Sisters of Heart and Snow by Margaret Dilloway

“Rachel, you have to stop. Your father won’t forgive you.” Her face was lined, worried. “Some . . . boy’s mother called. She said you got him drunk.”
    I stopped, wondering which boy she was talking about. Because there had been more than one. At parties in strange houses, buzzed on watery beer, I’d hook up with almost any boy who’d wanted me. Which, since they were teenagers, was pretty much all of them. “Do you think I’m pretty?” I would say, standing naked before each one. I felt powerful, wanted. “Yeah,” each boy had said.
    I stood in front of my mother and recalled all of this and felt nothing. Numb. Little pieces of my soul were getting chipped out and thrown away, and I didn’t care anymore. Being numb was better. “He wanted to,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”
    My mother rubbed her temples and looked at the floor. We hadn’t known, but she was probably already experiencing the first stages of dementia. Sometimes she struggled to find words, used the wrong ones—I just thought it was because English was her second language. Looking back, I think that’s why she had so many unfinished quilting projects. But I was young then, and not searching my parents for signs of illness.
    I waited for my mother to speak. I wanted her to forbid me to leave, to order me back to my room. To tell me I still had some worth, even if I couldn’t swim. I could not articulate any of this. Couldn’t even think it consciously. Instead, I pushed past her and she clutched onto the railing. My mother had no power. She knew nothing about my life. She was a figurehead, not a parent. “Just leave me alone.” I knew she’d do as I asked, because it was easier, and she did.
    The following week, another kid reported he’d seen a bag of weed in my locker. My father stood in the principal’s office stone-faced as the principal asked if I had anything to say for myself before I was expelled.
    I said nothing.
    â€œIt’s not hers,” my father said. “She told me her friend gave her a paper bag, said it was a sandwich. Asked Rachel to hold on to it until lunch. How was she supposed to know? Her friend probably saw the dog coming.”
    The principal furrowed his gray-white brow. “And who is this friend?”
    My father shrugged his big shoulders. “You want her to be a pariah on top of everything else? Tell you what.” He stood up. “You should decide what’ll be more expedient. You can expel Rachel and get a lawsuit that you’ll end up settling for a lot of money, maybe with your job—or you can give her a one-week suspension.”
    I hadn’t told him any such thing. For a second I had the urge to tell the truth. Yes, it was my weed. Yes, I deserved anything thrown at me. But that would make it worse. My father would flip out. I held my tongue. My stomach churned and I began to cry.
    The principal didn’t answer. I wondered what power my father had that my principal knew about.
    Killian gestured to me. “Come on, Rachel.”
    The principal looked right at me. I remembered him shaking my hand after I won a CIF championship. Saying hello to me in the hallways. All the wrinkles of his face seemed to drop to the center of the earth. “Is this true, Rachel?”
    No
, I whispered in my head. I nodded.
    â€œTell him, Rachel,” my father prompted.
    They were waiting. I swallowed. “I guess somebody stuck it into my locker while I was getting my books out. I didn’t even see it.”
    The principal sighed. “Well, you’re a good kid. I’m inclined to believe you.” He shook hands with my father. “Too bad about the swimming.”
    â€œIt is too bad.” My father smiled his easy Cheshire Cat grin, the one nobody seemed to see through but me. “She’ll find something else. She’s a great kid. The best.”
    I