The Next To Last Mistake

by Jahn, Amalie

  Inside the front door is the family room. A pass-thru gives us a glimpse into the kitchen which seems modern enough, with dark stained cabinets and stainless-steel appliances.

  “Mom will be happy there’s a dishwasher,” Ashley says, stepping into the room.

  Although it’s technically an eat-in kitchen, there’s not nearly enough room for our old farmhouse table. Dad’s eyeing the space, clearly thinking the same thing.

  “We can always put our table in storage and get something smaller to fit here,” he says. “We don’t need that big ‘ole thing anyway, just enough seats for the four of us is all.”

  He’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but it is. The table is as much a part of our family as the cat or the cows. It’s seen every Thanksgiving turkey and Easter ham. Every craft project, school project, and baking disaster. It’s been carved into, spilled on, finished and refinished. It’s where Mom fed me my first spoonful of rice cereal and Dad taught me to play chess during a massive ice storm when I was six.

  “We won’t get rid of it then?” Ashley asks, inspecting the refrigerator’s ice dispenser.

  “Nah,” Dad tells her. “Folks on base don’t have sheds, but there are plenty of self-storage places around. Whatever doesn’t fit in this house, we’ll put into storage. Won’t be here forever and we might get lucky and have room for it at our next post.”

  Ashley eyes him suspiciously. “Next post? Aren’t we just staying here?”

  Dad takes a deep breath, puffs out his cheeks, and proceeds to blow the air out slowly through his lips. He’s obviously trying to be patient about our ignorance with regard to the inner workings of the military.

  “That’s not how it works in the Army. You can’t stay in one place forever, remember? I told you in the beginning, it’s really common for military kids to move around a lot. I’ll be stationed here for a while, and in a few years, they’ll move us somewhere else. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though. By the time we make a third move, you’ll be off on your own somewhere.”

  “Back in Iowa,” she says, glaring at him from across the kitchen.

  “Fair enough.” He throws his hands over his head in mock surrender. “Wherever you want to go.” Officially tabling the conversation, he takes a step toward the hallway and waves over his shoulder for us to join him. “Come on. Let’s take a look at the bedrooms.”

  There are three altogether: one for me, one for Ashley, and a master suite for Mom and Dad. Ashley quickly claims the larger of the two bedrooms, which is fine with me since I prefer the one with the extra window.

  “Come look at the bathroom!” she calls from down the hall. “There’re two sinks!”

  Sure enough, along with a toilet and tub/shower combo, there are in fact two sinks. “Good,” I tell her. “Now I won’t have to wait an hour while you primp like a Kardashian every morning.”

  “And I won’t have to look at all the nasty toothpaste you leave caked beside the drain,” she counters, before sticking her tongue out at me.

  “Real mature,” I say.

  “Real mature,” she mimics in a sing-song voice.

  “Hey, girls,” Dad calls from somewhere on the far side of the house. “Come check out the backyard.”

  There’s a deck about half the size of the one we had at the farm, but it’s big enough for a table, four chairs, and a grill. The best part, though, is the tree line because if I block the neighboring houses from my peripheral vision, I can almost imagine we’re living in the woods.

  “Won’t it be pretty in the spring once the leaves come back?” Dad asks optimistically.

  Ashley and I both agree it will, and as we huddle together in the yard, I’m struck by the absurdity of my situation. About how ridiculous it is that I’m standing in North Carolina staring at an outcropping of trees I’m supposed to pretend is a forest.

  I want to run next door to tell Zander about it so we can both have a good laugh. But of course, I can’t. Because now he lives 1,200 miles away.

  “Can we go to the school?” I ask.

  *

  According to the nameplate on the outside of the building, M.A. Hopkins High School is named after Moses Aaron Hopkins, a former slave and educator who served as the U.S. Ambassador to Liberia from 1885 to 1886. I try to picture where Liberia is located in Africa and draw a blank.

  “So, this is it,” Dad says as we enter through the front door of the building. It’s almost two o’clock and even though classes are still in session, quite a few students are milling around the hallways.

  A dull ache sets in just below my ribcage. “I don’t belong here,” I say, although I hadn’t intended on speaking the words aloud.

  “Sure, you do,” Dad reassures me as he places his arm protectively around my shoulder and leads me into the front office, while Ashley, mouth gaping, trails along behind.

  “Can I help you?” the secretary at the front desk asks in a warm, southern drawl. Dad enquires about completing my enrollment paperwork while I stare at my shoes and try not to feel out of place.

  The nametag on the secretary’s lanyard states the petite, middle-aged black woman with head of fiery red curls is Mrs. Rhoda Fields. I’m envious of the causal back-and-forth of her conversation with Dad—the way he seems completely unashamed by his obvious Mid-westernness. His confidence is probably a byproduct of the time he spent outside Iowa during his prior years of service. But I’ve spent my entire life isolated in such a homogeneous part of the country, it’s difficult for me to imagine myself fitting in anywhere else. Listening to Dad laughing with her about how glad he is to be back ‘in the land of sweet tea’ gives me hope, though, that perhaps all I need is time. Time to get to know the people and find my place among them.

  Now, Mrs. Fields turns her attention to me. “Tess Goodwin, you said? Let’s see what I’ve got.” She flips through a large stack of folders in the file cabinet beside her desk. “Well, now look here. Seems like we’ve got a folder all printed out for you already. Makes it easier when we know kids are comin’ in advance, and we sure thank you for that,” she says, smiling broadly at my dad.

  “My pleasure,” he says, in his most affable tone. “We want to get her settled in as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

  “Well, now that I can understand. Got two kids of my own here. One in the ninth and one in the twelfth. I’m sure Tess here will be fine.” She pulls several papers from the folder with my name and hands them to Dad. “All I need is for you to sign and initial these here, and Tess will need to do the same,” she says, handing me a pen. “Last thing I need from you is a copy of her vaccination schedule.”

  Dad and I sign the forms, and he hands her a copy of what appears to be my shot record, which surprises me because I didn’t even know I had one.

  As I’m handing Mrs. Fields back her pen, another African American woman and man emerge from the back of the office. “Oh, Dr. Emmett and Dr. Conner, say hello to our newest student. This is Tess Goodwin from Iowa.”

  Dr. Emmett, who’s nametag states she’s the principal, rushes over to take my hand, shaking it firmly between both of her own. She’s tall and thin and strikingly beautiful, in a fitted pantsuit and matching pumps. The warmth of her smile immediately puts me at ease.

  “We’re so glad you’re with us.” She glances at Dad, giving him an understanding look. “We get all the kids from Bragg here, so we know how hard transitions can be. You let me know if there’s ever anything I can do to help you feel more at home.”

  Dr. Conner, the assistant principal, shakes Dad’s hand and turns to Mrs. Fields. “Did you get her set up with a buddy?”

  “We were just getting to that,” she says, plunging into the depths of yet another file cabinet. “And as a matter of fact, I already have someone in mind.”

  After a round of goodbyes, the principals excuse themselves into the hallway, and Mrs. Fields comes up with a manila envelope. “Okay,” she says, more to herself than to us. “We keep a list of students who volunte
er to help show new enrollees the ropes, and I just had someone sign up last month who I think will be a perfect match for you, Tess. You can come here to the front office first thing Monday morning, and I’ll make sure she’s waiting for you. Lemme just see if I can find her here on the sheet.” She slides her finger down the page until it stops at the name she’s looking for. “Ah, yes. Here she is. Leonetta Jackson.”

  chapter 7

  First Day

  Monday, January 7

  Instead of stepping into the school’s front office, I hesitate beyond the threshold, folding and refolding my schedule between my hands like a master origamist, questioning every decision I’ve made since the moment Dad announced we were moving to Fayetteville. I glance through the doorway, pondering the unlikely series of events that brought me to the lobby of M.A. Hopkins High School in the first place, wondering if speaking up about my true feelings back in November would have made a difference. Would I be spending the day with Zander instead of a stranger if I had been firmer in my resolve about not wanting to leave Iowa?

  The only other student in the office doesn’t look up from her book as the door closes behind me with a gentle click. She’s sitting in a chair against the back wall, her nose buried in a copy of Girl With a Pearl Earring. Her face is concealed behind by a chin-length bob woven with streaks of purple and blue. A wrist-full of gold bangles jingle as she turns the page.

  If Zander was here he’d walk right up and ask if she’s my mentor, but of course, I don’t want to disturb her because interrupting is impolite. Without him, I lack the courage to introduce myself, so I’m still standing there like an idiot when Mrs. Fields finally looks up from her desk.

  “Leonetta?” she says. “Your buddy, Tess, is here. Now put down your book and show this nice girl around.”

  I’d worked myself into a frenzy over the weekend worrying about two things: why Zander still hadn’t texted me back and whether Leonetta was going to like me. A tiny part of me thought perhaps she’d be another Midwestern transplant since Mrs. Fields had promised the two of us would be ‘a perfect match.’ Looking at Leonetta now, with her perfectly shaped eyebrows and rich, ruby lipstick, I brace myself for her disappointment. There’s no way she’s gonna want to spend the day with some freckly farmgirl who doesn’t even have her ears pierced, and I halfway expect her to ask Mrs. Fields to reassign me to someone else.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says instead, smiling brightly as she slips her book into her bag before hoisting herself from the chair. “D’you just get into town?”

  I follow her like a puppy into the hallway now teeming with students, hurrying in every direction. “Yeah. Last week,” I say, the relief of her tentative acceptance spreading through me, casting away a few of my initial concerns.

  She asks me where I’m from and about the reason for our move before holding out a perfectly manicured hand. “I need your schedule so I can help you find your way to class. I’ll be staying with you all day, making sure you get from place to place.”

  I’m simultaneously relieved and dismayed as I hand her the paper. Relieved she’ll be navigating for the next seven hours but dismayed I’ll be on my own by this time tomorrow.

  “So, uh, it turns out I’m in three of your four classes,” she says, her voice laced with something like relief. “Plus, we both have second lunch.”

  The mention of concurrent lunch assignments sparks a tiny flame of hope inside me. Perhaps her acknowledgment will result in an invitation to eat together later in the day. Back at East Chester, I never worried about having someone to sit with: Zander was always by my side. But then again, with so few students, there was never a need for more than one shift, guaranteeing we’d always be together. I’m still pondering how many students necessitate multiple lunches when Leonetta stops abruptly in front of what appears to be a computer lab. “They already assign you an email address?” she asks.

  “Yeah. When I enrolled last week. They set me up with a Chromebook, too.”

  She takes a step back as a kid carrying a printer exits the lab. “D’you test it out to make sure it works?”

  I shake my head. “Didn’t know I needed to.”

  “It’s alright,” she says with a sigh. “We can try it later. Half the time they don’t load properly. You know how glitchy school computers can be.”

  I purse my lips and swallow down the urge to panic. “Actually, we just had textbooks at my old school. I don’t know anything about using a Chromebook.”

  She nods sympathetically and continues moving down the hall with purpose, shuffling along in her flats. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “If it’s not working, I’ll just give you access to my stuff ‘til we can get it sorted.”

  “Really?” I can’t believe she would do that for me. We don’t even know each other.

  “Yeah, of course. It’s no big deal. Being late to Krenshaw’s class is definitely a big deal, though, so we better hurry up.”

  Neck craned and eyes wide, I must look like a tourist walking beside her, trying to get a sense of the school’s overwhelming expanse. I’m still wrapping my head around the enormity of the building, which seems to go on endlessly in every direction, when she stops beside a classroom door. “This is you. First period. The only class we don’t have together. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be back before the bell rings to take you to your next class.” She turns to go but abruptly changes her mind, pivoting on her heel. “And just FYI, this is American History with Ms. Krenshaw. She’s a triflin’ heifer. Don’t sit in the front row or the back row. Pick somewhere in the middle. Promise me.”

  I promise, thankful for this unsolicited advice, but as I enter the room, I’m suddenly nervous, imagining how one should handle a ‘triflin’ heifer.’ I familiar with the protocol for regular heifers but the trifling kind? Not so much.

  The room is divided into five rows of seven, and one of the only available seats is on the far side of the room by the windows, but it’s toward the middle, so I grab it. The rest of the class carries on, raucous and disorderly, and I busy myself with my new school supplies to avoid drawing attention to myself. I’m doodling mindlessly on the first crisp sheet of paper in the spiral notebook Dad bought me at the PX when someone slips into the seat beside me.

  “Hey,” a girl says, startling me from my sketch.

  I lift my chin to respond only to find her rustling through her shoulder bag.

  “Hi,” I say back, my voice thin and tentative.

  “This your first day?” She pulls a laptop from the bag and dives back in without making eye contact.

  “Yeah.”

  “You from Bragg?”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m actually from Iowa. But we just got here. To Fort Bragg.”

  She finally looks up from her gigantic purse, lip gloss in hand, eyes wide with disbelief. “Iowa? Isn’t that out west somewhere? Like one of those tornado states?”

  “You’re thinking of Kansas or Oklahoma,” I tell her. “But we sometimes get tornados. And there are a lot of farms.”

  She’s back in her bag again, searching for something else. “D’you live on a farm?”

  “Yeah. A dairy farm.”

  “That’s cool,” she says, returning from her bag a third time, this time with a pack of Orbitz gum. She holds out a stick. “Wanna piece?”

  I thank her and take the gum.

  Ms. Krenshaw arrives a moment later, and by the stern look of her, Leonetta’s warnings were not without merit. “You people have three seconds to get your tails in your seats or I’m passing out ASDs.”

  I glance at the girl beside me, and she rolls her eyes in a show of solidarity. Ms. Krenshaw’s barking around the room, clearly taking some sort of informal attendance. She stops once she gets to me.

  “Tess Goodwin?” she asks.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Grab a map supplement from the shelf back there. And hurry up.”

  I weave my way through desks, backpacks, and indifferent stares to the back of
the room, where, after several moments of searching, I select a book from the stack.

  Since they’re discussing World War I, a subject my old class covered in the fall, I find myself zoning out, reflecting on how nice Leonetta and the Orbitz girl are and what I would be doing back home if I hadn’t been dragged out of Iowa. It’s earlier there because of the time change, so instead of being in school already, I’d still be out in the barn for the morning milking. I’d trade Sunshine for Ms. Krenshaw in a hot minute.

  Halfway through class, Orbitz girl leans over, whispering across the aisle. “You should definitely be taking notes. Krenshaw’s tests are legendary.”

  I give her a small smile. “I already did World War I back in Iowa. The stuff she’s covering is review.”

  With a shake of her head she returns to her laptop. “Must be nice.”

  When the bell rings, signaling the end of first period, I have a page full of doodles but not a single note from the lecture. Everyone else is on their feet before it’s even done sounding, and when I glance to my right to ask for Orbitz girl’s name, I’m disappointed to discover she’s already gone.

  Out in the hallway, Leonetta’s right where I left her. “How bad was Krenshaw?” she asks as I fall into step beside her.

  “She’s definitely not winning any Miss Congeniality awards.”

  Leonetta nods. “I told you. Triflin’ heifer.”

  We push through the crowd of endless backpacks, past banks of lockers, and dozens of classrooms. The silence between us stretches uncomfortably so I scramble for a topic to keep the conversation going. “I did meet the girl who sat beside me. She seemed nice.”

  “What’s her name?” Her tone is accusatory as if I’ve done something wrong.

  “I dunno. She didn’t tell me.”

  “Then what’s she look like?”

  Her hair was short, cropped close to her head in the back and longer in the front. She had rings on her fingers and wore a beautiful linen shirt—completely appropriate for Fayetteville but so different from the jeans and cotton t-shirts I’m used to wearing around the farm. Also, she was black, but it feels inappropriate to add this as part of her description, so I decide not to say anything at all.