Fat School Confidential (32 page)

   
Bad timing aside, all I could think of was getting the interview/interrogation over and done with, and driving Wendy to L.A. If I could just drop her off at that college and salvage what I could with Ellie, I would.

   
If it wasn’t too late already.

    “
Can’t we just focus on the here and now?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

    “
Yeah. I guess,” she replied, her puppy-dog eyes fading.

    “
We can worry about that when we get over the Grapevine.”

   
Worry? I was worried then and there. And what the fuck was I going to do once we reached L.A.? I couldn’t go back to teaching, that much was obvious. I was burning that bridge, and I wasn’t even on the other side. I’d be back to square one career-wise. I’d be back to square one relationship-wise.

   
And after crashing on the couch or on the floor at Roy’s apartment in North Hollywood, what then? Call Mama Rourke? She’d have a field day with me—if she survived the initial shock. I couldn’t even begin to fathom what my siblings—estranged as they were—would surmise.

   
Scenarios played out at breakneck speed. My mind was in overdrive—plotting, changing course, and plotting again. But no matter how varied or numerous these scenarios were, nothing added up to a positive resolution. But like that nerdy kid trying to figure out Rubik’s Cube, I was determined to succeed.

   
The freeway signs were looking familiar again—we were getting close to our destination. I turned off the radio. I was done listening to the music.

    “
Just remember to tell them the truth,” I said.

    “
Of course, I will. They could fucking test me to prove I didn’t sleep with you if it makes them happy.”

   
What was that about? Test her for what? STDs? Sperm transmissions? We didn’t swap spit. But I was game for any solution if it meant clearing my name.

    “
Uh, sure,” I replied.

   
We pulled into Pixley at close to two in the afternoon. I was hungry for lunch and dead tired. And I was panicked. Panicked that the Fox News van was going to be at the substation. Panicked that the news may have already reported Daniel’s assertion that Wendy had the mind of a thirteen-year-old, and, by implication, that I was a sexual predator.

   
Fuck.

   
Either way, I was more than a little relieved to face whatever questions were in store for us at the substation. We both were.

   
And when we finally arrived, we found the parking lot empty—as if God listened to me bitch and moan inside my head.

    “
Wow. They’re not here,” I said, thinking aloud.

    “
Who?” Wendy asked, straightening herself in the seat.

   
Catching myself, I shook my head. “Never mind.”

   
We parked up against the small, gray, one-story cinderblock building, and, after turning off the engine, I turned to face Wendy.

    “
No matter what happens, I just want to say, I love you.”

   
Like a deer in the headlights, Wendy just sat there—staring back at me. Those three words flew out of my mouth before I could really think it through. If anything, I was numb and devoid of feeling any love for her—at least, right here, right now. The roller coaster ride of the past eighteen hours had left me overwhelmed with mental decisions, and underwhelmed with emotional ones. Why, then, did I have the compulsion to say what I did? I remember saying that to a host of girlfriends in the long-ago past, just as a way to get in their pants or, as was often the case, smother them into abandoning me. Was I doing the same to Wendy?

   
We walked into the substation in silence. After a brief wait in the lobby, a large, bald deputy escorted us past a metal entry door into a large communal room. A wooden table dominated the middle of the space. The deputy motioned us to sit at the table, and then walked over to join another pair of deputies. He whispered something to them, which apparently caused them to smile. All three glanced back at us. Were they talking about us?

    “
Dude, that’s the teacher!”

    “
Oh yeah. He looks horny enough.”

    “
What a sick fuck.”

    “
Yeah, she’s kinda hot—if she weren’t wearing sweats—and that angry bitch look.”

   
Who knew if they were actually saying such disparagements, but whatever they were saying was probably none of my damned business.

   
Wendy and I glanced at each other, and then surveyed our surroundings. Lit by fluorescents, the room seemed to have

seen better days. The walls, the cabinets, and some of the fixtures were all painted a bland, industrial-grade beige.

   
After talking to our bald friend, one of the pair of deputies—a young Latino with short spiky hair—approached us and gestured Wendy to accompany him. Getting up from her chair, Wendy stared at me, as if she wanted encouragement with what to say to the officer. I gave her a quick nod, trying not to send her any mixed signals in the process. She joined him, walking down a hall opposite the entry before disappearing into another room. I had to wait my turn.

   
And wait I did.   

   
The feeling of relief was still there. I had nothing to hide. I planned to tell the truth. No more distress over third party miscommunications or indefensible lies or screened phone calls. But whatever measure of relief I possessed was fleeting. And I knew it.

   
About thirty minutes in, one of the deputies came into the room to tell me that the KMPH Fox News van was setting up shop outside.

    “
They’re not coming inside, right?” I asked.

    “
No. They know to wait,” the deputy replied, business-like.

   
I was hoping this news van was the same one that was camped in front of our apartment in Kingsburg earlier in the day. And if it wasn’t, I was fairly confident Ellie didn’t cave under the pressure.

   
Fairly confident—but not certain.

   
A few more minutes passed when Wendy bounded out of the room. Beaming with pride, she sat next to me.

    “
I think it worked. They just have to talk to you.”

    “
That’s it?” I asked, a little skeptical.

    “
They’re trying to get this psychologist to talk to me too,” she replied.

    “
Huh?”

   
Before Wendy could answer, the same deputy signaled for me to join him in the same interrogation room. Flashing Wendy a quick, if pained smile, I joined Officer Spiky Hair in the room.

   
A psychologist? Maybe that had something to do with proving Wendy had the mind of an eighteen-year-old—which she was—rather than that of a thirteen-year-old—which she wasn’t.

   
Seated across from me, the officer started the round of questioning.

    “
So, did you quit, or were you fired?”

    “
I was put on leave,” I said, remembering something Bill mentioned in one of his voicemail messages. Then I corrected myself. “I was fired.”

    “
Before or after your employer discovered your relationship with Miss Barts?”

    “
After,” I said, a little annoyed. Wasn’t that obvious? Why else would I have gotten fired? On second thought, maybe the man in uniform was just trying to get the facts straight.

    “
This was when Miss Barts accompanied you in your vehicle?” the deputy asked—with more authoritarian conviction than inquiry.

    “
About an hour later,” I replied. Furrowing his brow, the deputy seemed puzzled by my response. He moved on with other questions—some of them to compare with Wendy’s answers, some, I supposed, to make me fold or fuck up.

    “
Why did you proceed back to the school when you were warned not to?”

    “
Was Miss Barts aware of the phone calls from her family?”

    “
Where did you and Miss Barts stay for the evening?”

    “
Did you make any threats to Miss Barts?”

   
I answered each and every one of the questions as truthfully as I could. I counted on Wendy to do the same.

   
Once done with the grilling, I was excused to join Wendy in the main room. But she wasn’t there. I sat solo at the table. Wondering where she was.

   
After a few minutes, Wendy appeared, joining me once again at the table.

    “
The psychologist had to call in from Sacramento,” she started, before adding, “I think we’re done.”

    “
You mean, we can go?”

   
Wendy nodded, replying, “He said according to him, I was mentally fit.”

    “
Really? That’s great!”

    “
Wait. There’s more. He said he couldn’t believe anyone would say I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old.”

    “
No shit.”

   
The bald deputy approached us.

    “
Well, as far as we’re concerned, you’re free to go,” the deputy stated.

   
Free to go? That was it? No papers to sign? No witnesses to corroborate our release? Maybe “free to go” indeed meant, “free to go.”

   
Breathing a sigh of relief, I stood up. “You must be Sheriff Henderson, right?” I asked, finally noticing his name badge. I extended my hand.

    “
Yes, sir, I am,” he replied, shaking my hand.

    “
Thank you.”

   
It didn’t feel weird to be shaking hands with the man who was responsible for almost having me arrested. It felt invigorating. It felt liberating. After so many hours of trying to convince everyone I didn’t kidnap Wendy, I was proven in the right. I might have been unemployed, and I might have been a no-good husband and an errant dad, but at least I was going into a future—murky as it was—with some of my dignity intact.

   
Fox News, I’m ready for my close-up.

   
Sheriff Henderson turned to face my partner in crime.

    “
Wendy, before you go, there’s someone to see you in the lobby.”

   
Wendy glanced my way, confused. I gave a nervous shrug.

    “
Who?” she asked.

    “
A Cindy Anderson from Academy of the Sierras.”

   
Cindy? Why the fuck was Cindy here? Was Daniel with her, or was he phoning in his orders? It didn’t matter that law enforcement was backing off, A.O.S.’s own enforcers were intent in reeling Wendy back in. And for what purpose? They were just going to send Wendy packing on the next red-eye to Small Town, Illinois. That was, if they could persuade her.

   
Why then, was I so fucking angry with them? Could I really blame my bosses for what they were doing? I was the one at fault in all of this. It was one thing to be pissed at whatever lies they were spewing; it was quite another to be pissed at them for just doing their job.

   
A little defeated, I smiled at Wendy. “What are you gonna do, right?” She gave the smallest of smiles—was she sensing finality too, or was she just nervous? I was hoping the latter.

   
She trudged towards the lobby. I sat back down.

    “
Can I stay here?” I asked Henderson.

    “
Sure. There’s nothing keeping you here, but suit yourself,” he replied, before shuffling off to his office, paperwork in hand.

   
And I again, waited. By remaining inside the safety of the substation, I avoided confronting the KMPH news crew stationed outside. Although I was hungry to vindicate my name, I didn’t want to face the cameras alone. I didn’t want to face Cindy either, but given how tenacious she and Bill and Daniel had held on, facing her was inevitable. My only hope was that Wendy would stand her ground with her.

   
The wait, this time, was short. Sheriff Henderson surfaced from his office long enough to tell me the talk with Cindy was done. I thanked him, and made my way towards the entrance. I walked into the lobby to find myself alone. Where the fuck was Wendy?

   
Stepping outside into the waning light of day, I found a near-empty parking lot, save my Honda and a Sheriff’s cruiser. The news van was gone—was it even there in the first place?

   
Scanning the lot, I found Cindy and Bill standing there, just to my right, by the entrance. They glanced my way. While Bill’s expression seemed terminally devoid of emotion, Cindy’s was that of disappointment. Her arms folded, she looked at me, only to quickly turn away.