When I walked into the newsroom on Tuesday and saw that we had a substitute teacher, I didn’t think much of it. Students miss school; teachers miss school. It happens. For a fleeting moment, I hoped that Ms. Wilson hadn’t caught the nasty bug that was going around.
“Guess what,” Joey said, looking up from his phone. “Elijah and his granddad George finally got a green light on their limo road trip to San Diego. They said our video had been a huge factor in convincing his parents. We can do a follow-up story in January.”
I beamed, feeling every inch the legit journalist. Our first story together had made a difference. Joey laughed. “They also said that if we ever need a ride, call them.”
“Lou!” Alexis waved me over to Nick’s desk. “Take a look.”
I bent to read what he was copyediting. Good for Erin! The Stu-Co secretary had come through. The council had passed her proposed resolution at yesterday’s meeting. They’d decided to officially support Mrs. Q and the entire cast and crew of the musical.
“Do you want a double byline?” Alexis asked.
“Is this your story or mine?” Joey said.
“No thanks. It’s all yours,” I replied. “You did most of the work. Besides, I’ve got a musical-related story of my own for this Friday.”
The choirs were circulating a petition, calling for “full inclusion” in the performing arts. They already had over a hundred more signatures than PART did, and a 40 percent higher ratio of students to parents. Joey and I had done the video interviews that morning.
After the bell rang, the sub said, “Everyone, please take a seat.”
She clapped like we were in elementary school. “I have an important announcement.”
Journalism is a working lab. We hadn’t all taken seats since the first day, and even then, movement had been fluid. It felt awkward, silly even, sitting in studious rows.
“My name is Mrs. Powell.” She pointed to her name on the chalkboard. “As of today, I am the new Journalism teacher at East Hannesburg High.”
“What about Ms. Wilson?” Karishma exclaimed, standing.
“Is she all right?” Emily added as Alexis asked, “Did something happen to her?”
“Please take a seat, Miss . . . ?” Mrs. Powell was a slow talker. She kept her hands folded, almost pious, on the top of the desk.
“My name is Karishma Sawkar,” our leader spat out. “I’m the editor in chief.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Sawkar. So far as I know, Ms. Wilson is uninjured and in perfectly fine health. There is no need for you to concern yourself with her.”
“No need?” I echoed. Ms. Wilson would never leave us without saying good-bye.
Mrs. Powell forced everyone through the painstaking ritual of introducing ourselves as she checked off attendance. Daniel managed to mumble his name and say that he was the managing editor, but he looked stricken. We all were.
“About Ms. Wilson?” Nick piped up. “Where is she?”
“She’s on leave” was the answer. “That’s all I know.”
“If she’s on leave, why did you introduce yourself as the new Journalism teacher?” Joey asked. “Why aren’t you just subbing until Ms. Wilson gets back?”
“She’s on leave.” The same words, the same intonation. “That’s all I know.”
Whatever was going on, Mrs. Powell wasn’t the power behind it.
However frustrated, we still had an issue of the Hive to put out that week. Karishma urged everyone to get back to work. “It’s what Ms. Wilson would want us to do,” she said.
I focused on my story about the dueling petitions. A half hour or so later, the room stilled. Mrs. Powell was standing on a chair, tearing down Ms. Wilson’s First Amendment poster.
Mrs. Powell crumpled it up, stepped down, and tossed it into the trash.
She replaced it with a poster of the Honeybees mascot that read Honeybee Pride.
“Ms. Wilson still hasn’t responded to any of my messages,” Karishma fretted on the way to our teacher’s house. When Daniel had said that he was busy, I’d offered to come with her.
This was Karishma’s second year taking Journalism from Ms. Wilson. They’d survived the previous staff’s turmoil together. Rebuilt the Hive together. And now, disaster.
We found the cottage, with peeling paint, in old Hannesburg on a road with a lot of rental signs. An immense golden brown house cat with a lush mane caught sight of us and sprang from a windowsill.
Ms. Wilson answered our knock, looking ten years younger than she had at school. No makeup. A button-up paisley tunic over black leggings and her hot-pink cat’s-eye glasses resting like a headband over her spiral curls.
“Karishma, Louise!” she exclaimed. “What brings you two here?”
“We were worried about you,” Karishma said. “The sub said you were on leave.”
None of us had accepted Mrs. Powell as our new teacher.
“That’s . . . That’s so sweet. Thank you.” Peering out the door, up and down her residential street, Ms. Wilson quickly added, “But you shouldn’t be here. I’m on disciplinary leave. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it might only make things worse.”
“Disciplinary for what?” I recalled the e-mails that Joey had mentioned going to parents of a few of the Hive staffers. PART had been fishing for something, anything, to use against Ms. Wilson. But I couldn’t imagine any of us turning on her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well, there’s apparently more than one version of the facts on that.” Ms. Wilson’s laugh was gentle. “I’m accused of corrupting young minds, I guess.”
I ached to write a scathing editorial about the unfairness of it all. But any mention of Ms. Wilson in the school newspaper might backfire and be used against her.
Karishma said, “I’d expected them to come after Mrs. Q.”
“They did,” Ms. Wilson replied. “But her husband is a semiretired attorney with a lot of spare time on his hands. The Qualeys aren’t messing around. They threatened to sue.”
The autumn leaves had peaked — amber, mustard, peach, lava, honey, maroon.
I plucked one from my front lawn, held it to the radiant sun. “Burnt orange.”
“They don’t have fall in Texas?” Joey asked, leaning on a rake.
“For about ten minutes,” I said, determined to have one good day, one day that was entirely about romance and joy. “It’s summer, it’s summer, then ten minutes of fall and — poof! — the yellowish-orange leaves drop. The green leaves that never change, well, still don’t, and before you know it, it’s winter. For another ten minutes.”
Opening night of the musical was two days away, Thanksgiving the following week.
Senior year was speeding by. Determined to celebrate the moment, I tossed up the fiery leaf and spun, arms extended. A breeze shook loose a shower of brilliant color.
I laughed, still spinning, while the dachshund puppies cavorted in the piles, digging, forever digging, gleefully foiling our efforts.
When my spin spun out, Joey was aiming his camera at me. He’d been experimenting with slow shutter speeds, motion blur.
I took a dizzy bow. Did I love him? Did he love me?
Would he love the whole me?
I was ready to find out.
We’d stuffed two brown paper bags that came up to my waist. I’d meticulously cleared each leaf and twig from the Shire when Joey asked, “You do realize it will snow eventually?”
“Probably not until after Christmas. At least not enough to stick, let alone blanket the hobbit holes. I’m going to decorate them for Daddy’s present. I’ll make tiny green wreaths out of miniature pipe cleaners.”
“I somehow doubt hobbits celebrate Christmas,” Joey replied. “Solstice maybe.”
“Yes, solstice.” I ached to tell him I was ready, that I wanted to make love.
But did anyone actually say “make love”?
It sounded cheesy, melodramatic, like you thought you were too dainty to say “sex.”
Then again, the
word sex was almost clinical, deficient in romance, passion.
Sex. Meh.
On the other hand, it was a hell of a lot better than “doing it” or “getting laid” or “bow-chicka-bow-wow.”
Maybe I could go vague about the sexy fun, use eye contact and body language to say we needed alone time. And not in the apartment he shared with his mother.
Joey and I moved to the porch to watch the pups destroy our lawn-care handiwork. He eased himself into one of the Adirondack chairs. I perched at an angle on his denim-clad thighs.
“So, um, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”
“Are you still pissed at me?” he asked. “Because, like I said, I don’t mean to walk away from you. It’s only that my legs are longer. We’re usually in a hurry and —”
“That’s not it,” I said. “And I wasn’t pissed at you. I was just miffed.”
Being Arab American, Joey navigated our screwed-up world from a different slant. But he dealt with bigoted crap, too. I was sure of it.
Hopefully, he’d be able to identify with where I was coming from and shove aside any BS ideas about Native people that he might’ve picked up along the way.
Only problem? Once I’d established that he wasn’t in trouble, Joey took it as a green light to caress my throat with his lips, which made it challenging for me to form words.
Deeply challenging. When I’d rehearsed what I was going to say, I’d always started with declaring my heritage and tribal citizenship, but suddenly that felt too formal and abrupt.
I snap-decided to ease into the subject instead, starting with his own frame of reference. “Um, I was think, thinking about people from the Middle East. About how when you watch the news, it seems like they’re always blowing people up or beheading them.”
Joey withdrew his kisses, and I took it as a sign that he was listening.
I added, “Or, in the movies, they’re always belly dancing or summoning genies or flying on magic carpets or chopping off hands.”
He’d gone still.
I forged on, “But my dad served in Iraq. He says —”
“That’s enough.” Joey lifted me to my feet. “I’m out of here.”
I wobbled. “What? No, wait, I’m trying to tell you —”
“I don’t need this.” Joey climbed out of the chair. “I should’ve known better than to get all wrapped up in another stupid girl. I’ve got better things to do, Louise, and in case you forgot, my dad is a veteran, too.”
“I am not stupid! Never call me that. And I didn’t forget! What’s wrong with you?”
Yes, I was that self-absorbed.
As I finally realized what had happened, Joey was already getting into his Jeep.
“Wait! You can’t possibly think I meant . . . I wasn’t fini —”
His car door slammed.
He was gone.
Head in my hands, elbows on the table, I stared blankly at my French assignment in my regular booth at the Grub Pub. J’étais malheureuse.
For the past twenty-four hours, Joey had ignored my texts and calls, dodged eye contact during AP Government, skipped Journalism (though, according to Alexis, his gear bag was locked in the cabinet), and taken the elevator with Nick so as not to risk passing me on the stairs.
Joey had one hell of a temper.
I told Shelby all about it on the way to school that morning, over so-called beef burritos in the cafeteria, and again as we walked into the pub.
“You don’t even know for sure if it’s a breakup or just a fight,” she said.
“Yeah, I do,” I assured her. “It’s over. He hates me.”
But the world spun on. A twelve-top retirement party arrived, carrying in a sheet cake that read Bon Voyage! An over-sixty ladies’ social club claimed the corner behind the foosball table and ordered two bottles of house red. Fried mozzarella was the happy-hour special.
A couple of hours later, a slice of warm pecan pie topped with ice cream appeared between my nose and my screen. “My treat,” Shelby announced. “Go ahead — it’s medicinal.”
I dipped my fork into the melty vanilla goo, closed my eyes as hot-cold-fruity sugar scintillated my taste buds. “Can you take a break and sit with me?”
Shelby glanced around the dining room, checking her tables. “No, I can’t take a break and sit with you.” Then she sat down across from me. “I work for tips, remember?”
“I can tip you extra,” I said — triggering my second interpersonal disaster.
“Here’s a thought,” Shelby countered. “Why don’t you ask how I am? No, don’t strain yourself. I’ll tell you. I’m working all the time, like every minute I’m not at school or asleep, and I’m still not making enough money.” She swiped my spoon and helped herself to a bite of pie.
“While you’re planning for college — no big deal, la-di-da — I’ll have to delay for a semester or maybe for a whole year. Or two.
“Meanwhile, you’re too busy with your tedious boy dramas and your perfect studenting and your postcard-perfect family and your self-righteous Indian princessing to notice.”
I was noticing then. Absolutely noticing. On notice.
I heard the neglect in Shelby’s words, the exhaustion, the frustration. So, no, I wasn’t about to stop her to explain that there’s no such thing as an Indian princess.
“You don’t have real problems, Louise.” Her tone turned mocking. “ ‘Oh, no! The homecoming king can’t get over me.’ ‘Alas, I was a raging bitch, so the hot new guy has stopped fawning all over everything I say.’ Let’s dissect that for the billionth time.”
In her regular voice, Shelby added, “Do you have any idea how spoiled you are? How pampered and protected? You have everything, and you’ve never had to earn a dime, and don’t pretend that doing household chores for your parents or babysitting your perfect little brother or playing office with your doting older cousin counts. Because it doesn’t. That’s fun money. Spending money. You do whatever you want with it.
“Meanwhile, when I finally get a few minutes to spare, you’re completely blowing me off except for when you want to talk, talk, talk about yourself. You don’t care about my life.”
“I care,” I insisted. “I . . . I’ve been writing that series of stories on working students.”
The words sounded far weaker out loud than they had in my head.
“Well, then, nothing I’m saying matters.” Shelby slid out of the booth. “By all means, go ahead and pat yourself on the back while this lowly peasant bows in gratitude.” Her bow was more of a flourished curtsy, but she’d made her point.
Some jerk whistled for her attention. “Another beer!”
“Coming!” Shelby smoothed her apron, plastered on a smile, and hopped to it.
My head fell into my hands again. I was one of those friends.
I’d taken Shelby for granted. We still talked while she drove me to and from school. Since Joey and I had gotten serious, though, I’d skipped out on her in the cafeteria and reorganized my days to spend more time with him.
Yes, Shelby logged a lot of hours at the pub — too many. Anyone could see that.
But I hadn’t really appreciated, day-to-day, how stressed she felt. After her dad covered the monthly bills and sent child support to her ex-stepmom, there was nothing left.
Shelby was completely responsible for her own out-of-pocket expenses.
For her big-ticket expenses, too.
Shelby, who’d treated me to the fancy nail salon for my birthday.
By the time she came back, my best friend had cooled down. “One question, Louise. I have to know: When you insulted Joey, his father, and — what? — millions of Middle Eastern people, what was happening in your perfect genius brain?”
I blinked up at her. “I was trying to communicate a quasi-parallel construct.”
“Come again?” she asked.
Might as well spit it out. “I was trying to seduce him.”
“You’re serious.” Shelby set down the be
er pitcher. “Oh, God, don’t cry. I can’t handle crying. If you cry, I’ll cry, too, and I have to work.”
She bent to hug me. “I love you, Louise. I’m sorry for being a bitch and I’m sorry about Joey. He was a huge improvement over Cam.”
We both started laughing, and I said, “No, you were right. What you said, I needed to hear it.” I swallowed the hitch in my throat. “I’m sorry, and I love you, too.”
Shelby and I had driven separately to the Grub Pub. Daddy was still in self-imposed quarantine (nobody wants a sneezing dentist), so I had his car.
All week, Hughie had put off quitting the musical. According to the schedule on our refrigerator, opening night was tomorrow and tonight was full dress. But when Hughie walked out of school that evening, he was all by himself and he wasn’t wearing his Tin Man costume.
He’d finally told them he wouldn’t go on with the show.
On the way home, I asked, “Estonko?”
“Here mahe.” Hughie fastened his seat belt. “It wasn’t terrible.”
Inhaling the to-go waffle fries that I’d brought, Hughie explained that, after rehearsal, Mrs. Q had declared his announcement and his reasons for it a “teachable moment.”
She’d led a discussion about the relationship between artists and their art and their audiences. Mrs. Q said that, at first, it had been easy for her to mentally separate Baum’s editorials from the Oz musical, and she admitted that she hadn’t wanted to think hard about all that. But then she remembered how disappointed she’d been when one of her longtime favorite hunky movie stars had gone on a widely broadcast drunken rant and turned out to be a racist, anti-Semitic troll.
Hollywood forgave him (in the Name of All That Is Money), but, according to the Theater teacher, she could no longer watch his movies without being haunted by what he’d said.
Mrs. Q had apologized to my brother for dismissing his words so casually, and she thanked him for teaching her how to be a better educator.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “She actually said that?”
“I know, right?” At a stoplight, Hughie concluded, “Then A.J. pointed out the whole issue of athletes and steroids, which is kind of different and kind of not. It changes the way you think about them and what they do.”
Hearts Unbroken Page 14
