Page 38 of We Are All Guilty Here

“They all blend together after a while. Phones are my white whale.” Celia handed her a clipboard that had a list of namesand dates. “I make the kids sign them in, so I don’t have to touch the screens. God knows I don’t need to get pink eye. The rule is, if you use it in class, I keep it for four school days. If that’s over a weekend or a holiday, sorry about your luck.”

Emmy looked at the long list of scribbled names. There were no checks or Xs to indicate when the phones were returned to students. “How do you know if a kid gets their phone back?”

“They’re scratching at my door by the fourth day. Phones aren’t cheap.”

“Would you notice if one was missing from the box?”

“No,” Celia said. “But they wouldn’t know that. Ninety-nine percent of my job is making kids believe I’ve got the time and the wherewithal to outsmart them.”

Emmy guessed that was why Madison stole the SIM and left the phone. She found Cheyenne’s name on the list. “Cheyenne signed her phone in on Tuesday of last week. Do you remember her asking for it on Monday?”

Celia’s brow furrowed in thought. “I honestly can’t remember.”

Emmy still had her gloves on. She rummaged through the box. Flip phones mingled with iPhones and Androids and a chunky Samsung. All of them were powered off. There was every kind of case. Some of them had sports mascots or rainbows. A lot of them had cats. None of the flip phones had initials carved into the plastic. Emmy was resigning herself to going through them one by one when she spotted a very distinctive shade of blue on an iPhone case. The same blue as Cheyenne’s bike. The same blue as her bedroom sheets.

Emmy asked, “Do you have a paper clip?”

Celia pulled one from a stack of papers. She didn’t have to be asked to twist it around so that the pointy end was sticking out. Emmy slid the paper clip into the tiny hole on the side of the iPhone. The SIM card slot popped open. The tray was empty.

“That’s weird,” Celia said. “What’s he doing here?”

Emmy turned around. Celia was looking at one of the monitors. Dale Loudermilk was in the hallway. He looked exactly like what he was: a forty-something-year-old high school chorus teacher who was married to a church secretary. Thick glasses. Push broom mustache. Ned Flanders haircut. Ron Swanson body.He was dressed in the green shirt and tan cargo shorts uniform of the North Falls Recreation Center.

He had stopped in front of Cheyenne’s locker, probably wondering why all of her stuff was on the floor. The truth must’ve hit him, if only because of the suggestive photos taped to the back. Instead of walking away, he looked left, then right, then he reached inside. He picked up the photograph that Emmy had left face-down in the locker.

She expected him to be repulsed, to immediately return it to its place, to feel sick and disgusted, to do anything but what he actually did.

He stared at the lewd photo of Cheyenne splayed on the mattress. His expression was completely passive. Emmy stepped closer to the monitor, studied his bland features, the casual way he was looking at a piece of child pornography as if it were a bus schedule. She found herself counting off the seconds. She got to ten, then twenty. She had almost reached thirty seconds when Loudermilk finally returned the photo to the locker and walked away.

Emmy told Celia, “Radio Dylan. Tell him to get down here now.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She jogged back through the counseling center. Her skin felt like it was on fire. The tickle. The bad feeling. None of what Dale Loudermilk had done felt right.

Instead of running into the hallway to confront him, she peered around the edge of the door. Loudermilk was walking away from her, heading toward the auditorium. His hands were in his shorts pockets. His head stayed straight. His pace was quick. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the auditorium doors. He turned his head left, then right, then went inside.

Emmy held down the equipment on her belt as she jogged after him. She paused outside the doors in order to keep her distance. She entered the lobby. Went into the dark auditorium. Gently closed the door. The exit signs acted as nightlights. She saw Loudermilk, hands still in his pockets, walking down the center aisle. Emmy hung back. She waited until he had disappeared into the wings to follow him across the stage. She clenchedher teeth when the soles of her heavy boots squeaked on the black floor.

He didn’t seem to hear. He was too focused on moving forward. Emmy passed dressing rooms and bathrooms. She paused, waiting until he took a left down a narrow hallway. No lights came on. No doors opened or closed. She peered around the corner. Loudermilk was walking toward the end of the hall. The exit sign glowed ahead of him. His hands were out of his pockets. She could tell that he was holding something small that fit neatly into the palm of his hand. Instead of taking the exit, he turned sharply into the stage manager’s office. Emmy kept to the shadows, inching down the hall, until she could position herself to see through the glass window into the office.

Loudermilk was reaching behind a filing cabinet. He pulled out a laptop. He sat down at the desk, opened the computer, and slid a thumb drive into the side. Immediately, he started clicking and dragging his fingers across the trackpad. The light of the screen reflected into his glasses. In the silence, she heard the hard drive spinning, the fans waking up. He was copying files onto the thumb drive.

Emmy knocked on the glass.

“Jesus!” Loudermilk slammed the laptop closed as he jumped up from the desk. “What do you want?”

Emmy walked into the small office. She turned on the overhead lights. “What files were you copying?”

“I—” His eyes went to the laptop, then back at her. “Song sheets. Show choir auditions are next week. I need to prepare.”

“Auditions aren’t until the end of the month.”

“I meant—I have to get ready next week. For the auditions that are coming up. It takes preparation.” His eyes flicked toward the window. Celia had followed them. He straightened his shoulders, trying to assert some authority. “Dr. Clifton, could you explain to this young woman that I have work to do?”

Celia told Emmy, “That computer belongs to the school. I have admin authority.”

Emmy nodded for Celia to give it a try.

“You can’t—” Loudermilk reached for the laptop, but Emmy blocked his way.

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