At noon, my phone rang while I was shelving inventory in the back office at work.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon.” The voice was strained, formal, wrong. “This is Principal Harris from Brookfield Middle School. Please come to the school as fast as you can. Something has happened, and Emma is involved.”
For a moment I forgot how to breathe.
My hand tightened around the phone. “What happened? Is she hurt?”
“She is not physically injured,” he said, but his voice shook enough to terrify me. “Please just come immediately.”
I don’t remember hanging up. I remember grabbing my purse. I remember telling my manager, “My daughter. School.” I remember red lights that lasted too long and my heart pounding so hard it made me nauseous.
By the time I ran into the school building, I was half convinced I’d find Emma in an ambulance or suspended or worse.
Principal Harris was waiting in the hallway outside his office. He looked pale.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
