Fox spoke again. “Now I’d like some constructive conversation about this issue. And I want it now.” A brief, chastised silence, then various voices were raised, suggestions were made, at first timidly, then with greater and greater vigor. Most of my colleagues, though they had been quiet during the confrontation, seemed to feel as Jana did, that further diversifying the school was a wise course of action, and suggested numerous ways we might do so. No one looked at me. I could feel people willing their eyes not to drift my way.

At last the meeting ended. The tension that had built up in the room dissipated somewhat as we dispersed, but I still felt as though I had been bound with piano wire for an hour. Jana fell into step with me as we left the building. After what seemed an eternity she said, “How are you?”

At the sound of her voice I found I could look at her. Her eyes were gentle and sad. Rather as mine were, I suppose. “I have had better days,” I said.

“Me too.”

We fell silent. We had arrived at the parking lot. She looked around quickly, as though someone might have followed us. But there was no one. “Come talk to me for a minute,” she said. She opened her car door, got in, reached over to let me in. Once again she was in charge. I got in.

Once I was seated, we both stared out the window for a minute. Finally I found my voice. “Jana. I don’t know if I can stand this.” My God. I’d had no idea I was going to say that. So desperate. Had I lost control completely? I clenched my hands into fists on the car seat. I could smell her grassy perfume. It filled the car.

“I know,” she said. “But I think we’ll have to. Don’t you? I mean … we just can’t …” She sighed. “I mean, for one thing, we work together in this tiny school. And it was … nice, it was great but—” Her voice caught. “It just … happened.” She stopped, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, swallowed twice before she could speak again. “I was listening to you in there, and watching you and thinking, I hardly know him at all. You can’t really think so little of a boy like Rashid, can you?”

I could not have been more shocked if she had reached across the seat and slapped me. “What in God’s name has this got to do with the Bryson boy?”

She looked at me. Her eyes were intensely green. “Do you see how you can’t even say his name? His name is Rashid.”

My hands clenched even tighter. I struggled to keep my voice measured. “All right. His name is Rashid. But what does that have to do with what’s happened between us?”