He found that he was having difficulty breathing properly. He was aware of the sound of the clock on his wall, and of a phone ringing somewhere out in the main office, and of a lawnmower going back and forth on the field outside his window. He was aware of his own heart. He was aware, most of all, of the photograph on the wall behind him, and of the young man in it, who had gone into education because he had believed, at twenty-two, with total sincerity, that schools were places where children were kept safe.
"Commander," he said at last. His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Commander, I don't—I need to be careful about what I say."
"I understand."
"That footage is—it's very concerning. Very concerning. I want to say that clearly." He picked up the pen again, and held it so tightly that his knuckles went pale. "But I have to think about due process. Madison is a student here too. She has rights. Her family—" He stopped.
"Go on," said Malcolm. "Her family."
Harrison put the pen down.
"Her mother is the vice chair of the school board," he said. "Her father built half of this campus. They've been very involved. Very generous. With the athletics program in particular. The new gym, the scoreboard, the cheer program's travel budget. The booster club." He looked down at his desk. "I'm not saying that changes anything. I want to be clear. I'm just telling you the situation. If I bring this forward, there will be a great deal of pressure. On me. On Coach Williams. On the district."
"I know," said Malcolm. "I read the board minutes."
Harrison looked up sharply.
"All of them," said the commander. "Last four years. They're online. It took me about two hours." He did not smile. "I'm not here about the board, Mr. Harrison. I want to be very clear about that too. What the board did or didn't do with its contracts is not my business. There are people whose business it is. If they ever want to look at it, the minutes are public, and they'll find the same things I found. That's for them to decide. Not me. And not today." He paused. "I'm here about my daughter. And about four other girls."
"Four other—"
Malcolm reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a single folded sheet of paper and unfolded it and laid it on the desk, facing the principal. On it, in small, neat, even handwriting that Harrison recognized with a strange jolt as being almost exactly the same as the daughter's, were four names.
Sofia Reyes. Destiny Moore. Grace Kowalski. Kenya Bell.
"Four girls," said Malcolm, "who made the varsity cheer squad at this school in the last three years, and who left it before the end of their first season. All four after Madison Cross became a varsity flyer. Two after accidents in practice. Two for reasons nobody wrote down." He tapped the last name with one finger. "This one's father served with me. Chief Petty Officer Raymond Bell. I called him last night. He told me his daughter came home from practice crying three times in her first month. Somebody took her uniform out of her locker before the first home game and she found it in the shower drain, soaking wet, the night before she was supposed to wear it. She was sent a photograph of herself, taken in the locker room, without her knowledge, by a number she didn't recognize. When her father called the school, he was told it was a misunderstanding between girls, and that these things happen, and that maybe Kenya should think about whether she was a good fit for a program with such high standards." He paused. "She quit in December. Her father moved her to a private school in January. It cost him most of his retirement savings. He didn't tell me that. I worked it out."
Harrison stared at the paper.
"I don't remember that call," he said. His voice was barely a whisper.
"It wasn't to you. It was to the assistant principal at the time. He left the district last summer." Malcolm's voice remained perfectly even. "I'm not blaming you for that call, Mr. Harrison. I want to be fair. I'm telling you because I think you didn't know. And because I think you should."
The principal said nothing for a long time.
Out on the field, the lawnmower had stopped. The clock ticked. Somewhere in the main office the phone rang again and was answered. Harrison looked at the four names on the paper, in that neat, small handwriting, and then at the closed laptop on the commander's knees, and then, finally, up at the man himself. And what he saw in the commander's face surprised him. It was not anger. He had expected anger. He had braced for it, the way you brace for weather. It was something heavier and quieter than anger. It looked almost like grief.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.