The Culprit

Micro fiction suspense

Inside the teachers’ lounge, tongues are ablaze.

“Did you hear?” Mr. Song mixes sugar into his coffee without looking up. “Just terrible. Adam was such a joy to have in class…” He trails off as if the rest of the sentence might drip and spoil his drink.

“I noticed some changes, but this?” Mrs. Stevens shakes her head, gray curls jumping with the motion. “Why didn’t he tell anyone?”

“Probably shame or maybe fear. Did the cops show you the messages? Just awful,” Dr. Peters says in her calm, psychologist’s voice.

“Adam Wiggins?” Ms. Davis asks, hurt that no one shared the story with her yet. That’s what happens when you’re the student teacher thrust into a school in the middle of the school year. People are too established in their cliques—no room for a mid-twenties career changer with a quiet voice and underdeveloped social skills.

“Yes,” Dr. Peters faces her, eyes glowing, and Ms. Davis knows she’s about to get the whole salacious story. From the school psychologist, no less. It’s a thrill to be included. Yet, there is the anticipation of guilt for hearing something awful and having that thank-God-it-didn’t-happen-to-me feeling ignited by another person’s misfortune.

“Someone has been sending Adam terrible, mean texts. Telling him to hurt himself. Saying no one likes him. It went on for weeks, and he didn’t tell anyone. Poor kid stopped eating, then he fainted. His mom was calling 911 just as a new text arrived.”

“Do they know who’s sending them?” Ms. Davis is frozen with attention, clutching a croissant halfway to her mouth.

“My money is on Michael Posner. A freaking menace.” Mrs. Stevens says. “I hate that twelve-year-olds are capable of such cruelty.”

For a moment, Ms. Davis wonders if her colleague wishes it had been Michael who got the terrorizing texts.

“Well, they pulled Adam out of school. The kid is smart. Driven. And now he’s traumatized for life. I swear, when they find the culprit, they better expel them. Send them to juvie, even. None of this in-school suspension bullshit.” Mr. Song takes a long drink of his coffee, then glances at his wrist. “I guess I’ll spend the rest of the day teaching kindness instead of math.” He puts the cup in the sink and hurries out the room. Ms. Davis catches a reflection in his misty eyes. She’s upset herself, but she won’t cry.

She’d only met Adam once, when he came to her first-grade classroom to read to the littles.

Small for his age, big-eyed, smiley. He took pleasure in interacting with the kids, put on voices for all the different characters. The first graders knew who he was because he’d won both the Spelling Bee and the Mathletes Challenge earlier in the year. A celebrity. Oh-so-perfect Adam.

That’s when Ms. Davis knew: some students need humbling.

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