We wander around until we find the right room, a small, dark auditorium that would seem more appropriate for hangings than for school-board meetings. In the front of the room is a long table with a series of microphones and some sweating pitchers of water on it. Even the pitchers are nervous. The whole place is packed with people who look like the parents on police dramas—pinched, confused, waiting for someone to tell them that it was all just a nightmare and they can go back to sleep now. They turn and look at me as we walk into the room. There she is. That’s the girl. She looks so young. The poor thing. Is she wearing a costume? Maybe she’s in a play. They’re all so young. What’s wrong with her hair? We look for seats, but since the room is packed, we find ourselves squeezed into the back row. Mr. Mymer is nowhere to be seen. Chelsea Patrick is nowhere to be seen. The school board arrives one at a time, settling themselves in front of microphones, shifting papers around. After a while, the board president bangs his gavel for the meeting to commence.
