The Morning of the Wig and the Phone Call That Sent Me to the School
Before school the next day, Letty and I picked up the finished wig from Teresa.
In the car, Letty held the box in her lap and looked out the windshield.
“Do you think Millie will actually wear it?”
“I don’t know, baby. It might feel strange to her. But even if she doesn’t — even if she puts it in a drawer — she’ll know you heard her in that bathroom. She’ll know someone listened.”
Letty nodded once, like she was filing that away.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Do I look weird? With my hair like this?”
“You look exactly like yourself,” I said. “Just with considerably less maintenance.”
That got a real smile.
She carried the box into school.
Two hours later, Principal Brennan was calling.
By the time I pulled into the school parking lot, my hands were damp on the steering wheel and my mind had constructed a dozen different versions of whatever I was about to walk into. None of them were right.
Brennan was waiting outside the office door.
“What is this?” I asked. “Who are these men?”
“They came in together, Piper. All of them in plant jackets, asking for Letty by name. My secretary panicked. Then I did. But then Letty heard them say Jonathan’s name and she asked if she could stay.”
“Why is she with strangers?”
His face shifted. “Because the moment they mentioned her father, she looked at them and sat down. And honestly — I don’t think they’re strangers. Not to her.”
He opened the office door.
What Was on the Desk and Who Was Standing in the Room
Letty was by the window with both hands pressed over her mouth.
Beside her sat a girl with a thin face and uncertain eyes, wearing the wig — wearing it the way you wear something you’re not entirely sure you deserve, touching the edge of it softly like checking whether it was real.
Behind the girl, a woman stood with a tissue against her face.
And on Principal Brennan’s desk, in the center of everything, sat Jonathan’s yellow hard hat.
His name was written in permanent marker inside the rim. The glittery purple star Letty had stuck on it when she was six years old was still there, slightly faded, exactly where she’d put it.
Six men in plant jackets stood around the desk looking like people who had dressed for a job site and ended up somewhere that required a different kind of strength than what their work usually asked of them.
I stood in the doorway and felt the room tilt.
Brennan stepped in behind me and closed the door.
