He told her everything Dev had told her, and two things Dev hadn't. The first: Ananya had received a call from her parents the night after Kavitha disappeared — he had been at Ananya's house for a study session, and he had heard, from the next room, Ananya's father saying: The situation at school is being handled. Ms. Rao has chosen to step back. There's no need for any of you to complicate things. The specific language of instruction delivered as reassurance.
The second: three days after Kavitha disappeared, Mr. Iyer had come to the classroom — in the gap before a substitute had been found — and had spoken to the class. He had said Ms. Rao was fine, had chosen to take some time for personal reasons, and that out of respect for her privacy, it would be best if none of them spoke to outside parties about anything that might have happened at school recently. Class discussions, he had called it. Private class discussions should stay private.
"He told us to stay quiet," Rohan said. "Wrapped up in language about respecting Ms. Rao's privacy. But it was a direct instruction from an adult in authority to a room full of thirteen-year-olds." His voice was flat. Controlled. The controlled voice of someone who had been very angry about this for three weeks. "And then Ananya came up with her own version. She genuinely thought she was doing the right thing. But Mr. Iyer had already primed us. He had already told us that silence was the respectful choice." He paused. "It was very cleverly done."
"Yes," Naina said. "It was."
"What happens now?" he said. "You've found something. I can tell."
"She's coming back this weekend," Naina said. "We're going to the State Board examination authority. Together. With evidence." She looked at him. "When it comes out — and it will — the school is going to have a very bad time. Some of those six families are going to have a very bad time. The school's reputation is going to suffer. You understand that?"
"Yes," he said. Without hesitation.
"Are you okay with that?"
He looked at her. Fourteen, maybe. Serious face, clear eyes. "Ms. Rao," he said, "cried on the day she showed Dev the spreadsheet. Quietly, with her hand over her mouth, when she thought we weren't looking. She was crying because she had been excited about this class, about this year, and something that was supposed to be about teaching and learning had been — corrupted. That's the word she used, to me, one afternoon. 'This place is corrupted.' Not loudly. She just said it, like she was sad about it." He paused. "Yes. I'm okay with that."
