Ms. Carla stood there in a form-fitting red dress with no jacket, a matching red scarf over her long, dark hair to protect it from the wind, which was blowing like a storm was whipping up. She was holding a casserole. Or at least, something in a casserole dish with foil over it that smelled cheesy and delicious when a gust of wind blew her way. Fresh from the oven then. Probably still hot enough to have kept her warm on the short walk over. It would be a cold walk back.
“This is for you,” Ms. Carla said. “I … heard about your mother, and I thought you might like a nice, hot meal.”
But she didn’t hold the casserole out for Emily to take. Which was okay, because suddenly she was so heartsick she didn’t know if she could hold on to it. The tears were starting up again. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands to redirect the pain.
“Oh, honey,” Ms. Carla said, at the sight of Emily’s tears. “This is hot, so maybe it’s best if I bring this inside for you?”
Emily noticed now that Ms. Carla had towels in each hand, using them to hold onto the glass dish. She tried to clear tears from her throat so she could talk, but Jared gently moved her aside and took over.
“Come in,” he said. “And thank you.”
But we have pizza coming, came Emily’s incongruous thought. And really, in the face of everything, it was so small and stupid, but she wanted comfort food. She didn’t want some home cooked meal from someone else’s mother.
Jared and Emily followed Ms. Carla into the kitchen, where she set the casserole down on the counter. Then she turned and reached out to Emily, and before Emily could even decide if she wanted a hug, she was enveloped in one. It was about the least comfortable thing ever, because, with her lack of height, Ms. Carla’s heels, and her impressive chest, she was all but cheek to boob.
“You poor dear,” Ms. Carla said.
Emily pulled back as quickly as she could, and Ms. Carla released her in stages, going from arms around her back to hands on her shoulders, rubbing up and down in what was probably supposed to be comfort. She stopped when she hit the oversized Band-Aid hiding beneath her shirt.
“But what is this?” she asked, reaching for Emily’s sleeve like she would pull it up. “Have you hurt yourself?”
Emily yanked out of her grip entirely and moved away, “Nothing,” she said. “Monster zit gone wrong.” All the while she was thinking what the hell.
“Maybe I should take a look. It could be infected.” She was watching Emily too closely, almost like she could see right through the lie. Or her sleeve. Maybe she sensed that something wrong. Maternal instincts or something.
“I’m fine,” Emily said a little sharply, but at this point rudeness seemed the only way to get some space.
Dad’s door opened down the hall, and they all heard him before they saw him. “I heard the doorbell,” he said.
Ms. Carla’s attention went immediately to the hallway, and Emily blessed her father for the rescue.
His eyes lit up as he smelled the casserole and spotted Ms. Carla, who was taking the scarf from her hair and fluffing it, as if she would stay awhile. “Ah, Carla, you brought food. That was kind of you.”
“Of course. When I heard about Diane … Well, I wanted to do something. And to let you know that we’re here if you or the kids need anything. I’m here,” which Emily thought was a strange addition, since she was already part of “we,” as in her and Mr. Meyers … and their son Andrew, she guessed, though he was a senior and already seemed to have one foot out the door.
“Thank you, the kids and I are fine,” Dad said, and there was something hard in his voice, like that was the last word. Fine. Accept it and move on. Like Emily’s zit explanation.
“Oh, I’m so relieved. After the police—”
“Have they talked to you?” Dad cut in.
Jared, who’d been taking the casserole to the refrigerator, froze in place and glanced back sharply.
Carla looked taken aback. “Yes, a few questions. We don’t know anything, of course. We haven’t heard from Diane. I think they may have talked to a few people on the street.”
Dad cursed in a way he would have given them hell for.
“Maybe I should walk you home,” he said.
Carla’s eyes were big now. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Because neighbors would talk about seeing Dad and Ms. Carla together in broad daylight with Mom out of the picture? Had things gotten that bad that fast? Mom was only just gone and … The police. That made it so much worse. What were people thinking or saying about them having the police at their place? Asking questions up and down the block? She felt panic start to rise and dug her fingernails into her palms again. There was nothing she could do about it. What was that serenity prayer? God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.… She didn’t know if she believed in God, but serenity seemed so far out of the realm of possibility that it might as well be myth.
“If people want to talk, they’ll find something to talk about,” Dad said, which was probably true.
Emily tried to let it ease her. If Dad wasn’t worried …
He gave Carla an “after you” sort of gesture, and let her lead the way to the door. Emily went to the couch and watched them through the front window, possibly like some of the neighbors were doing. She didn’t know why. There was just something funny about it all. It looked like they were arguing. But why would they do that? If they were going to be the new neighborhood gossip, that would only give people something to speculate about. And if people were going to turn against them—or Dad, anyway—they couldn’t afford to offend any allies.
This whole thing was so wrong.
“Emily, come away from the window,” Jared said gently.
“They’re fighting,” she said, not moving a muscle.
Instead of insisting, Jared came up beside her and peered through the slit she’d made in the curtains.
“I wouldn’t call it fighting,” he said when they were out of eyesight.
Maybe not. Not if the standard for that was Mom and Dad.
“Fine, disagreeing then,” Emily said. “I wonder what about.”
Jared had no answers for her.
The bus stop the next morning was beyond uncomfortable. There wasn’t usually a lot of chatter in the morning with everyone still waking up. Most people were glued to their phones or tuned into whatever was coming through their earbuds. Today was different. There was talk, but she and Jared were left out of it except for sly glances darted their way.
She and Jared usually ignored each other, as though they weren’t even related, but today he stuck close, and she could see him bristling, seeming almost to grow with every heavy breath he took in. Like Dad did sometimes. His nostrils flared like Dad’s too. He wasn’t just darting glances back at the kids, he was glaring them down. Siobhan and Katie looked away and hushed right up. Marshall and Kian and Stacy, though, didn’t seem to notice.
Jared started in their direction, and Emily put a hand on his arm, which was almost as hard and veined as granite. Only granite didn’t quiver as though barely constrained. “Don’t,” she said.
He made an effort. Another deep breath, which he let out slowly, as though maybe counting to five. Then Stacy laughed, an explosive thing, and he ripped his arm out of her hand.
“What?” he said, starting forward. “What’s so funny?”
Everyone else went silent and stared, waiting to see what would happen. Marshall easily had five inches on Jared, and a linebacker’s build. Kian was leaner, softer but not soft, and was about his height. It was three against one if Stacy jumped in. Or three against two, she guessed, since she’d have to defend her brother. But she hadn’t gotten into a fight since she and Shara had tussled over the slide back in elementary school.
“Nothing,” Marshall said. “Jeez, man. Chill.” He held two hands out in a no-harm-no-foul sort of way, but Jared didn’t stop until he was right up in Marshall’s personal space.
“Say it,” he sa
id. “Whatever you have to say to everyone else, say it to me.”
Marshall was not going to back down. She could see it.
He and Jared were bristling like wild dogs trying to scare each other off a kill.
“I said—”
A big, shaggy golden retriever burst in on whatever he was about to say, its leash trailing it, the plastic of its retractable handle clattering loudly on the sidewalk. It bounded right up to Jared and reared up on its hind legs so it could land its front paws on his shoulders and proceed to give him a tongue bath.
A woman came running up, her face as red as her jacket, calling, “Stanley! Stanley, get down!”
Stanley didn’t listen to her until she jiggled her pocket. That got Stanley’s attention, and he dropped to all fours to nuzzle her jacket instead of Jared. Probably where she kept his treats.
“So sorry about that. Sometimes he just gets away from me,” she said, in a way that made Emily think she wasn’t sorry at all and that maybe she’d even let Stanley loose on purpose to defuse the situation.
It had worked, too, because now the bus was here, and there was no more time for trouble.
As everyone else looked to the bus, Emily looked to the woman. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
The woman winked back, and she and Stanley continued on their way. She saw the lady slip him a treat as they went.
It hadn’t gotten any better from there. It was horrible enough that Mom was gone without it being everyone else’s business. There were whispers, sidelong glances, sympathetic looks from the teachers. Only Shara and Tammany asked her how she was doing with anything approaching understanding rather than a desire for good gossip.
By third period she was ready to lose it. She hoped Jared was doing better and that he hadn’t hit anyone.
When she reached language arts, Ms. Castillo tried to pull her aside, and she shook her head and mouthed “Please.” One more expression of sympathy and she was going to break down. She did not want to lose it in front of the class. She didn’t want to lose it at all. The other night when the tears had started, she was afraid they’d never stop. She’d tried self-soothing methods she’d read about online—yelling into a pillow, tearing something up, trying to use the shock of ice in place of pain. She’d tried a rubber band around the wrist, snapping it to cause pain instead of cutting. It helped a little. Enough that she didn’t do more. Not then. But all of this … the pressure was building again, and she didn’t know what she was going to do. If Mom was around, she might have reached out, but that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Ms. Castillo seemed to understand. She didn’t insist, but nodded Emily to her seat, which Emily took without making eye contact with anyone but Shara, who sat two rows over and several seats behind her. Assigned seating, otherwise they’d have been right next to each other and Emily would have at least some support.
“Take out your poetry packets,” Ms. Castillo said, her gaze sweeping around the classroom to make sure that everyone had something to show. “Now, as we’ve talked about, poetry exists to make you feel, to evoke an emotion or a scene. Art is only part creation. The other part is interpretation. You know what your work means to you. Today you’ll find out whether you’ve conveyed your meaning. I want you each to share your work with someone else. Read, critique. Be honest, but kind. Remember you’re not critiquing to show off how clever you are, but to be helpful. Remember that the feedback you receive is about your work and not you. Also remember that art is subjective. Not everything said will resonate with you, and that’s okay. Just listen with an open mind.”
Emily paused with her packet only half out of her backpack. Share her work? Oh, no, no, no. It was bad enough the teacher was going to see it.
Emily started to raise her hand, to ask to be excused, suddenly sick, but Ms. Castillo didn’t pick on her. She continued on. “With the understanding that your writing can be deeply personal, today I’ll let you pick your partners.”
Her hand went down, and she glanced immediately to Shara. If she could get her friend … Shara was nodding right back at her. Thank goodness. She was still tense, but at least this would be survivable.
“Partners?” asked a voice from her right. She almost hyperventilated. Josh sat there. Josh. No way was she sharing her work with him.
She turned in her seat, meeting his ridiculously long-lashed golden-brown gaze. He’d hit his growth spurt over the summer, and where they’d been practically nose to nose growing up, now they were more like nose to chin. And something else had changed too. She couldn’t say what, only that it tied her up in knots to talk to him. “Sorry, I’m working with Shara.” She felt sorry for a second, when he actually looked disappointed. But she was more relieved than anything.
“Switch seats?” Shara said, coming up and looming over them. “I think Terry needs a partner.” She nodded back to the girl who sat behind her, who was leaning forward in her seat watching them. Or, more accurately, watching Josh.
“Um, sure.” He gathered his stuff and stood, but stopped next to Emily’s desk to lean down. Her heart stuttered as his mouth got close to her ear. So stupid. “Maybe we can talk later?” he said.
She was so stunned she couldn’t even answer. There was no way Josh was interested in her. No way. And not NOW. With everything going on. She made herself tilt her head up, to nod at least, but he was already moving on, maybe assuming her answer. Everyone wanted to talk to Josh. Why wouldn’t she?
“Ooh,” Shara said, slipping into Josh’s seat. “What was that about?”
Emily blinked over at her. “I have no idea. He said he wants to talk.”
“Talking’s a good start.”
Emily threw her a look. “Don’t, okay? It’s not that.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Let’s get this over with.”
They pulled their desks together, as others were doing across the room, making her head hurt momentarily until the noise subsided. Even then.
“Be gentle with me,” Shara said, handing her packet over. “I don’t think I’m cut out for poetry.”
Emily exchanged her own poems for Shara’s. “I hear you.”
Silence followed, during which Ms. Castillo walked the room, stopping by each set of desks, reading over shoulders, making everyone uncomfortable. Teachers were good at that. She dreaded their turn for scrutiny.
Five minutes into it, Shara looked up at her, making Emily break from her own reading. “You suck,” Shara said.
It was like an arrow to the heart. She’d said that about her own writing, but it wasn’t until she heard it from Shara that she realized she secretly thought otherwise. She’d actually thought a couple of her poems were pretty good. “What?” she asked, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. “Ms. Castillo said to be constructive.”
“You suck because these are awesome, and there you were pretending to feel my pain.”
The turn-around was so abrupt she felt like she had whiplash. “What?”
“Well, maybe not the mad/sad poem, because probably half the class used those rhymes, but everything else.”
“Oh … thanks?”
“But—”
Oh, here it comes, Emily thought. She was starting to regret exchanging with Shara. Her friend wouldn’t mince words. She never did. And Emily was so stupid fragile right now. And so angry at herself for it.
“But this one—” Shara pulled out her first poem.
A poem is like a slash to the wrist.
Bleed out on the page,
Smear it with your effusions.…
“Em, it’s amazing. And scary. I honestly don’t know whether I should be impressed or worried about you.”
Ms. Castillo was standing over them now, reading over Shara’s shoulder. Emily was as tense as a drawn bowstring. Neither of them spoke for a second, while Ms. Castillo finished. Then she flashed a glance at Emily. “Wow,” she said.
She’d gotten a “wow” from Ms. Castillo. For a second, she thought her li
terary forbearers might be proud. And then Ms. C ruined it.
“Can I read this for the class?”
“What? No!” Couldn’t she tell this was personal? What was she thinking?
“Are you sure? It’s very deep. A little aggressive, maybe, but that’s a good thing. It’s coming from an authentic place.”
That was the whole problem.
“I’m sure.” She held out her hand to take the poem back, ready to swipe it if Ms. C didn’t hand it right over.
Luckily, she didn’t have to worry. Ms. Castillo surrendered her work and moved on. Emily was used to being a people-pleaser, yet she’d managed to disappoint two people in the space of a few minutes. Go her. But there was no way the class was getting to deconstruct her work.
A few tables later, Ms. C read a pastoral about baby goats and life and springtime from Cindy Mannerlee, who actually lived on a farm. It was way more upbeat than Emily’s piece. And then, to her shock, Ms. C held up a poem by Josh, who stared at his desk the whole time she read it.
The clock has a face that doth never change
Hands spinning their eternal loop, and yet
We mortals, granted the free will to range
Rarely stray from the common path we’re set.
Are we no more than rank mechanics then,
Ticking and tocking in a measured pace?
The road of expectations paved by men.
No thought, no step out of ordained place.…
Emily’s mouth dropped open, and she closed it immediately. It was good. No, more than good. It was pretty damned amazing. And he’d somehow managed to do it in rhyme and constrained to ten syllables a line. A sonnet, very Shakespearean. Emily had avoided that form like the plague. But it was the subject that really got to her.
Was that what Mom had done? Broken away from the expectations of everyone around her—Dad’s that Mom would fall into line, Emily’s that she’d be loved and cared for, Jared’s that Mom would accept the punishment he heaped on her for leaving and keep coming back for more until he ran himself out. Had she chucked it all and decided on a different path, one that didn’t include them, where she could be anyone, do anything, go anywhere. No ties to hold her back.
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