"Already done."
"And I want—" He stopped. He looked down at the folder under his hands. "I want those four families contacted. By me. Personally. I'll make the calls myself."
Malcolm nodded once, slowly.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me yet, Commander." Harrison rubbed a hand over his face. He suddenly looked ten years older than the man in the photograph behind him, and also, in some way that was hard to define, more like him. "This is going to get very ugly. You understand that. Patricia Cross is not going to accept this quietly. She's going to call the superintendent before I've finished my email. She's going to call every member of the board. She's going to say it's a misunderstanding, and a slippery floor, and a jealous new girl, and a father who's using his rank to bully a school. And a lot of people in this town are going to believe her. Because she's Patricia Cross, and she's been here thirty years, and you've been here eleven weeks."
"Then let them," said Malcolm. "The tape doesn't care how long anybody's lived here."
Harrison almost smiled. Almost.
"There's one more thing," he said. He reached over and picked up a sheet of paper from a tray at the corner of his desk, and looked at it, and then looked up at the commander with an odd expression on his face. "I'd forgotten about this until just now. When you said your name at the door. I knew I'd seen it somewhere." He turned the paper around. It was a printed program, folded in thirds, in navy and gold. On the front, under the school crest, it said: WESTFIELD COLONIALS VS. KELLAM KNIGHTS — HOMECOMING — MILITARY APPRECIATION NIGHT. And underneath, in smaller print: Special Guest of Honor for the Coin Toss and Halftime Recognition: Commander Malcolm J. Johnson, United States Navy.
"The athletic director asked the training command at Dam Neck to send us a guest officer," said Harrison slowly. "Back in September. For homecoming. They sent your name. Two weeks ago. We printed it." He looked at the commander. "You knew."
"I knew," said Malcolm. "I said yes before we moved. Before I'd ever heard of Madison Cross." He looked at the program for a moment. "I was going to call the athletic director this morning and bow out. Under the circumstances."
"And now?"
The commander was quiet for a moment. Then he picked up the program from the desk and looked at it a while longer and folded it once more and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket, where the sheet of paper with the four names had been.
"I've thought about it," he said. "I think I'll keep the appointment. I gave my word." He stood up. He was very tall, standing, in the small paneled office. "I don't break my word, Mr. Harrison. Not to schools. Not to anybody."
He held out his hand. After a moment, the principal stood and shook it. The commander's grip was firm and dry and brief.
"Does Alana know?" asked Coach Williams from the door. "That you're here? That you're the guest tonight?"
"No, ma'am. Not yet." For the first time since he had walked into the office, something moved in Malcolm Johnson's face. It was small, and it was gone quickly, but both of them saw it. It looked like a father who was not sure whether he had done the right thing. "She asked me to stay out of it. To let her handle it herself. She's very proud. She gets that from her mother." He paused. "I told her to go to school and act like nothing happened. And I'd like her to keep doing that. For one more day. I'd like her to walk through this building today with her head up and not know that anybody's fighting for her except her. I think that matters." He picked up his laptop. "I'll tell her tonight. After the game."
"She'll be angry," said Coach Williams.
"Yes, ma'am. Probably. She usually is when I'm right." He nodded to them both. "Thank you for your time."
And he walked out of the office, and through the outer office, past the secretary, who stood up without knowing why she was standing, and down the long corridor of the administration building toward the parking lot, his dress shoes making no sound at all on the carpet.
Gerald Harrison sat back down at his desk. He looked at the folder for a while. Then he turned to his computer, and opened a new email, and addressed it to the superintendent, and in the subject line, after a long moment, he typed: Formal investigation — student safety — Westfield High School varsity cheer. Then he began to write.
Dana Williams watched him from the doorway for a minute. Then she unfolded her arms, and let out a long breath she felt she had been holding for six years, and went back to her gym.
* * *
Alana found out what everyone had been looking at on their phones at lunch.