“McKenzie said you mentioned something about taking up golf? I wasn’t sure where you were and she said you might have gone to check out a golf course. It’s good exercise,” she said, reaching into the cupboard for another wineglass. “You know, as long as you don’t take a cart.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m thinking about it. This smells good.”
Rick plucked a wooden spoon from a crock of utensils near the stove and gave the stew a stir.
“So. How was your first day?”
“Good.” Hope handed him a glass of wine. “Lots to learn, but you know . . .”
Under normal circumstances, Hope and Rick would have picked up on each other’s white lies. Years of marriage will do that. Besides, they were terrible liars, both of them. This was at least partly because they’d had so little practice, especially with each other.
As it was, they sat down at the table, ate Hope’s good stew with some of Rick’s most recent batch of bread, and had a conversation, of sorts.
Mostly they talked about the weather. But it was more conversation than they’d had in many days and so they played nice, relieved that they were speaking at all, avoiding unnecessary inquiries, anxious to maintain their uneasy and unspoken truce, each unaware that they weren’t the only one at the table who was being less than honest.
Chapter 16
David Hernandez folded his hands into a church and rested his chin on the steeple.
“Needles? You want to bring needles into your classroom.”
“Yes,” Hope said firmly, holding up a long metal needle that was bent at the top, creating a small handle. “Felting needles.”
“Felting needles,” David said, his tone flat. He shook his head. “You can’t bring sharp, dangerous objects into the prison. Do you have some sort of memory problem? We’ve been over this more than once. So why are you bringing it up again?”
“Because I was hired to teach crafting classes and I can’t do the job unless the students have access to crafting supplies,” Hope said through clenched teeth. “I’ve explored the limits and then some of what can be done with paper, watercolors, and Magic Markers. These are grown women, David. But because of the restrictions placed on me, I’m left with no options but to teach them projects that would be dull to the average fourth grader. It’s no wonder they’re acting out. They’re bored!”
“Look, if you can’t manage your classroom—”
Hope raised a finger and pointed it straight at him. “Hold it right there! Yes, this is a challenging environment. And yes, after nearly a month on the job I am still finding my way. But I am an excellent teacher; no one can say otherwise. And I am not giving up—not on my students and not on myself. So, unless you’re prepared to have this same conversation, week after week, I suggest you and I start acting like adults and reach some kind of compromise.”
David propped his chin back onto the steeple of his fingertips, regarding his angry supplicant. For a moment, Hope saw something in David’s eyes that could have been a grudging glint of admiration but might just as easily have indicated the steely determination of a boss who has made up his mind to send an insubordinate employee packing. Hope’s money was on the latter, but she held her ground, staring at David with silent indignation, refusing to flinch. If he fired her, then he did. But she was done with playing games, done with trying to win him over, done with being nice. She’d said her piece, stood up for herself and her students. If there were consequences, so be it.
Finally, after a long and tense silence, David narrowed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and then let it out in a long, slow whoosh, then disbanded the church, lowering his hands to the armrests of his desk chair.
“A compromise. What exactly did you have in mind?”
Hope took a deep breath as well, taken aback by both the question and David’s, if not conciliatory, at least noncombative tone. She exhaled carefully and through her nose, so as to avoid clueing him in to her surprise. David, she surmised, was a man who admired strength and certainty. She needed to give him the impression that she’d planned to win all along.
“Every week, I’ll submit my projects to you or Jodie in advance. I’ll tell you what I want the students to make and exactly the sort of equipment or tools they need to do so. I’ll do my best to keep anything that could be potentially dangerous to a minimum. For example, for the felting project I have in mind, all they’ll need are these needles.
“I’ll count them before every class, distribute one to each student, collect them at the end of the period, and count them all again. No one will be allowed to exit the classroom until every single needle is returned and accounted for. Between classes, I’ll keep them locked in the supply cabinet.”
David leaned back in his desk chair, rocking it back and forth steadily but ever so slightly, fixing Hope with the same steely glare he’d displayed earlier. This time, Hope was sure that his expression denoted anything but admiration. He hated her; she was sure of it.
She was also sure that the next words out of his mouth would be, “You’re fired,” or some version of the same sentiment, and experienced that sinking feeling that comes the moment before failure. Oh, well. At least Rick would be pleased. Maybe, after David called Wayne into his office to frog-march her off the prison grounds in disgrace, she could go home and have something approaching a normal, unguarded conversation with her husband.
David pressed his lips together, then made a sucking sound with his teeth.
“Lesson plans to be submitted one week in advance. Only one potentially dangerous piece of equipment allowed per project—needles or scissors, not both. Understand?” Hope nodded before he went on. “Nothing with a point or blade longer than four inches. All equipment to be checked in and out as you described. Inmates will be patted down by a guard before exiting the classroom. Inmates will not be allowed to bring anything, with the exception of fully completed projects, in or out of the classroom.
“Those are my terms. Agreed?”
Hope swallowed before answering.
“Agreed.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
David picked up a pen and Hope rose from her chair, more than ready to leave. But before she could make her exit, David looked up from the form he’d just signed.
“By the way,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, I’m holding you responsible. One incident, one injury, one missing tool, and you’ll be out the door the same day. Are we clear on that?”
“Perfectly.”
David nodded again. Hope didn’t wait to be asked to leave. As soon as Hope stepped out into the hall, she leaned back against the wall to catch her breath. She knew she’d been nervous, but until she stepped out of David’s office she didn’t realize how nervous. Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking.
Hope had never been afraid to lock horns with Rick, not when she knew she was in the right. But, apparently, it was one thing to pick a fight with her husband and entirely different to pick one with her boss. Which made sense. After all, no matter how heated the argument, Hope knew that Rick loved her. With David, it was just the opposite. He hated her. She was sure of it.
But it didn’t matter. She’d gotten her way. She’d won.
After taking one more deep, steadying breath, Hope shoved her hands in her pants pockets and walked down the hall toward her classroom, feeling like a champion.
* * *
The feeling was short-lived.
Hope might have won over David Hernandez or at least figured out how to get around him, but the women were much harder nuts to crack.
In the nearly four weeks that had passed since Hope began working at the prison, she had yet to see a single one of her students so much as crack a smile. The hostility and aggression emanating from most of them was so thick it seemed to generate its own brand of heat, but it was a passive aggression.
There were one or two bright lights in her classes, women who seemed at least mildly interested and made an effort, b
ut not many. Mandy Lopez was one of them. She’d joined the class in the second week, after Hope had agreed to come up with a curriculum that would make her program qualify for credit as a high school art elective. Mandy was as subdued as the rest of them, almost as if she was purposely trying to fly under the radar. But Hope never felt anything approaching hostility from Mandy. She kept to herself, worked quietly, and did good, sometimes excellent, work. Hope had yet to give Mandy less than an A on any project. She did a particularly good job with the macramé bracelets, a project that Hope thought might finally win them over but hadn’t. Only Mandy seemed to enjoy it. For a moment, while she was weaving in the beads, Hope almost thought she saw Mandy smile. But she couldn’t be sure.
If only the rest of the women were as cooperative as Mandy, Hope’s job would have been, if not a joy, at least tolerable.
But they weren’t.
Though the women only rarely made eye contact with her, Hope could feel hostile gazes boring into her whenever her back was turned. They did not laugh, but Hope sometimes caught them smirking or snickering to one another and had the feeling they’d done so only because they wanted to be caught. They wanted her to see their contempt, to know that she was disrespected and unwelcome. They did not ask questions, make comments, or speak unless spoken to, and sometimes not even then.
And though the projects she presented were, for the most part, almost embarrassingly elementary, the finished projects of most of her students were poorly executed, almost as if they were purposely trying to do bad work. It hadn’t been as bad on the first day—most of them had at least tried to fold a pretty paper crane. Their degrees of success had varied widely, but at least they’d made an effort. But that was the first and only time.
Now most of the women were either just going through the motions or actively trying to sabotage their own projects and the class as a whole. Obviously, David Hernandez wasn’t the only one who hated her.
Why? She couldn’t figure it out.
That Friday, things changed. But not for the better.
Of all the projects she’d presented thus far, Hope actually thought this one was kind of fun. They were making little desktop-sized trees out of old books. It was something that Hope remembered doing when she was little with her mother. And since nothing was required for each tree beyond an old paperback book, some paste, an empty wooden thread spool, and scraps of ribbon or buttons, it was an ideal project for her students. There was nothing sharp, dangerous, or toxic involved. And though the execution wasn’t complicated, the finished products could be pretty, even elegant.
Picking a book from the pile of paperbacks she’d bought from the thrift store, five dollars for the whole box, Hope demonstrated the double-folding technique required to create the correct angle on the tree. When she was done, she looked up from her work and said, “That’s all there is to it. When you’re finished folding, you just glue the tree on the spool, which is like the trunk of the tree. Then, if you want to, you can glue on buttons or ribbon for decorations. Any questions?”
To Hope’s surprise, Nita, the inmate whose eyes seemed to carry an even greater grade of loathing than the others and who smirked more contemptuously and turned in the most careless and shoddy work of anyone in the room, raised her hand.
“Yeah,” she said without waiting for Hope to recognize her. “I’ve got a question. Where did you get your teaching degree? A Cracker Jack box? Because these crafts you keep bringing in are kid stuff, complete crap.”
For the first time since Hope started her job, the sound of laughter echoed through her classroom. It wasn’t the sound of amusement but of derision. The women looked down at their laps or hands, snickered, and exchanged sidelong glances, laughing at Hope’s expense. The only exceptions were Steph, who was sitting quietly at her table, looking subdued and somewhat guilty, and Mandy, who lifted her head, looking from Hope to Nita and back again, a small frown creasing her brow.
Hope, embarrassed as well as angry, felt her cheeks begin to flame but quickly recovered her composure.
“Well, Nita, you had quite a lot of trouble with all the other projects. If you’re able to complete this one with a little more skill, maybe you’ll be able to move on to something more complicated.”
There was another round of snickering. This time, however, the laughter was not at Hope’s expense. Nita’s head swiveled as she gave her classmates a furious glare. They fell silent. Nita stood up, looking at Hope with loathing.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Slumming? Seeing how the poor folks live? The drug dealers and dope addicts and prostitutes and thieves? Collecting material for a book? Or were you just bored?”
“What I’m trying to do is teach,” Hope said. “But it’s difficult when I keep being interrupted. Sit down, Nita.”
“So you think you’re better than us,” Nita said, keeping to her feet. “Is that it? You thought you’d come down here and rescue us?”
“Nita, sit down.”
Nita stepped out from behind the table and took two steps forward. Hope was standing at the front of the room, a good ten feet away. Even so, she had to resist the urge to step back, putting more space between herself and the inmate. But doing so, she knew, would be a mistake. The other women were watching. Hope saw something expectant in their eyes, as if they were waiting to see what she was made of, if she would crumble or stand firm. Though her heart was fluttering again, she chose the latter.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You think you’re going to rescue us. Rich lady thought she’d come down here and civilize the poor savages, teach ’em how to fold paper cranes, and sit with their hands in their laps, and behave themselves. Isn’t that right?”
With all eyes on her, all ears perked to hear her answer, Hope took a step forward and lifted her chin.
“No, that is not right. I’m here because I’m a teacher, one who thinks that all people are born with a creative spark and that tapping into that, even in simple ways, can make life more meaningful, no matter who we are, or where we come from. I’m here because I believe that the sooner you learn to make the most of what you have, the happier you’ll be. I’m here for one simple reason, to teach. To share with you as much or little of what I know as you care to learn.”
“Oh, I see,” Nita sneered, taking another step forward and clenching her hands into fists. “So you’re here because you’re a teacher? Well, I think you’re a lousy one, the worst. I think you ought to—”
Steph, who apparently did have something to say and couldn’t keep it to herself any longer, jumped to her feet and stood in the aisle, becoming a roadblock between Nita and Hope.
“Knock it off, Nita! Seriously, that’s enough.”
“Ef you!” Nita spit, literally pursing her lips and flinging phlegm on Steph’s sneakers. “Mind your own effin’ business.”
“She’s all right,” Steph countered. “She’s just trying to help. So leave her alone already. It’s the last day, Nita. Face it, you lost.”
Before Hope had time to wonder what Steph meant by that comment, Nita lunged forward, grabbed Steph’s hair, and pulled her to the floor. The two women began to tussle, spitting curses, landing blows, and receiving them.
“Stop!” Hope yelled. The women yelled too, some urging them to stop, some cheering them on. Hope then turned around and slammed her hand onto a red button on the wall behind her desk.
Within seconds, she heard the sound of pounding feet. Wayne ran into the room, breathless and red and brandishing a billy club. Cindy was right behind him.
Chapter 17
On Saturday morning, Hope and Hazel left for their annual sisters’ road trip. They called it their Thelma and Louise weekend.
They took turns choosing the location and itinerary. Hope’s inevitably involved some kind of craft-based activity, often a quilt show or crafting retreat, but once she’d signed them up for a three-day tour of wineries in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, capped by a gourmet dinner at one of the tasting rooms.
&nb
sp; Hazel’s choices were eclectic but more adventurous and usually involved an element of danger—everything from rock climbing near Mount Rainier to a weekend in Seattle culminating in the mosh pit at a concert by one of the city’s more raucous grunge bands. When it was over, Hazel walked out with a black eye from a very enthusiastic fan who had thrown an accidental elbow and Hope had a ringing in her ears that lasted for almost two days.
It was a great time, but they agreed that they might be getting too old for the mosh pit.
This year, it was Hazel’s turn. Much to Hope’s surprise, she proposed a road trip to Idaho’s Sun Valley region for the Trailing of the Sheep, an annual festival of all things sheep—everything from knitting, felting, and yarn-dyeing classes, to an elegant Farm to Table dinner, sheepdog trials, and the famous Sheep Parade and picnic in downtown Ketchum.
“This,” said Hope when Hazel picked her up at six o’clock on a chilly Saturday morning in October, “is without a doubt the absolutely coolest Thelma and Louise weekend in the history of the universe. You rock, Hazel. Do you know that?”
“Actually, I do. Now get in the car. I want to get there in time for the ‘Secret Life of Sheep Ranchers’ lecture.”
“Really?” Hope asked, not even attempting to mask her surprise.
Hazel, who never missed a manicure appointment and wore four-inch stilettos to the office every day, had never shown an interest in even the most casual sort of gardening, like growing tomatoes in pots, let alone sheep ranching.
“Yes,” Hazel replied, impatiently beckoning her sister into the car. “And we’ve got nine and a half hours of driving ahead of us, so shake a leg.”
Hope closed the door and buckled her seat belt. “I checked the maps app on my phone and it’ll take ten and a half hours.”
“Pfft,” Hazel sputtered. “Amateurs.”
Hazel slammed her foot on the gas pedal so hard that the tires left rubber tracks on the pavement. Hope clutched at the door handle and yelped in response, laughing and squealing at the same time.
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