Page 47 of Cackle

School goes fine, except Chris isn’t in class.

“Anyone know what happened to Mr. Bersten?”

“He’s dead,” someone says.

“That’s not funny,” Madison says. “God.”

I don’t ask again. Not the next day. Or the day after that. He’s absent the rest of the week, which is fine, because I’m not in the emotional state to handle any more harassment.

On Friday, I drop by the vice principal’s office after my last class to express my required concern.

She’s a fellow thirtysomething named Jill with straight bangs and a high ponytail. She wears a button-down underneath a sweater. She looks like she could be in a commercial for a wholesome brand. Lactose-free milk. High-fiber cereal.

“I like your sweater,” I tell her. I figure the right move here is to open with a compliment.

“The whole outfit is Target!” she says, smiling. “I get all my stuff at Target. Not the Aster Target. You have to go to the Stillman Target. So, Annie, I’m glad you came by. I’ve been meaning to give you a ring.”

My heart does its weird rapid-descending thing.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “Good, thank you.”

“Good, good,” she says. She’s got a jar of Werther’s Originals and a jar of Jolly Ranchers on her desk. She has framed pictures of herself and a guy I assume is her husband. He’s tall, with dark hair and a beard. They look happy together. “So, about Mr. Bersten. That’s why you’re here, yes?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He hasn’t been in my class most of this week. There was an . . . Well, I don’t know if I’d call it an incident. He got sick in class on Monday.”

“I heard,” she says. Her expression is overly empathetic. Sad eyes, big frown. I wonder if the kids make fun of her like they make fun of me.

“I had a student escort him to the nurse. I wasn’t sure if he was still sick.”

“Mm, yeah.” She nods a lot, in a way that I think is meant to show me that she’s listening but has the reverse effect. “Chris has not been absent. He’s in good health, so that’s good news. He did request an immediate transfer out of your class.”

“Okay.” I can’t even guess at what reaction I should make, but I can tell she expects one. Her tone indicates this is bad news.

“Now, I think he may be embarrassed about getting sick the way he did. I spoke with Madison, and she gave me a very graphic, detailed description of the incident. It sounded very upsetting.”

“He threw up.”

“I know,” she says. “But you know how it goes. Kids and their imaginations.”

“Okay,” I say. I’m not going to bring up the spider. She can bring up the spider.

“It’s typical young-adult behavior. Deferring is very, very common at this age,” she says. “It’s difficult for them to process their own behavior, their own embarrassment. It’s much easier to point the finger at someone else.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks solemn for a moment, then shakes her head. “Never mind. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the transfer and okay with everything.”

“I’m fine with him transferring. If I’m honest, he was pretty disruptive,” I say.

“Mm,” she says, reaching into the Jolly Rancher jar and pulling out a purple one.

I’m baffled by anyone who prefers anything grape flavored. Sam is, too. It was one of the first things we bonded over when we met. Why not go straight for the cherry?

“Every student is different. It’s our job as educators to foster a positive environment conducive to growth and learning for all of our students. Candy?”

She tips the jar in my direction.