I ignore the pages she’s holding up. “Tell me about the Secret Pooper.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Secret Pooper. The Mysterious Defecator. The Crazy Shitter. Whatever you’re calling the person who’s gone to the bathroom on the floor of the middle school. Twice.”

She lets out a short panicked gasp. “Who told you about that?”

“My son, of course!” My voice is suddenly shrill but I don’t care. “Why haven’t you informed parents? Why haven’t you told us? We have a right to know that our kids could be in danger.” I want to poke her but I don’t.

“I’m sorry, Judy, but I’m late for Spanish,” she says, racing now around the big teachers’ table, collecting her things—folders and books and a big ceramic mug of tea that produces so much steam I wonder if it’s full of dry ice. Unlike last week, when she chased me down the hallway and wouldn’t leave me alone, she barely looks at me now.

“I can’t believe there’s been no official word about this extremely disturbing situation. I mean, how many emails went out to parents last year about acceptable brands of organic non-GMO gluten-free pancake mix for the annual pancake breakfast?” When she doesn’t answer, I do. “At least twenty.”

“Accommodating dietary restrictions is something the administration and the school community take very seriously.”

“More than informing parents and protecting children from a potential psychopath-situation?”

She stops and makes a frownie-face by pulling down on both sides of her mouth with her fingers. “Oh, Judy. I can’t believe you’re that kind of parent.”

My mouth drops open. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re totally overreacting. It’s not a ‘situation.’ It’s a small problem that we’re taking very seriously. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”

I make a frownie-face with my mouth, too. “Pardon the pun.”

She doesn’t laugh and neither do I. I get the distinct feeling that she’s hiding something—at the very least she’s minimizing the problem. Willful ignorance and denial seem to be their only strategy.

“Do you know who’s doing it?”

“No. But we’re looking at every single middle-schooler, since they’re the ones with access to this building. Even the quiet kids.” She doesn’t blink. “Especially the quiet kids.”

My stomach drops. I suddenly remember everything I told her that day after my presentation—how worried I was about how introverted Teddy had become. “What does that mean?” I’m so afraid she’s referring to him that I’m tempted to apologize.

“It means, no one is above suspicion.” Grace stops at the glass door before opening it. “Oh, and Judy?” she says, pointing to the sling. “Next time, leave the dog at home. Without an official therapy vest and the accompanying paperwork, pets are not allowed in the school.”

“The dog’s name is Charlotte.”

“I don’t care, Judy.”

“Well you should.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Well that says a lot about why this place is turning to shit. Literally.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”