car-pool lane. Not the general parking lot. Not even in the spots they auctioned off for three thousand dollars a pop at the annual fundraiser. What could have possibly happened to warrant such singular treatment?
My mind races as I gather my things. I try to reach Julien, and his phone goes straight to voicemail. I text Fran, but he is on a flight home from New York, and not likely to respond. And so I spend the twenty-six-minute ride to Brentwood torturing myself, imagining possible scenarios.
By the time I arrive at the campus, I am sweating, my breathing is off, and I have to rely on Anouk’s mindfulness exercises to talk myself down. Bangles on my wrist. Feet in my shoes.
In the moment that I give my name to the security guard, it hits me. The idea that Anouk’s exercises must have come from Lorry. I want to vomit.
I park in front of the main building, as directed, noting two police cars just off to the side, an assault to my already frazzled nerves. Inside, there are a handful of administrators clustered in the lobby, speaking in hushed voices. The receptionist’s face is blotchy. She’s been crying. And yet she manages to find a smile for me, and an ID badge, before leading me to Laura Vinecour’s office.
The head of Upper School is waiting for me. Alone. A Waspish mid-fifties woman in a gray pantsuit and a pussybow blouse. I have seen her at a handful of school events, but we’ve never exchanged more than pleasantries.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Charlot,” she says, rising.
Again, I am too agitated to correct her. “What’s going on? Why are the police here? Where’s Julien?”
She pauses. Sits. Gestures for me to do the same. I watch as she clasps her hands on her oak desk. A Diptyque candle burns on the shelf behind her. Notes of fig fill the air.
“One of our students ODed this morning on campus.”
It hits like a blow to the skull.
“Oh my God. Julien?”
“It wasn’t Julien. Julien is fine. And we think the student is going to be okay. Julien is the one who found them.”
“Oh my God,” I repeat, my tongue heavy in my mouth. “Where is he?”
“He’s a little traumatized. But he acted quickly and responsibly and for that the other student’s parents and all of us at the school are incredibly grateful.”
“Was it a friend?”
“Because of our privacy policy and the fact that the student is a minor, we are using the utmost discretion in our handling of this matter. We hope that you understand and will do the same.” She delivers it as if she is reading from a handbook.
I nod. “Where is he? Can I see him?”
“He’s with Jonas Fitzroy, our Upper School counselor. They’re on their way down now.”
She no sooner says it than there’s a knock on the door, and there in the threshold is my son and the ginger-haired facilitator from the council on race. I place him immediately, but my attention’s on Julien. His face drawn. His eyes bleary. He looks at once older and younger than his fifteen years. He looks frayed. Whatever it was he witnessed this morning has changed him. My gentle boy.
The moment I embrace him, I lose it. The smell of his skin, the feel of his curls, the fact that he has suddenly gained so many inches on me. I hold him and squeeze him, and inhale him as deeply as possible, and cry. There in the head of the Upper School’s office. Everything I’d been trying for so long to keep together, rushing out.
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
My cheeks are wet, my hands are shaking. And for the millionth time I wonder what we are doing here.
He continues to hug me, tight. Tighter than he has in a very long time. Indifferent to anyone watching. And for well over a minute, he doesn’t let go.
“Let’s go home,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
In the hours that follow, the details are slowly revealed. Julien’s friend, Topher. In the science-building bathroom. Cocaine, likely laced. He’d excused himself during a biology lab and when he hadn’t returned by the bell, Julien went to look for him and found him unresponsive in a stall. Even Lucie had heard some of the details, albeit filtered through school gossip. I left a message for Topher’s mother, spoke briefly to Cressida, who was on location in Vancouver, made the kids grilled cheese and tomato soup, and insisted we all curl up to watch a screener ofLa La Land.
By the time François arrives home from LAX, we have succumbed to the shell shock, the kids on either side of me, asleep on the couch.
