by Chris Fabry
She hadn’t slept the night before, tossing and turning, nervous about just how much she’d stand out from the other kids at Brookshire. Her grandmother said not to worry, that everything would be fine and she would make friends. Easy for her to say. Hannah didn’t make friends easily. She wasn’t sure why. Life just felt less complicated that way.
Her grandmother had given her a talk about her “problem.” She reminded Hannah of the pledge she signed and of the consequences of any infractions, wagging a finger, looking at her as if she had stolen a school bus and had it in her back pocket.
“Yes, Grandma,” was her ready answer to everything. She said it in her sleep. Even though her grandmother didn’t know about her blue box, it felt like she was expecting Hannah to fail, and that expectation pressed on her like a hundred-pound weight.
Hannah was quiet, some would say timid, but she was always thinking, always swirling something inside. Her grandmother seemed to understand this and expect the worst possible thing. And her grandmother was usually right—Hannah felt she probably would do something wrong. In reality, Hannah saw herself as a bad girl. She didn’t make wrong choices or do bad things—she was bad. She was a walking mistake, with a mother and a father who loved drugs more than her. They loved them so much they had died taking them, and that made Hannah feel hollow inside. She carried that truth in her life’s backpack and stowed it in the blue box of her heart. There was no escaping that truth. And when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone who might make the same kind of mistakes they had made. That same realization was reflected on her grandmother’s face each day. Disappointment. Frustration. Life was a series of letdowns for her grandmother, and Hannah was the biggest of all.
She sat on a bench beside the flagpole, the Stars and Stripes flapping in a slight breeze above. Students arrived by bus. Others either drove their own cars or were dropped off by parents. And most of their cars were nice and shiny, not like her grandmother’s. Hers was old and square and boxy, which was at least one good thing about being dropped off an hour early. She loved her grandmother, but she didn’t want to be seen in an old car driven by an older woman. Was that normal?
Moms dropped daughters, dads dropped sons, and there were even cars where both mom and dad let kids out. How did they get so lucky? Students bounded out of cars and streamed toward the school with confidence. They acted as if something good was about to happen. Even the way they walked showed they belonged and had confidence about what was on the other side of those doors.
Hannah had none of those feelings. Still, the fact that she was at Brookshire meant something. Someone had paid a lot of money to allow her to attend.
“Baby, do you see what they’re giving you?” her grandmother had said, pointing a finger at a form with her signature. “Now don’t you squander that. You squeeze all the learning you can out of what you’re being given. You hear?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
Hannah pulled out her class schedule. She tried to memorize teachers’ names and room numbers and she had drawn a map on the back of the page. She’d gone over it so many times the paper was wrinkled and worn and she clutched it as she walked inside before the opening bell.
She wondered how different Brookshire would be from Franklin High. When some kids at her public school talked about Brookshire, they rolled their eyes. Christians, to them, were people who made rules they could keep so they could look down on others. They thought they had halos around their heads because they didn’t curse or smoke or whatever it was they didn’t do. No, she wouldn’t fit in at Brookshire. She didn’t belong.
Hannah compared her backpack with everyone else’s. She compared her clothes, her shoes, her hair. She walked close to the wall as if looking for a safe room if she needed to retreat.
A scrawny-looking kid in front of her stuck out his foot and tripped a boy who wasn’t paying attention and the kid fell flat on his face. The scrawny kid laughed and the boy beside him joined in.
“Freshmen are losers,” the bully said.
Hannah helped the boy up and asked if he was okay. He adjusted his glasses and brushed off his shirt.
“Stop it, Robert!” someone said behind her. It was a tall boy who looked like an athlete.
Robert and his friend scurried away like night bugs when a light shines. The athlete shook his head as he watched the two hurry away, laughing.
Glasses Boy looked at Hannah. “Thanks.”
Someone spoke on the intercom and directed students to the gymnasium. Hannah turned toward the wrong end of the school, then retreated and joined the stream of students that flowed to the gym and onto the bleachers. Her heart beating wildly, she sat in the first open row she found and settled, taking off her backpack. A big sigh. Now she could relax. Then she realized she was sitting in the section marked for seniors. She saw the SOPHOMORE sign and had to walk across the gym floor and climb over people to get a seat. One of them was the scrawny kid, Robert.
“Look who has no idea where to sit,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Hannah tried ignoring him, but she felt her face get warm. The principal called them to order and the gymnasium quieted.
Mrs. Olivia Brooks welcomed students to a new school year. She was a stately African American woman with a bright smile. She stood tall and scanned the faces on both sides of the gym, holding the microphone perfectly so people could hear her clear, crisp voice. Hannah thought it would be a dream come true to have the confidence to speak that way.
“Let’s welcome our freshmen to Brookshire,” she said, and a roar rose from the students. Seniors on the opposite bleachers actually stood. It was strange because at Franklin High the freshmen were treated like gum on the bottom of shoes. Was it an act? She’d already seen one freshman get picked on, and the school day hadn’t even started. With each class the noise crescendoed and Hannah began to believe there was something different here. And it appeared the support started at the top.
Mrs. Brooks recognized teachers and staff. She then introduced a man she said was “the most important person at the school.” Hannah scanned the stage, but it wasn’t a head coach or an administrator. Instead, she had a bearded man in a gray uniform step forward.
“This is our head custodian, Jimmy Meeder, who keeps this school shining every day. And I want you to help him and his staff by doing your part to keep it that way.”
“Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!” the seniors chanted, and the rest of the students picked up the cheer. The man remained stone-faced, nodding toward the seniors, then took his place by a rolling trash can by the wall.
“Now, to all our new students this year,” she continued, “I want you to know you are welcome here. If you have questions or can’t find a room, ask someone. Come to the front office. We’re here to help each other, especially as you get started. We want this to be the best year in our school’s history.”
The applause was a bit quieter. Mrs. Brooks paused, then continued in measured tones.
“As you know, our town is going through a tough time. Last year, we had to place chairs on the gym floor to fit everyone. Many of our friends have moved and we’re going to miss them. Because of this, we’ve had to cut some extracurricular activities and sports.”
Students groaned, especially the juniors and seniors.
“Here’s our commitment to you: We will pull together and do everything with excellence so that you will receive the best education possible. And you will do the same. If your sport was cut, we’ll help you find another one so you can join a team and make a difference. Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart. Music, sports, and yes, homework—whatever you do, give it everything you have and let’s see what can happen. Okay?”
Hannah felt something inside. There was excitement in the room about the new year and even though circumstances weren’t the best, Mrs. Brooks exuded hope that leaked and trickled down on everyone like dew on the morning grass.
When they were dismissed for first period, Hannah stood and put on her backpack
and reached for her class schedule. She’d been holding it tightly but now it was gone. She sat and looked underneath the bleachers. The gym emptied and she felt tightness in her lungs.
See, you always do something stupid, she thought.
She ran to the senior section where she first sat. Her schedule wasn’t there. She tried to stay calm. She had memorized that page and those classroom numbers, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember her first class.
The teachers were gone. Jimmy, the janitor, was gone. The last students trickled through the doors and she was alone. Everyone knew where they were going. Everyone was in their place and walking confidently. Only Hannah was late.
Mrs. Brooks said to come to the office if anyone needed help. But Hannah couldn’t do that. Asking for help meant you were weak. She had to figure this out herself. And just like that, she remembered. Geometry. Mr. Bailey. Room 219.
She hurried to the stairwell, found the room numbers above each door, and scooted into 219 just as a balding man was closing it. “Got in under the wire,” he said, smiling.
The seats in the back were taken. She walked all the way across the room and sat in an empty chair by the window. Mr. Bailey read the list of names on the sheet with each student raising a hand. He looked up after each name to make eye contact, then wrote something down.
“Gillian Sanders,” he said.
A redheaded girl behind her said, “Here,” in a squeaky voice.
“Rory Simpson,” he said.
Something felt off. Had he missed her name on the list? She panicked.
“Rachel Thompson,” he said.
Hannah’s heart sank. Then her brain kicked in and she remembered. Geometry was her second period class. She was terribly late for first period. She grabbed her backpack and walked toward the door.
“Is something wrong?” Mr. Bailey said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Wrong room.”
Before the man could say anything, she was in the hall, trying to get her heart to stop beating like a marching band. Where should she go? She felt so embarrassed, like such a loser. All she had to do was find the right rooms, just hang on to the schedule, but she had dropped her compass and here she was without direction. And the more she tried to remember where she was supposed to be, the more the walls closed in.
The door to Mr. Bailey’s class opened and she darted into the bathroom. She found the first empty stall and locked it. She stood there, a feeling washing over her. She remembered the playground when she was three or four, her grandmother telling her it was okay to climb the stairs to the slide, and Hannah looking back at her grandmother on the bench urging her forward.
Hannah got in line with the others and used the rails along the narrow steps to climb higher than she had ever been on her own. And when the kid in front of her sat and took the plunge, it was her turn, and Hannah made the mistake of looking at the ground. It was scary high. The slide looked steeper from here. Her breath became short and she held on to the rails.
“Hurry up!”
“Just go, will you!”
She couldn’t close her eyes and slide down that smooth, silvery surface. Her grandmother said something. Then Grandma was at the bottom of the slide looking up at her. “It’s all right, baby. You’ll be fine.”
Hannah gasped. Something inside wouldn’t let her move. But no one could see the struggle—they only saw how she was in their way. She turned and nervously walked down, navigating the narrow steps meant for one person at a time.
When she made it to the ground, her grandmother took her hand, told her it was all right, that everybody got scared. But Hannah didn’t feel all right. Hannah felt like she was the only one. Everyone else laughed, slid, reached the end, and scurried to get in line again. What was wrong with her?
She took off her backpack in the stall and hung it on a hook. She didn’t come out until the bell rang for second period.
CHAPTER 9
John Harrison put a notice on every bulletin board in the school about cross-country tryouts. In each of his classes he made the same announcement, but the response was tepid.
He wrote his name on the chalkboard and called roll for his American history class. He loved teaching history because he believed those who didn’t remember it were condemned to repeat it, like the famous writer said. His son Ethan had changed the quote slightly to say, “Those who don’t remember history are condemned to a makeup test.”
John stifled a wince at the empty seats and remembered the words of Olivia Brooks. He chose to see the class half-full rather than half-empty. Still, there was pain for him and pain for the students who were sitting among empty chairs vacated by friends.
He invited each student to say a little about themselves. It was hard for some, easy for others. Near the end of the class he handed out a syllabus and information about how their grades would be determined. He encouraged students to keep up with their daily reading, which was pivotal to learning history.
He checked his watch. “Before we dismiss, I just want to let you know that tryouts for guys and girls cross-country are tomorrow afternoon. So if you’re interested, come on out. And I would appreciate it if you would help me pass the word.”
Only one student looked at him.
“Why are they making you coach that?”
The question sounded like an indictment. John faced his son Ethan, who spoke with a scowl. John could have made a joke or ignored it, but he felt his son had provided an opportunity.
“That’s the wrong question, Ethan. Most of the faculty are taking on extra responsibilities for the time being.” He glanced at the rest of the class who sat silently watching the family conflict. “Look, if we’re going to keep moving forward, we have to stop thinking about negative things. Okay?”
His words sounded hollow, even to himself. The truth was, he had the same feeling as Ethan, he just didn’t want to admit it. And the question had stirred something inside him. There was so much he had taken for granted in the town and school. Before the bell rang, he assigned a chapter on the Great Depression, which felt more than ironic, and after the bell he motioned for Ethan to stay.
John had been trying to figure out how to gently prod his son to go out for cross-country. Ethan was a leader and if he showed up, others would follow. Of course, Ethan would need to step aside when basketball season started, but just him being there on the first day of tryouts would be a shot in the arm for the program. From the time Ethan was old enough to bounce a ball, John had tried hard to not pressure him, whether in sports, academics, church, or anything he wanted to do. As a player and a coach John had seen overbearing dads force their kids into situations that were clearly more about the dad than the child. John wanted his sons to do their best, but he never wanted his expectations to burden them. He didn’t want to exploit Ethan to bolster the cross-country team, but this wasn’t a matter of using anyone—he was encouraging Ethan to lead.
The room emptied and John sat on a desk and faced his son. He tried to keep the edge from his voice as he asked why Ethan had questioned him during class.
“I’m sorry. I just think it’s a joke you have to keep the cross-country program alive. Nobody cares.”
That hit another nerve. He measured his response. “Okay, it’s been assigned to me, so I have to figure it out until somebody else can take it. But don’t shoot it down while I’m trying to build it up.”
Ethan thought a moment and stared at John. Finally he said, “Please don’t ask me to try out.”
His son’s honesty and the look on his face was like a rug being pulled out from under John. He tried not to show his frustration, but he could tell by Ethan’s response and the way he trudged toward the hallway that he had failed.
This year was going to be a struggle on a lot of levels. What would FDR do?
The next day, John made his way past the buses and down the concrete stairs to the field for tryouts. He was surprised to see about a dozen students waiting at the landing. They talked and
shared videos from their phones. All his efforts at promotion had paid off.
“Hey, guys, you all here for tryouts?”
They stared at him like he was from another planet.
“Tryouts?” one kid said, looking up from his phone.
“Cross-country,” John said.
“No, sir, we’re just hanging out.”
John looked from face to face to see if there was any other reaction. “None of you are here to try out?”
Shaking heads and scowls.
“No, sir, sorry,” a girl said, and one by one the group disbanded and walked past him up the stairs.
It felt like a defeat. At best the students were apathetic about the sport. He thought of Ethan’s words in class and knew what he had to do: find Olivia Brooks and tell her there wasn’t a cross-country team.
As the students walked up the steps, he glanced at the field. A lone figure sat on a small set of bleachers. She wore shorts and a T-shirt and stared at the ground. John took a deep breath and started the long walk toward her.
“Hey, are you here for cross-country?” John said as he reached the bleachers.
“Yes, sir.”
A small voice. Reserved. She had a scared pup look to her.
He looked around. “Do you know anybody else coming to try out?”
She stared with brown eyes as if it were a question she had no idea how to answer. And why would she?
“No, sir.”
John asked her name and the girl opened her backpack and handed him a form she’d filled out. “Hannah Scott.”
John scanned the page. Hannah was a sophomore. She’d run at Franklin High the year before. Born on February 14. A Valentine’s baby. He saw the emergency contact information was for a Barbara Scott and she was listed as Hannah’s grandmother.
John heard a sound, a puff of air, and he looked up to see Hannah pulling an inhaler from her mouth. “I’m sorry, Hannah, is that . . . ?”
