Literary Fiction

BY LYNNE CURRY

Copyright is held by the author.

MY HEART pounded like a jackhammer as I reached the school’s back door at five a.m. High above, a crescent moon hung askew, its weak light struggling through the clouds, powerless to pierce the inky dark. What excuse would save me if caught? I’d likely lose my teaching job.

Except — I owed it to Matt to take the risk. The 10-year-old’s trust echoed in my mind, the pain he’d spilled into last week’s free-writing assignment anchoring me.

When I had invited Matt to stay after class, he sat stiffly, shoulders rigid, clutching his pencil like a lifeline.

“Who else knows this?” I kept my voice low, steady.

He stared at the floor and whispered, “No one, Ms. Cully.”

“What about your parents? Can I talk to them?”

His head jerked up. His wide eyes screamed, “no.”

“Your mom, maybe?”

His lip quivered. The dam broke. Tears streaked across his face as he threw himself into my arms. His small frame shook against mine as shadows I thought buried inside clawed their way to the surface.

I held him tight and whispered my vow, “You’re not alone. I’ll help you.”

***

After learning Matt’s mom would be out of state another week, I carried Matt’s story to my principal, my palms damp as I handed it over. He pressed his lips into a grim line while his eyes locked on the page. Minutes passed in taut silence. When he looked up, his gaze sliced over the top of his glasses like a blade. He dismissed me with a chilly, “I’ll take this matter from here.”

Exhaustion rolled over me like a wave as I left his office. At two a.m., a drunken phone call from coach Tom yanked me awake. His slurred, mocking voice dripped through the line, revealing the principal had given him Matt’s story. “Cute little piece of fiction you’re peddling,” he sneered before hanging up.

The next morning, I opened the drawer in my teacher’s desk where I’d kept a copy of Matt’s story for his mom. It had vanished. A chilly grip closed around my heart. The principal? The coach?

I went to the police and ran into another wall. The officer leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, and asked, “Any concrete evidence?”

“Only the story, but it’s missing.”

“Right,” he’d drawled, his pen tapping idly on the edge of a still-blank notepad. “Well, that’s a serious accusation.”

His indifference detonated something deep inside, sharp and volatile. The memory of my vow slammed into focus — if anyone reached out for the help denied me, I’d fight for them with every scrap of strength I could muster. I didn’t have power, but truth burned in my grip like a weapon. And Coach Tom. He wasn’t invincible — just another giant with heels made of glass. His smug arrogance. His messy desk. He never seemed to throw anything away. Had he felt so secure he’d kept Matt’s story after the principal shared it with him? If so, I had to get it.

***

After sliding my key into the school’s door lock, I twisted the knob, but the door stuck as if warning me not to enter. My breath fogged in the cold air. I shoved harder, and the door groaned open. I strained to catch any sign someone might have heard. Seconds ticked by, swallowed by silence.

I crept along the shadow-cloaked hallway to the coach’s office. A spotless “Coach of the Year” plaque glinted in the dim light next to his door. When the school’s junior league football team had crushed teams from every other school, Tom had attained hero status.

I slipped inside, the beam of my flashlight slicing through the gloom. The desk loomed, cluttered with papers and trophies. When I spotted a sliver of light blue peeking out beneath the mess, my pulse quickened. Matt had written his story on blue paper. I reached for and snagged the page when a shift in the air froze me mid-motion.

“What the hell!”

Light blazed overhead, and I spun as Coach Tom’s six-foot-six frame barrelled toward me. His hands clamped my shoulders, fingers digging like claws. “What the hell are you doing in my office?”

My brain scrambled for an excuse, but his gaze locked onto the paper in my hand. He yanked at it.

No!I needed that proof —

His hand shot out, fingers locking around my throat like a steel vise. He leaned in close, and taunted, “I’ll hurt you.” I fought for air and must have loosened my hold, because he let out a wild, triumphant hoot and released his grip on my neck.

I stumbled backward, gasping, and fell against his desk. To my sorrow, he held Matt’s crumpled page in his raised fist.

“You’re non-tenured, aren’t you?” He spat. “Easy to fire. You’ll regret messing with me.”

Regret? Not a chance. I’d kept quiet as a child. Not again. I’d use his arrogance against him, but couldn’t make it too easy, or he wouldn’t believe it.

“You can’t —”

“I can do whatever I want.”

My gaze flicked to the framed photographs on Tom’s wall. One showed the principal standing by Tom’s side, wide smiles on both faces. Another showed Tom hoisting a trophy, boosters cheering around him — including the officer who’d demanded “concrete evidence.”

The pictures sparked an idea. If Tom’s fingers had left marks, I could photograph the bruises on my shoulders and neck. The principal and officer were under his thumb — but the school board, child protective services, or newspapers might listen. Or Matt’s mom when she came home.

I softened my voice. “I’m sorry.”

His pupils flared. “Say please.”

“Please . . . sir.” I let my voice tremble.

His chest swelled, savoring my use of sir. His smile twisted like a scar. “The boy won’t do a thing, not when his dad loves being a team father. Now, get out.”

I left. I didn’t have Matt’s story, but I had enough. Coach Tom didn’t realize I’d recorded his middle-of-the-night phone call. Or that he’d given me physical proof, marks on my throat and shoulders.

Coach Tom thought he’d won, that I had given up. He didn’t know I’d promised Matt — and the girl I used to be — that this time, silence wouldn’t bury abuse. This time, the truth would burn bright.

***

Alaska/Washington (U. S.) author Lynne Curry, a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee and a nominee for Best Microfiction, founded “Real-life Writing,” and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, and a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published 14 short stories; three poems; one article on writing craft, and six books.

Category: Literary Fiction

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