Her Name In The Sky Part 29

FROM [email protected] TO Ms. Carpenter, please, I need your help. You're the only person I know who can hlep me. I'm so scared right now. I have feelings for another girl, feelings I'm not supposed to have. We did things together that you're not supposed to do, things I only should have done with a boy. i'm so shocked at myself that I feel like it didn't even happen, like it's not real. Sometimes when I think about it I'm just disgusted with myself and I feel so dirty, I feel so wrong and like G.o.d hates me. But the scariest part is I was so happy when we were togehter. It felt so amazing, it felt like everything I always wanted to have with someone. But I know that can't be true, I know that can't be what G.o.d wants for me. But then why did he make me like this? Why did he put this inside of me? Why did he make me feel like I'm always happiest when I'm with her?? I don't understand because I didn't ask for this and I've tried really hard to make it go away. Every time I get these feelings I feel like there's a monster inside of me, an evil monster that's trying to take me away from G.o.d and lead me to sin. I wish I could be better. Everyone esle expects me to be better. I'm dating a boy right now to try and make everything better but it's not working, it's nto working, and now I'm ruining my group of best friends too. Everything is getting out of control, I can't stop crying all the time, and now I'm drinking a lot too and I don't know hwy. I'm sorry to bother you with this but it's late and I've been drinking and I'm crying and I'm just so scared.

Hannah blinks back the tears in her eyes and raises her head to face the room again. Mr. Manceau leans forward off the window, his fat face hungry for an answer; Father Simon wears that too-kind expression Hannah has seen him wear during Confession; Mrs. Shackleford stares hard at Hannah over the knuckles of her folded hands; Ms. Carpenter still leans against the window and says nothing.

"Ms. Carpenter?" Hannah says.

"Yes, Hannah?"

"Where's your response?"

"Do you really need to read it?" Mr. Manceau says, holding up another piece of paper. "Don't you have it starred in your inbox?"

"Bob-" Mrs. Shackleford says.

"Did you write it or not?" Mr. Manceau demands.

Hannah grips the seat of her chair. She commands herself not to look back at her parents. Instead, she looks defiantly at Mr. Manceau and Father Simon. "Yes," she says. "I wrote it."

Her mom makes an involuntary sound behind her. Mrs. Shackleford drops her head onto her folded hands. Mr. Manceau smirks and glances to Father Simon, who taps his fingers to his mouth and says, "Well, I think that settles it."

"What?" Hannah asks.

Mrs. Shackleford leans back in her chair and moves her gla.s.ses up to the crown of her head. She rubs her eyes and takes a deep breath. "The thing is, Hannah," she says, her voice weary, "until now, we had no way of proving that this e-mail was written by one of our students. It could have been written by any random person with Internet access. If that had been the case, then Ms. Carpenter's response to the e-mail would have been...less of an issue. But because you're a St. Mary's student, and because Ms. Carpenter, your teacher, replied to your e-mail with advice that-" she stops, clears her throat, glares at the two men by the window-"advice that some in this diocese would deem inconsistent with the views of our Church and school..." She trails off and gestures at the air.

"What?" Hannah asks again. She shifts in her chair to look at Ms. Carpenter, who smiles sadly at her.

"It means they can fire me, Hannah," Ms. Carpenter says.

Hannah's stomach drops. "What? But-I don't understand-"

"It's okay, Hannah," Father Simon says kindly.

"No, it's not! Ms. Carpenter didn't do anything wrong!"

"Ms. Carpenter gave you guidance that is absolutely contradictory to the practice of our faith," Father Simon says patiently. "You trusted her, Hannah, and she failed you."

"She didn't fail me! And why are you talking about her like she's not in the room?"

Father Simon looks over to Mrs. Shackleford. "This is exactly what I was talking about, Brenda. She inspires this sort of misplaced pa.s.sion in her students."

"Excuse me," a new voice says. Hannah's dad steps forward and the faces in the room turn toward him. "Did you know you were writing to Hannah?" he asks Ms. Carpenter. He looks to Mr. Manceau and Father Simon. "If we follow the logic you're using, then Ms. Carpenter can't be fired if she didn't realize she was writing to a student."

"Actually, Tom," Father Simon says, "just based on the fact that she was using her St. Mary's e-mail address, she can absolutely be fired."

"Thank you, Mr. Eaden," Ms. Carpenter says, still wearing her sad smile. "I did actually know I was communicating with a St. Mary's student. That's why I had to respond."

Mr. Manceau shakes his head. Father Simon moves his mouth around as if experiencing lockjaw.

"Mr. Manceau," Hannah's mom says, "I'd like to see Ms. Carpenter's response to Hannah."

"I'd rather we not go into that," Father Simon interjects. "Suffice it to say, Anne, that the e-mail encouraged Hannah to give in to her feelings of same-s.e.x attraction-"

"With all due respect, Father Simon, I'd like to see for myself what Ms. Carpenter wrote to my daughter."

Mr. Manceau hands Hannah's mom the other piece of paper. Hannah's mom reads the e-mail slowly, her face expressionless, and then hands the paper to Hannah's dad. He reads it fast, his eyes jumping down the page and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Thank you," Hannah's dad says when he's finished. Hannah looks at him, then at her mother, and waits for them to meet her eyes. They both stare at the carpet instead.

"Tom, Anne, please let me be clear," Father Simon says. "Not a single one of us in this room thinks there is anything wrong with Hannah. Every person has her own burdens-every disciple of Christ has her own Cross to carry-and same-s.e.x attraction is a particularly difficult one. But I don't want Hannah to settle for thinking that she has to resign herself to living this way. Same-s.e.x attraction is something she can move past and heal from."

"You make it sound like Hannah has a disease," Hannah's mom says.

"Of course not," Father Simon says patiently. "Though don't forget that Christ tended to those with the meanest forms of disease. But, no, I would never suggest that Hannah has a disease. Same-s.e.x attraction is not a disease, but rather a disorder. Counter to the natural law, counter to G.o.d's plan for humanity-"

"A disorder?" Hannah's mom says. "Father, with all due respect, Hannah doesn't have a disorder."

"Then how would you cla.s.sify it, Anne? SSA is a deviation from the natural law. It is particularly sinister because many people-especially in our current culture-would have us believe that it's normal, that it's hereditary, that it can't be helped and so we might as well give in to it, but the reality is that it can be helped and that people who experience SSA have a special place in the Church, either through the vocation of prayerful single life or, in some cases, Holy Matrimony with another person of the opposite s.e.x. Hannah will be able to move past this. Through prayer, through choosing chast.i.ty, through faith in our generous G.o.d-"

"That's not true," Hannah says. She grips the seat of her chair until her knuckles hurt. When she speaks again, her voice is low and raspy. "I tried to believe all that stuff. I tried to trust that G.o.d could help me move past it. He couldn't. He didn't."

"Hannah," Father Simon says gently, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder. "He can. He will. And in the meantime, we're going to make sure you don't have to listen to the sort of outrageous heresy that you read in that e-mail-"

"Enough, Simon," Mrs. Shackleford says, holding up her hand. "I'd like to speak to Hannah and Ms. Carpenter alone."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Brenda-"

"I don't give a lick what you think right now," Mrs. Shackleford says in a loud, harsh voice, her eyes narrowed dangerously at Father Simon. "Personally, Simon, I don't consider it a good idea to hack into our teachers' e-mail accounts. And yet here we are, and so we will proceed accordingly. But first, as St. Mary's princ.i.p.al, I am going to have a word with Hannah and Ms. Carpenter alone."

"We're staying, too," Hannah's mom says, her voice quivering.

"Of course, Anne."

Father Simon and Mr. Manceau stand silent and motionless. Father Simon swallows hard with his jaw still clenched. Mr. Manceau's giant stomach moves up and down with his heavy breathing. Finally, after a long few seconds, both men turn and walk rigidly out of the office, closing the thick wooden door behind them.

"Well," Mrs. Shackleford says, leaning her head against her hands, "here we find ourselves in uncharted territory."

"I'm sorry," Hannah says.

"Don't be sorry, Hannah. This situation has been made into something much bigger than it should be because of politics and ignorance. It's not your fault."

"Ms. Carpenter," Hannah says timidly, "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize what would happen."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Ms. Carpenter says, stepping up to the desk and resting her hand on the corner of it. "Mrs. Shackleford's right, Hannah-this is about things outside of your control. What happens to me isn't important. I'll be just fine. But you, Hannah-are you sure you want to claim responsibility for this burden?"

Her eyes bore into Hannah's, and Hannah cannot look away even if she wants to: she feels like Ms. Carpenter is seeing into her soul. For a fleeting second, she wants to tell the truth, wants to shrug off this burden and be taken into her mother's arms. But then she remembers Baker's face, terrified beyond help as she sat in the courtyard.

"Yes," Hannah answers. "Yes, I want to claim responsibility."

Ms. Carpenter looks at her for another long moment, and then her eyes go soft.

"Hannah-Anne-Tom-" Mrs. Shackleford says. "I don't know exactly what's going to happen here. I'm going to fight hard to keep Ms. Carpenter at St. Mary's, but that decision might be beyond the scope of my control. Either way, Hannah is going to take some heat from her cla.s.smates. This community will not be happy about losing a beloved teacher."

"Yes, ma'am," Hannah says.

"Hannah-you're going to hear conflicting opinions about the content of your e-mail. Some of them will not be kind. They may even be judgmental-"

"Yes, ma'am, I know-"

"But I want you to know that I support you. Understand?"

Hannah finds it hard to answer around the heaviness in her chest. "Yes, ma'am, I understand."

"You can go home with your parents now. I'll have Mrs. Stewart check you out of fourth block. If you need me for anything-" Mrs. Shackleford turns her eyes now to Hannah's parents-"don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you," Hannah's mom says. Hannah's dad clears his throat and nods.

Hannah stands to leave, but Ms. Carpenter rests a hand on her arm. "Hannah," she says, "I want you to know I'm proud of you. Keep going, okay? Don't lose faith."

There is a great surge of emotion in Hannah's throat. She takes a slow breath to speak around it, but she starts to cry anyway. "Thanks, Ms. Carpenter."

Then she turns and walks to the door. Her parents flank her on either side, their posture slumped and their eyes focused straight ahead. Hannah takes one last look as she steps out of the room: Mrs. Shackleford sits at her desk, her shoulders hunched and her hand raised to her forehead; Ms. Carpenter stands next to her, her eyes trained on Hannah, and she is smiling and smiling and smiling.

Chapter Thirteen: The Arms of Hanging Men.

"You can meet us at home," her mom says once Hannah has retrieved her booksack. "We'll get Joanie later."

"You don't have to go back to work?" Hannah asks.

"No, Hannah," her dad says sadly. "Not today."

Hannah's hands shake on the steering wheel. She winds her way through the Garden District, over the black asphalt damp with rainwater and under the tall, lush trees that stretch above the streets, their branches twisted out to the side like the arms of hanging men. Her wrists ache from having gripped the chair in Mrs. Shackleford's office for so long. The collar of her uniform shirt rubs against her neck, choking her.

Her parents' cars sit in the carport. Hannah parks on the empty street and looks into the front windows of her house. She can imagine her parents inside, her father's head in his hands as he bends over the kitchen table, her mother scrubbing at dirty dishes while furious tears run over the faded freckles on her cheeks.

Hannah's throat burns with thick, hot emotion. She drops her hands from the steering wheel, but they still shake in her lap. She looks through the windshield at the tall oak trees that guard her neighborhood street, and she wants nothing more than to climb to the top of them and hide beneath their leaves.

She finds her parents standing on opposite sides of the kitchen, both of them silent as she walks into the room. Her dad leans against the stove and wipes his palms with a dishtowel. Her mom stands at the kitchen window, glancing out over the back porch.

Hannah drops her booksack on the floor and waits.

A long minute pa.s.ses. Hannah's dad drops the dishtowel over the stove plates, then picks it back up again and wipes at his left palm, then his right, back and forth, back and forth. Hannah's mom stands as still as a deer, so that Hannah wonders if she even noticed her come into the house.

But then her mom speaks.

"You should have talked to us."

"I didn't know how."

"But you knew how to drunkenly e-mail your teacher about it?"

"I wasn't thinking," Hannah says, her voice shaking. "I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if you and Dad would be angry with me-"

"Well it looks like you managed to avoid that, huh?"

"Mama, I'm sorry-"

"Now we're finding out at the same time as the entire school and church community," her mom says in a thick voice. She turns around and crosses her arms over her chest. Her lip trembles. "No time to process-no time to figure out how to defend you-"

"You don't have to defend me! I'm fine!"

"Don't be so naive, Hannah! If you think people aren't going to talk about this-if you think people aren't going to treat you differently-"

"Let them! I don't care! I don't give a s.h.i.t what anyone thinks of me!"

"WELL WE DO!" her mom yells, slamming her hand down on the counter. "We do! You're our daughter-you're our daughter and we love you-we've loved you since the day we found out we were going to have you-and we don't want you treated unfairly! We don't want you discriminated against and shamed and hated! We don't ever want to see you treated the way you were treated in that office today!"

Her mom starts to cry, her eyes swinging up at an angle as she tries to block the tears in frustration, and Hannah cries, too, her sinuses swelling and her tears falling onto her collared shirt.

Her dad clears his throat. His voice scratches when he speaks. "Joanie texted me. I'm going to pick her up." He rubs at his chin as he leaves the room. A moment later, he returns. He clears his throat again. "Forgot my keys."

Hannah slumps down onto one of the counter stools. She and her mom wipe their eyes and do not look at each other.

"I'm making you some soup," her mom says. "What do you want?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Tomato or chicken noodle?"

"I don't want anything."

Her mom fills a midsized pot with water and places it on the stovetop. She steps into the pantry and grabs a can of soup.

"I don't want it," Hannah repeats.

Her mom sniffles and winds her hand around the can opener. "You need to eat something."

Hannah relents. Her mom stands at the stovetop and stirs a spoon around the pot, occasionally tapping metal against metal. She sets crackers in front of Hannah without looking at her.

"Here you go," she says a few minutes later, placing a white ceramic bowl in front of Hannah. Hannah swirls the tomato soup around the bowl, watching the thick orange-red liquid curve along her spoon.

"Mama? You haven't said anything about the actual content of the e-mail."