Now, in the principal's carpeted office, with a clock shaped like an apple and framed certificates of excellence on the wall, Harlan Briggs sat with his ankles crossed and told his version as if it were weather.
He said Isaiah had refused instruction during sectional rehearsal. He said Isaiah had become disruptive, that the boy had stood on the podium without permission and argued when told to sit. He said he had placed a corrective hand on Isaiah's shoulder to prevent him from falling, or from walking into a music stand, or—Briggs adjusted the phrasing as he went—to de-escalate a situation that was becoming unsafe for the other students. He said the word unsafe the way some men said necessary.
"I have twenty-eight years in this district," Briggs added, not looking at Isaiah, who sat beside Naomi with his clarinet case now zipped and held like a shield. "I do not put hands on children for sport. The boy was not listening. He was escalating. I kept him from hurting himself."
Naomi watched the way Kellerman nodded—not agreement, management. The principal asked Isaiah if he wanted to speak. Isaiah's mouth opened. Closed. He looked at the flag pin on Briggs's lapel and then at the floor.
"He can speak later," Naomi said. "He will speak with an advocate present. Right now I want every student who was in that room listed by name. I want camera footage from the hallway and any auditorium angles you have. And I want Mr. Briggs placed on leave pending review."
Briggs's jaw tightened. "That's premature."