Page 330 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Yeah, sweetie? Oh, thanks for fixing Webster,” she says, thinking I was trying to show her I did what she’d asked. “You can go play now.”

“I have a question.”

“You do?” She looks up from the stack of papers she is shuffling through on her desk. “Can it wait until after recess?”

“I’ll never be your friend again.”

“I don’t think so.”

She angles her head to the side and stares at me. “What’s wrong, Grant?”

She’s going to hate me.

“What if someone told you something and made you promise to never tell anyone but you think you should tell someone?”

“Are you tattling on them?”

“No.”

“Are you saying something to make someone look bad so you look better?

“No.”

“Are you worried about their safety?”

I look down to the smiley face I wrote with Sharpie on my Converse and then look back to her.

Guns.

“Yes.”

“Come over here, Grant. Pull up a chair.”

With every step I take, I know Emmy is going to hate me that much more. She can’t hate me. Dad says it’s our duty to help people who are in trouble.

I move a chair toward Mrs. Gellar and sit. “Grant? What is it, honey?”

One of her hands is on her belly, and I stare at it, wondering if I’ll see the baby move beneath her black T-shirt if I look long enough.

“Grant?”

“It’s about Emmy.” My throat is dry. Like if I played really hard during recess and the line was too long at the drinking fountain before coming back into class so I didn’t get a drink.

“What about Emmy?” Her hand rubs back and forth and then stills again.

“She told me a secret, and I’m not supposed to tell, but—”

“What is it, Grant?

“She said when her mom goes to work at night, her dad has a gun and he molests her.” Her hand jerks on her tummy, but I can’t look up because I just broke my promise to Emmy and I’m scared she’s going to hate me. “But I don’t know what that means other than guns are bad and she’s going to hate me and—”

Mrs. Gellar puts her other hand on my shoulder. It makes me stop talking and meet her eyes, embarrassed when a tear slides down my cheek because boys don’t cry.

But it’s Emmy.

“Grant?” Her voice sounds funny—different—and her throat makes a funny sound when she swallows. “When did Emmy tell you this?”

“This morning.” I can barely get the word out. “Please don’t tell her I told you.”