May We Be Forgiven

Jason says.
    I write it down.
    “I wonder if maybe he’s involved in a cult or some weird activity, or maybe his e-mail was hijacked. I had that happen, and all my friends got an e-mail saying I’d been robbed in London and they should wire me money—cost my buddies a couple of thousand bucks.”
    “I’ll look into it,” I say. “And you, are you doing well?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “And your mother?”
    “As well as can be expected.”
    “Jason, would you want to have dinner sometime?”
    “In the city?”
    “Yes,” I say, “that would be nice.”
    “It doesn’t have to be, like, a big long thing,” he says.
    “Of course not,” I say.
    “A quick bite somewhere,” he says.
    “A quick bite,” I echo.
    “I don’t mean to be rude, but is it something specific?” Jason asks. “I mean, is there an agenda or some specific something that you want to talk about?”
    “No, really nothing at all,” I say.
    “Fine,” he says, “we could do that sometime; not right now, but sometime.”
    “Okay,” I say, “let me know what works.”
    I hang up, wondering, do I e-mail George, do I somehow contact AOL and find out if this is really George’s account? I’m not sure I want to be “in touch,” so easily reachable. I continue to draw circles around the address until it looks like a Spirograph project. I pin it to the wall by the fridge just in case. …

    S ara Singer, the head of Ashley’s school, calls again. “I won’t beat around the bush,” she says. “It is my feeling that it is no longer in Ashley’s best interests to remain here.”
    “You’re kicking her out?”
    “We are protecting her.”
    “From what, your staff?”
    “And the other students. It’s getting ugly. Ashley deserves a more accepting environment.”
    “Let’s not throw out the baby with the bathwater. Are you pathologizing a child struggling with the death of her mother, the collapse of her family, who was preyed upon by a teacher—a figure of authority, who should have been a comfort, a moral compass?”
    “She’s been taken over by the gays and the bois.”
    “I didn’t realize that there were gangs at the school.”
    “Not gangs—but preferences. She’s been taken in by the gay students and the gender-confused. Frankly, I don’t think it’s the place for her. And it’s become a bit of a stir—sort of ‘who can feel sorrier for her,’ like that experiment where kids carry around an egg for a week and have to take care of it like they would a baby. … In this case, the various factions are warring over who should take care of Ashley, and as you can imagine, the faculty has had to adopt a hands-off policy.”
    “No pun intended,” I mutter.
    “It’s time to think about looking at different options. It would be nice if she left sooner rather than later—gave the other students a chance to begin to heal.”
    “When would you want her to leave school?”
    “The sooner the better,” she says. “I realize there’s not much left to the school year but the lid is about to blow. I am prepared to offer you a full refund of the tuition along with the deposit for next year, that’s a total of seventy-five thousand dollars, and we will give her a strong letter of recommendation and suggest an internship for the last part of the term. She can continue to explore her interest in soap opera. I’ve got someone who can set it up. Ashley mentioned wanting to work at ABC in New York, but my old college roommate runs a puppet theater in Scarsdale, called Higgledy Piggledy Pop: A Puppet Place. It’s a local community theater, and I think it would be a good placement. Ashley can write a final paper about her experience, combining her interest in theater, puppetry, and the narrative of the soap operas.”
    “Sounds ambitious for an eleven-year-old,” I say. “What does Ashley think?”
    “She’s in her room packing. The bois are helping her with the heavy stuff.”
    “Well, I don’t think seventy-five thousand is going to do it,” I say.
    “What do you mean, ‘do it’?”
    “Considering the damage not only to her academic life, but to her emotional development, the violation of trust—”
    “I can go to one fifty,” she says, cutting me off.
    “Two fifty is where the conversation starts,” I say.
    “I’ll need to go to the board.”
    “Ashley is not leaving until there’s a certified check in hand,” I say.
    “Can I call you back?”
    “Please,” I say, and hang up, pleased with