Emily listened to the word travel around the cinder block room. No one had really said it out loud before. Even Dr. Schroeder hadn’t used the actual word. Her father had called it knocked up. Her mother talked around it the same way you would if someone had cancer.
“Fuck!” Mr. Wexler pounded his fist into the wall. And then he screamed in pain, clutching his hand. His knuckles were bloody. “Fuck.”
“Mr. Wex—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed. “Jesus Christ, you stupid bitch. Do you know what this means?”
Emily tried to stand, but her legs were too wobbly. “I’m—I’m sorry.”
“You’re damn right you are.”
“Mr. Wexler, I—” She tried to calm him down. “Dean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just—I’m scared, okay? I’m really scared because something bad happened and I can’t remember.”
He stared at her, but she couldn’t read his expression.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, feeling like those two words were the only two words she ever said to anybody anymore. “My grandmother saw me get out of your car, so I thought—I thought that maybe you …”
Her voice trailed off.
Mr. Wexler was still unreadable. Emily thought that they were going to stay like this forever, and then he broke the trance by standing up. He walked stiff-legged across the room. When he turned, she could see that blood from his knuckles had stained his shirt.
“I had mumps when I was a kid.” He tested his fingers to see if anything was broken. “It gave me orchitis.”
Emily stared up at him. She didn’t know what he was saying. “Look it up in the dictionary, you dumb cunt.” He sat down at his desk. “It means I’m not the fucking father.”