The Yearbook Adviser Blamed Me for Printing My Classmate’s Old Name, and I Had One Week to Prove Who Approved It

Chapter 2: The Final Proof

I picked up the backing paper by its clean corner.

The rest of June’s name had gone out with the sticker, or with whatever sheet the sticker had been peeled from.

I could hear the last buses pulling away beyond the yearbook room windows.

I photographed the paper beside Ms. Harlan’s desk calendar so I could remember where I had found it.

Then I put it down.

I had already been accused of changing a page, and taking something from her desk would give her another accusation to make.

My phone buzzed before I reached the hall.

It was a message from June.

*Did you know before today?*

I stopped beside the trophy case.

*No,* I wrote.

Three dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again.

*I asked you myself.*

*I know.*

She did not answer.

At home, my mother had left a plate covered on the kitchen counter.

She was at her evening shift at the hospital, and my stepfather, Luis, was trying to persuade my little brother that fractions mattered outside school.

“They matter when somebody takes the last three quarters of a pizza,” Luis told him.

My brother pointed at me.

“Nora does that.”

“Professional skill,” I said.

Luis saw my face and sent my brother to wash his hands.

He had met my mother when I was seven and had spent eight years learning when I wanted company and when I wanted room.

Tonight he pulled out a chair but did not ask me to sit.

“Your mom told me the basics,” he said.

“I signed a checklist that says I looked at the page.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell the whole story, including the part that sounds bad.”

I sat down.

The yearbook staff at Harbor Point High in New Bedford worked from a shared set of printed proofs.

We checked names against the portrait list, circled changes in red, and gave the sheets to Ms. Harlan.

She entered final corrections in the publisher’s online system because students did not have permission to approve pages for printing.

I had checked June’s portrait on the first proof.

On the second proof, the one we signed off on, I had looked at the photo and the page number.

I had assumed my red correction had been entered.

“I should have checked the name again,” I said.

Luis nodded.

“That part belongs to you.”

“The last approval belonged to her.”

“That part might belong to her.”

I wanted him to say I was right.

Instead he pushed the plate toward me.

“Find out what happened between those two parts.”

The next morning, I waited outside the main office with the checklist folded in my pocket.

Ms. Harlan had given everyone a copy at the start of the year, mostly so nobody could claim the job had been mysterious.

My initials were beside the line for portrait pages.

I kept looking at them as if they might change.

Principal Ames called me in before first period.

June’s mother was coming on Friday, he said, and he wanted to understand what had happened before they met.

Ms. Harlan sat across from him with a yearbook on her knees.

She taught English and had advised the yearbook for eleven years.

At school concerts, she was the person who found spare batteries for microphones.

I had liked working for her.

“Walk me through your correction,” Mr. Ames said.

“I wrote June’s new surname on the first proof.”

“Where is that proof?”

“I don’t know.”

Ms. Harlan opened the book to June’s page.

“This is the name the publisher received,” she said.

“That isn’t what he asked,” I said.

Mr. Ames raised a hand.

“Nora.”

Ms. Harlan kept her voice even.

“The student staff checks portrait names, and Nora was responsible for this section.”

“She asked me to mark corrections on paper,” I said.

“And I ask students to check the revised proof afterward.”

That was true.

Mr. Ames turned my checklist toward me.

“Is this your signature?”

“Yes.”

“Was the wrong name visible when you signed?”

“Yes.”

He leaned back.

For a moment, I saw the case from his side: a printed name, my signature, and a teacher saying she had followed her routine.

“I missed it on the second proof,” I said.

“But I made the correction on the first.”

“Then we need the first proof,” he said.

Ms. Harlan closed the yearbook.

“Those are usually recycled once a final proof is accepted.”

I thought of the blue backing paper on her desk.

“Were they recycled this time?”

“I don’t remember every sheet I clear,” she said.

Mr. Ames wrote something down.

Until he had more information, I could not work on the yearbook or use its files.

He said that was a temporary decision, not a finding of misconduct.

I was sixteen, and it still felt like being sent out of the room while adults decided what I had done.

Outside the office, June was waiting by the drinking fountain.

Her mother had driven her to school, and she was holding a folder against her chest.

“Did you tell him I asked you?” she said.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He wants to see the correction sheet.”

“Can you show him?”

“I’m trying.”

June moved aside when two students came through the hall.

Her old surname was in the photograph on their phones.

“You told me you’d handle it,” she said.

“I meant to.”

“That’s the problem, Nora.”

She walked toward class before I could find an answer worth giving her.

During study hall, I opened my own yearbook.

June’s portrait sat between two students whose names I had checked without trouble.

The type was clean, the columns straight, the page number exactly where it belonged.

We had spent forty minutes arguing about whether a skateboarding photograph looked better across the gutter.

I had spent perhaps four seconds on the second proof of June’s name.

I wrote those numbers in my notebook because anger was making my memory generous to myself.

Then I wrote down every date I could remember.

June had spoken to me on April 9, when portrait proofs arrived.

I marked her correction that afternoon.

Revised proofs came back on April 17.

I signed the checklist on April 18.

Ms. Harlan had said the deadline for final approval was April 19.

The books had arrived on May 28, six days before distribution.

I had one more thing: a photograph from April 9.

I took pictures of finished spreads to remember layout choices before Ms. Harlan collected the papers.

In the corner of one image, June’s portrait page lay beneath a spread about the swim team.

I enlarged it until the pixels softened.

My red pencil mark showed beside her old surname.

The new surname ran off the edge of the photograph.

It proved I had begun a correction, though it did not show what I had written.

I sent the image to my mother with the dates.

She called during her break.

“I can come in Friday,” she said.

“You have work.”

“I can trade the first hour.”

“You don’t have to fight Ms. Harlan for me.”

“I’m coming to hear what happened.”

Then she asked if I had talked to June.

“I tried.”

“Try again after you have something useful to tell her.”

I knew she was right, which was irritating in the usual mother way.

After school, I went to the public library instead of home.

The yearbook publisher’s website had a help page about proofing.

It said schools received revised proofs after submitting changes and that an adviser or other authorized school contact gave final approval online.

There was no promise that a red mark on paper would reach the publisher by itself.

That much I had known.

I needed to learn who could see a record of what had been submitted.

The help page directed schools to their assigned representative.

I found the representative’s name on a sample invoice Ms. Harlan had given us in February while explaining our budget.

I called the number listed on the publisher’s website.

A woman answered with the company name.

“My name is Nora Bell,” I said.

“I’m a student editor, and I’m trying to understand a correction.”

“Which school?”

“Harbor Point High.”

There was a pause and the sound of keys.

“I can explain the process,” she said.

“I can’t release your school’s account history to a student.”

“Would it show whether a name correction was submitted?”

“Submitted changes and final approval are recorded in the school account.”

“Does someone keep the old proofs?”

“Your school might keep its paper copies.”

I thanked her.

Before hanging up, I asked her name.

“Ellen Park,” she said.

“I handle your account.”

I wrote it down with the phone number.

That call gave me a question to bring Mr. Ames, though it did not answer it.

When I got home, June had posted a photograph of her yearbook with a square of blue paper taped over the name.

The caption said only, *This is mine again.*

I stared at it longer than I should have.

Luis came in carrying a bag of groceries and saw the screen.

“She shouldn’t have needed the paper,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then don’t ask her to make you feel better.”

He put a carton of milk in the refrigerator.

“Find the sheet.”

On Thursday, I arrived before the first bell and asked the office secretary whether Mr. Ames had spoken to the publisher.

“He has a meeting this afternoon,” she said.

“Could I give him their representative’s name?”

She handed me a sticky note.

I wrote Ellen Park’s name, number, and the dates of the two proofs.

The secretary said she would put it with his messages.

By second period, Ms. Harlan knew I had called the publisher.

She stopped me outside English class, where students were filing past us.

“You are making this bigger than it needs to be,” she said.

“It’s already printed.”

“June’s family deserves an answer, and I’m working with the principal on one.”

“So am I.”

Her expression tightened.

“You called our vendor after being told not to use yearbook files.”

“I used their public number.”

“Your involvement is on hold for a reason.”

“I asked how approvals work.”

“And if the yearbook bill is delayed because you’ve convinced someone we have a dispute?”

“I didn’t ask them to stop anything.”

She let the classroom door swing shut.

“The senior books need to go out this week, Nora.”

That was her leverage, and it landed.

Students had paid for those books.

Some seniors had already left for jobs and summer programs, and the staff had spent months making sure their copies were ready.

Ms. Harlan had known I cared about delivering them.

“I’m not trying to hold up distribution,” I said.

“Then let the adults deal with the vendor.”

In class she taught a lesson as if our conversation had never happened.

I answered a question about a poem and felt everyone looking at the back of my head.

At lunch, my friend Celia set her tray across from mine.

She designed the yearbook’s photo pages and hated any problem she could not solve by moving a box.

“Ms. Harlan says you called the publisher,” she said.

“I asked one question.”

“She says the company might freeze the order.”

“The books are already here.”

“Maybe she meant the payment.”

“I don’t know.”

Celia broke a cracker in half.

“I saw you sign the revised proof.”

“I know.”

“She trusted us to check it.”

“I know that too.”

Celia looked up.

“If you’re saying she ignored a correction, I need more than your memory.”

It stung because she had earned the right to say it.

She had stayed late with me through every deadline.

“I’m looking for more,” I said.

“Tell me when you have it.”

The office called me down after lunch.

Mr. Ames had spoken with Ellen Park.

The publisher could provide an account history to the school, but its representative needed a request from an authorized school contact.

He had made that request.

Ms. Harlan had told him it might take several business days to gather the history.

In the meantime, he wanted me to stop contacting the company.

I agreed.

“Did you ask about the paper proofs?” I said.

“I asked Ms. Harlan to look.”

“She told me they were probably recycled.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“What if they weren’t?”

“Then we’ll examine them.”

He sounded patient, which made me feel younger than anger did.

“June’s family comes tomorrow,” I said.

“I know.”

He glanced at the clock, then back at me.

“Nora, a record that you requested a correction would matter.”

“So would a record showing who approved it.”

“Yes,” he said.

“That would matter too.”

At home, my mother found me at the kitchen table turning my red pencil over and over.

It was the kind our staff bought in a box because the marks showed up clearly on photocopies.

The blue paint on its end had been chewed away during a basketball spread.

She took the pencil from me before I could break it.

“Tell me the worst true thing,” she said.

“I signed a page with the wrong name.”

“Now the thing you know you did right.”

“I marked the first proof.”

“What can you prove?”

“I have part of it in a photo.”

She looked at the image on my phone.

“That’s a start.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“Then think about who saw the paper.”

I listed the students who had worked that afternoon.

Celia had been across the table, checking club rosters.

Two photographers had come and gone.

Ms. Harlan collected the portrait proofs before we left.

“I can ask Celia,” I said.

“You can.”

“She doubts me.”

“She saw you miss the second proof.”

My mother handed back the phone.

“Doubt can be fair.”

I hated how many fair things were hurting.

After dinner, I opened my notebook to the April 9 page.

I kept task lists there, along with bad sketches and reminders to buy poster board.

Next to “June name,” I had drawn a small blue rectangle.

I remembered why.

Ms. Harlan had a roll of blue APPROVED stickers for pages that were ready to go to the publisher.

Students did not use them.

That day, I had seen a blue sticker on June’s sheet after making my correction.

I had assumed she had approved the change.

Now I could not remember whether it covered the writing before or after I left.

I searched my camera roll again.

The April 9 photograph showed the corner of the portrait page, but no sticker.

I zoomed in until the image became blocks of red and gray.

The mark was there.

The sticker was not.

I called Celia.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“If this is about the cracker, I bought another pack,” she said.

“Did you see Ms. Harlan put an approval sticker on June’s portrait proof?”

“I saw her putting stickers on a bunch of sheets.”

“Was that after I marked June’s name?”

Celia went quiet.

“I don’t remember the order.”

“Would you look at my photo?”

I sent it.

She called back two minutes later.

“The sheet doesn’t have a sticker yet,” she said.

“Right.”

“That proves it wasn’t on when you took the photo.”

“Right.”

“Nora, I can’t tell you what happened afterward.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“What are you asking?”

“Where do old proofs go if they aren’t recycled?”

Celia thought.

“Ms. Harlan keeps a box under the supply table until graduation.”

“Why?”

“In case a parent asks about a page.”

I sat upright.

“Is it still there?”

“It was there Tuesday when I got poster board.”

I thanked her so fast she had to call my name.

“I won’t go in there,” she said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Ames where the box is.”

That was enough.

The next morning, the office told me to come in before homeroom.

Mr. Ames had asked Ms. Harlan to bring the proof box.

She had brought a brown carton with a torn handle.

Inside were paper proofs, a roll of tape, and two unused red pencils.

The sheets were grouped by section with rubber bands.

I stood on one side of his desk while Ms. Harlan stood on the other.

Mr. Ames found the portraits and laid them out.

June’s page was there.

My red correction was complete and legible.

I had written her new surname above the printed one, drawn a line through the old name, and put a small arrow toward the portrait.

A blue APPROVED sticker covered the last three letters of the new surname.

Mr. Ames bent closer.

Ms. Harlan said, “That’s a student mark on a paper proof.”

“Yes,” he said.

“It doesn’t tell us what was entered.”

“No,” I said.

“But it tells you I made the correction.”

She turned to me.

“I never said you didn’t make any marks.”

“You said I approved the old name.”

“You signed the revised proof with the old name still on it.”

Mr. Ames took a photograph of the sheet and slipped it into an envelope.

He had asked the school secretary to witness the search, and she wrote the date and our names across the flap.

I had never been so relieved by something so ordinary.

Then Mr. Ames looked at my checklist again.

It still had my signature.

“I’m glad we found the first proof,” he said.

“It doesn’t settle why the correction failed.”

Ms. Harlan nodded as though that was what she had been saying all along.

For a minute, I almost believed it.

The box had survived because she kept proofs for questions exactly like this one.

She had not expected me to know it was there.

My mother met me outside the school at three.

I told her about the paper before I got into the car.

“She kept it,” I said.

“And Mr. Ames saw it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“He still thinks I might have approved the wrong name.”

“You did sign the next proof.”

“I know.”

We drove past a fish market where a man was washing the sidewalk.

The water ran pink for a moment, then clear.

My mother pulled into an empty space and turned off the engine.

“I can tell June’s mother you marked it,” she said.

“You didn’t see me mark it.”

“I can tell her what the principal found.”

“That’s better.”

My mother rested her hands on the wheel.

“When I was your age, I thought admitting a mistake gave people permission to blame me for everything.”

“Sometimes it does.”

“Then we say exactly which mistake was yours.”

I watched the man across the street coil his hose.

“I didn’t catch it on the second proof.”

“And?”

“I didn’t send the final page to print.”

She nodded.

“Those are two different things.”

Friday’s meeting was scheduled for four, after classes ended.

Before lunch, Mr. Ames sent me a message through the school office saying the publisher’s account history had arrived.

He would review it with everyone at the meeting.

He did not tell me what it said.

I spent chemistry watching the clock and got one question wrong that I could usually do in my sleep.

At lunch, Celia came to my table.

“I told him about the box,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I wish I’d remembered sooner.”

“You remembered when it mattered.”

She looked at my untouched sandwich.

“June’s been hearing awful guesses about why the name changed.”

“I haven’t told anyone about her family.”

“I know.”

Celia sat down.

“She asked me whether you’d shown anyone the correction.”

“Mr. Ames saw it this morning.”

“I’ll tell her you found it.”

“Let me tell her.”

I found June outside the art room.

She was rubbing dried paint from the side of her thumb.

“I found the first proof,” I said.

She stopped rubbing.

“Was my name on it?”

“The one you asked for.”

“Did you put it there?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is the other one in the book?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She looked tired of answers that ended there.

“I missed it when the next proof came,” I said.

“I signed the checklist, and I’m sorry.”

June studied my face.

“That part I believe.”

“We’re meeting at four.”

“My mom’s coming.”

“So is mine.”

June pressed her thumbnail into the paint.

“People keep asking which name is real.”

“You don’t owe them an explanation.”

“I already know that.”

She looked down the hall.

“I wanted the book to give me one place where I didn’t have to explain.”

I had no answer ready for that.

The art room door opened, and she went inside.

At four, Mr. Ames met us in the conference room beside the office.

June and her mother sat together on one side of the table.

My mother sat beside me.

Ms. Harlan came in carrying a legal pad and the calm expression she wore at deadline meetings.

Celia had been asked to attend because she had told Mr. Ames where the proofs were kept.

She took the last chair and set both feet flat on the floor.

Mr. Ames put the yearbook, my checklist, and the sealed envelope on the table.

He said the school needed to address June’s name in the book and determine how the error had reached print.

June’s mother, Mrs. Calder, held her copy in both hands.

“Can you replace the page?” she asked.

Mr. Ames said he had asked the publisher.

The books were bound, and replacing a single printed page in every copy was not an option the school could promise.

A correction could go to students who received books, and June could choose whether hers included an inserted correction.

Mrs. Calder looked at June.

“That choice is yours.”

June nodded but kept her hands under the table.

Ms. Harlan opened her pad.

“I’ve already drafted an apology for the production error,” she said.

Mrs. Calder looked at her.

“Who made it?”

“There were several checks,” Ms. Harlan said.

“Nora was the student editor assigned to portraits, and I supervised final production.”

My mother spoke before I could.

“Which check failed after Nora wrote the correction?”

Ms. Harlan’s pen paused.

“That’s what we’re here to examine.”

Mr. Ames opened the envelope and showed everyone the first proof.

Mrs. Calder leaned toward the red writing.

June said her surname aloud, quietly, as though checking that it still existed on the paper.

I felt my throat close.

Ms. Harlan tapped the checklist.

“I want to be clear about something,” she said.

“The student proof was not merely decorative.”

“Nora signed that she checked the revised page, and the old name was visible on it.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I failed that check.”

Mr. Ames glanced at me.

Ms. Harlan continued.

“If Nora had flagged it at that stage, we would have had a final opportunity to correct it.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“But I already flagged it at the first stage.”

“Which means two chances were missed,” she said.

For a moment, her argument filled the room.

It was the strongest version of what had happened that left her hands clean: I had missed the last proof, and the final printed name matched what I had signed.

Then Mr. Ames slid a printed account history beside the proof.

He had highlighted one row.

“The publisher records corrections entered through its account,” he said.

“On April 10, the account received a correction for June’s portrait.”

Mrs. Calder gripped the edge of the table.

“What did it say?”

Mr. Ames read the new surname.

June looked at me.

I nodded once.

“Who entered it?” my mother asked.

“The school account shows Ms. Harlan as the user,” Mr. Ames said.

Ms. Harlan sat very still.

“I entered many corrections from student sheets that day.”

“That’s consistent with the record,” Mr. Ames said.

He moved his finger down the page.

“On April 16, the publisher sent a revised proof with the correction applied.”

I looked at the yearbook.

“That’s not the revised proof we signed.”

“No,” he said.

He turned the printed history toward us.

There was another entry dated April 17.

A request had changed June’s surname back to the original entry.

The request came from Ms. Harlan’s school account.

I read the row twice before the words stayed in place.

June’s mother asked, “Why would anyone change it back?”

Ms. Harlan set down her pen.

“I believed the portrait list needed to match the enrollment record.”

“You had her correction,” Mrs. Calder said.

“I also had a call from the attendance office saying the legal record still carried the other surname.”

Mr. Ames looked up.

“The attendance office confirms Ms. Harlan called to ask what the student record showed,” he said.

“It did not direct her to change the yearbook.”

Ms. Harlan turned to him.

“Using a legal name in a school publication is a defensible choice.”

“Was it school policy?” he asked.

“I understood it to be the safer choice.”

I remembered June sitting beside me at the yearbook table, pointing carefully to each letter she wanted printed.

“You could have asked June,” I said.

“I had a deadline,” Ms. Harlan replied.

“And I had a signed roster from the school.”

Mrs. Calder leaned forward.

“You also had a request from my daughter and me.”

Ms. Harlan looked at her for the first time.

“I was trying to avoid a dispute over which name the school had authority to print.”

The room went quiet.

It was possible to hear a copier running beyond the wall.

Mr. Ames said, “Our publication guidance allows a student’s chosen name when the student and parent request it.”

Ms. Harlan’s face changed very little.

“I should have checked that guidance.”

“But you changed it back,” June said.

Ms. Harlan turned to her.

“Yes.”

June pointed to the blue sticker on the first proof.

“Then what did that mean?”

I had thought the sticker meant my correction was safe.

Ms. Harlan followed June’s finger.

“That sheet was approved for entry into the account.”

“You put the sticker over my name,” I said.

“It was where I put approval stickers on proofs.”

“You saw the correction before you changed it back.”

“I entered it first, Nora.”

That was the answer I had been looking for, and it hurt more than an outright denial.

She had seen June’s name.

She had sent it to the publisher.

Then she had decided the old name was safer for her to print.

Mr. Ames placed another sheet on the table.

It was a written statement from Ellen Park, the publisher representative I had called.

He said he had verified the account history with her that afternoon.

The company retained submitted changes and approvals as part of its ordinary production records.

Ms. Park confirmed that the revised proof sent on April 16 carried June’s requested surname.

She also confirmed that after the April 17 change, the school account gave final approval on April 19.

Ms. Harlan had given that approval.

“She’s relying on a computer account,” Ms. Harlan said.

“Someone else could have been at my desk.”

Mr. Ames nodded.

“That’s why I asked Ms. Park about the change request.”

He turned to the next page.

The April 17 request included a comment sent with it.

Mr. Ames read it aloud.

“Please restore the student’s name to match our enrollment roster before final approval.”

Ms. Harlan reached for her pad, then drew her hand back.

“I wrote that.”

She looked toward Mrs. Calder.

“I was trying to be careful.”

“I can believe that,” Mrs. Calder said.

“You still changed my daughter’s name.”

Ms. Harlan shifted in her chair.

“The signed student proof remained part of our process.”

“Mine was a missed check,” I said.

“Yours was a decision.”

“You’re simplifying a production chain.”

“I’m trying to tell June which part I did.”

Celia spoke for the first time.

“We thought the blue stickers meant Ms. Harlan had entered our corrections.”

“They usually did,” Ms. Harlan said.

“That was the routine,” Celia replied.

Mr. Ames looked at my photograph from April 9, then at the marked proof.

“The paper shows Nora requested the correction,” he said.

“The publisher independently confirms it was entered and later reversed.”

He looked at Ms. Harlan.

“Your final approval sent the old name to print.”

She crossed out something on her pad with one hard stroke.

“I accept responsibility for the final approval,” she said.

“Then why did you take my badge?” I asked.

“You had signed a proof that still showed the old name.”

“That explains why you asked me about it.”

“It was serious, Nora.”

“Yes.”

I leaned forward.

“Why did you tell the staff I approved the name?”

Ms. Harlan did not answer right away.

Outside, someone laughed in the hall and kept walking.

“I believed your signature was an approval,” she said.

“Did you forget you had changed it back?”

Her pencil lay perfectly straight beside her pad.

“I was managing a difficult deadline,” she said.

Mr. Ames closed the account history.

“That doesn’t answer Nora’s question.”

Ms. Harlan looked at him.

“I knew I had changed it back,” she said.

“I thought she should have caught it.”

June’s mother let out a slow breath.

“You let my daughter think her friend chose this.”

Ms. Harlan’s eyes went to June.

“I’m sorry.”

June looked at the yearbook, not at her.

“I need you to say what you did,” she said.

Ms. Harlan folded her hands.

“I changed your surname back after Nora’s correction had been entered.”

She swallowed.

“I approved the page for printing.”

June nodded once.

It was the smallest movement in the room, and the one everyone watched.

Mr. Ames said the school would send a written explanation to June and her mother.

He would also correct the statement made to the yearbook staff about my role.

Ms. Harlan would step away from advising the remaining distribution work while he reviewed the publication process with the district.

He did not announce a punishment in the conference room.

He said employment decisions required their own review.

That sounded unsatisfying until I remembered how much damage had come from one adult making a decision in private and presenting it as settled.

Mrs. Calder asked about the photograph spreading around school.

Mr. Ames said the school could ask students to stop sharing it and address any harassment reported to staff, but he could not erase copies from their phones.

June said she wanted a correction available without having to explain herself to every person who asked.

The school could place a printed correction at the distribution table and email students who had already received books.

Mr. Ames offered to let her review the wording first.

“I don’t want my family story in it,” she said.

“It doesn’t need to be,” he replied.

I asked whether my name had to appear.

“No,” June said.

“It needs to say the school approved the wrong name.”

Mr. Ames wrote that down.

When the meeting ended, Ms. Harlan gathered her pad.

She stopped beside me.

“You did miss the revised proof,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“I hope you remember that.”

“I will.”

She seemed to want another sentence from me, perhaps one that made her choice smaller.

I had none.

In the hallway, June waited while our mothers spoke with Mr. Ames.

Celia stood by the office door, giving us enough distance to talk.

“I was angry at you,” June said.

“You had a reason.”

“I still wish you’d caught it.”

“I do too.”

She glanced down at the book under her arm.

“But you wrote it right the first time.”

“Yes.”

“That matters to me.”

I had been waiting two days for her to say she believed me.

Once she did, I realized belief would not give her back the page.

“Do you want me to help with the correction?” I asked.

“I want to write it,” she said.

“I’ll read it if you want.”

“That I might want.”

A week later, the school handed out corrected notices with the remaining yearbooks.

The notice named the page, printed June’s requested surname, and said the school had approved the earlier version in error.

Students who had already received a book got the same notice by email.

Mr. Ames also met with the yearbook staff.

He told them I had marked June’s name for correction, that the change had reached the publisher, and that the school’s final approval had reversed it.

He told them I had missed the error on a later proof.

That was the account I could stand behind.

Celia returned my editor badge after the meeting.

“The seniors still need their extra copies sorted,” she said.

I held the badge by its bent metal clip.

“You trust me with alphabetizing?”

“Against my better judgment.”

By then, the school had assigned another teacher to supervise distribution.

Ms. Harlan’s review was still underway, and I did not hear its private details.

I knew she was no longer in the yearbook room because her desk was empty when we packed the last boxes.

June came in while I was counting reserved copies.

She carried her yearbook with the correction tucked inside the front cover.

“I’m helping with next year’s book,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Somebody has to check the names.”

“That job is less fun than the photo pages.”

“I’ve seen your photo pages.”

She picked up my red pencil and drew a careful line on a scrap sheet.

I slid a proof toward her.

There was no blue sticker on it yet, and this time we read every name aloud before either of us let it go.