by Olivia Dade
He indulged himself with one last comment, one last lungful of fragrant air near her pink, plump earlobe. “Maybe you should make that a new project: the Byron and Most of the Romantic Poets Were Total Dicks Initiative.”
Then he moved one painful step back. Another. Even though she was cackling now, her frame shaking as her laughter echoed in the halls, and he wanted so badly to know how that felt up close, one body to another.
“Oh, God,” she wheezed, “they’re the worst, Griff. Such incredible, unrepentant assholes.”
“They really are,” he managed to say.
Then he was laughing too, hard enough that the guilt couldn’t dig in its claws and gain purchase in his flesh.
It would find him again, he knew. Sooner or later. Probably sooner.
So he’d bask in this respite, the sunshine of their shared mirth, while he could.
Four
In his peripheral vision, Griff spotted Candy the moment she appeared in his open doorway. But he couldn’t interrupt the student in front of him, not given the young woman’s current state of distress.
Out of the student’s sight, he held up a forefinger, requesting a minute.
Then he listened with his full attention once more, not only because his hearing loss necessitated that kind of concentration, but also because Shantae Kingsley—like every other student—deserved it.
“I did the assignment, I swear, Mr. Conover.” When he passed her the tissue box, she snatched several and dabbed her eyes. “I don’t know where it went, though. I checked my locker, I checked my backpack, I went back to my homeroom to see if I’d left it there—”
From almost the beginning of his career, he’d instinctively gravitated toward teaching ninth graders. Maybe because his calmness counterbalanced their sometimes-frenetic energy. Maybe because some of them were still grappling with the hormonal surges of puberty, and while he demanded a certain level of kindness and respect in his classroom, he didn’t tend to take moodiness personally. Maybe because he loved literature, but he also loved watching students take vast leaps in their communication abilities—both written and oral—during their first year of high school.
Sometimes, students struggled with the transition from middle school. The sheer size of the school and the student body, the number of classes, the way they had to keep track of and take responsibility for their own assignments without much outside help, could be intimidating for some kids.
But they would learn, and he could help. He loved that too.
When Shantae finally wound down and took a breath, he smiled at her.
“I believe you,” he said, handing her another tissue.
Even after only a week of classes, he’d already noticed how diligently she took notes and how fully she concentrated on each assignment. He considered each of his students special in their own way, of course, but Shantae—hand high in the air to ask a question, eyes bright behind her glasses—had stood out from the beginning.
She released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re human, and the first week of school is overwhelming. No need to apologize.” Waving her to a seat, he turned another student chair to face her. “If you can’t find it in the meantime, just redo the assignment and turn it in on Monday.”
Her shoulders visibly lowered. “I can still get full credit?”
“Yes.” With his chin, he indicated her overflowing backpack, bristling with half-crumpled papers. “But while you’re here, let’s talk about how you’re organizing all your notes and assignments. Do you have a separate notebook for each class?”
She nodded, her breath no longer hitching.
“Good.” If she’d said no, though, he had a few extras in a cupboard for situations just like this. “Then let’s figure out a way to organize them that makes sense for you and makes finding your assignments easier.”
Fifteen minutes later, Shantae offered him a grin bristling with braces and bounced toward the classroom door, her stray papers sorted into their respective notebooks and a system in place to help her remember where she’d put everything.
“Thanks again, Mr. Conover,” she called over her shoulder.
“My pleasure. Have a great weekend, Shantae,” he said as she disappeared into the hall.
They’d found the assignment, of course, balled up beneath her biology textbook. He’d skimmed the first paragraph discreetly, and was entirely unsurprised to find it both well-written and full of obvious effort.
His pen began fading as he scribbled himself a note. Talk to Shantae about lit mag and/or school newspaper. E-mail/call her parents to praise good work.
If she continued to struggle with organization, he could suggest a parent-teacher meeting to coordinate their efforts to support her. But he’d give her a few weeks to work out the kinks on her own first, as long as she didn’t seem completely overwhelmed.
Which reminded him: He needed to contact the guidance counselor about Cameron in third period, who’d been tardy every day but refused to discuss the matter with him, and whose parents didn’t respond to messages.
When he tried to write another note, though, his pen only made inkless scratches. After tossing it in the garbage can, he reached for another, only to find one already in front of his nose.
Candy was standing beside his desk, good arm stretched out to offer him one of her trademark red pens.
At the sight of her, steady and strong and waiting, something inside him bloomed. Wildflowers in what he’d considered an endless expanse of sere, cracked earth.
The growth prickled. Stung, despite the unexpected beauty.
“Thank you.” He took the pen, scrawled a reminder to himself about Cameron, and handed it back. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
Her shoulder lifted in a small shrug. “Impromptu student help sessions are an occupational hazard. I wasn’t going home anytime soon, anyway.”
She took off her cat-eye glasses, letting them dangle from the chain around her neck. It was something she’d been doing more and more often when they were alone.
“I can’t do that,” she said abruptly.
Since she didn’t appear to be sitting anytime soon, he stood too. “Do what?”
“Communicate that way with students.” With a sigh, she scrubbed her face with her hands and leaned heavily against his desk. “Accept and handle their emotions so skillfully. Become soft when they need softness and offer structure when they don’t.”
Her arms dropped limply to her sides. “I’m all structure, no softness. Always the stick, never the carrot. With students, with colleagues. With everyone.”
Last fall, he’d glanced through her doorway. Seen her dappled by the setting sun through her classroom windows, head bent close with a senior as they painstakingly crafted a college application essay. Heard the happy shouts in the hallway months later, as that same student announced her early-admission acceptance into UVA.
Last May, he’d stood unseen outside the school’s bus entrance and watched Candy usher her students to the AP test. Her expression fierce, she’d informed them they should hold their heads high, because they were the best-prepared and hardest-working English Literature and Composition students in the country. She’d demanded their best efforts on the test, or else, because she wanted to see them rewarded for all their work.
“That said,” she’d added, her voice ringing with authority, “my pride in your efforts and accomplishments does not depend on the score you may receive. You’ve labored and persevered for an entire school year. Less than four hours in a school cafeteria can’t alter that.”
The kids had stared at her, all nervous fiddling stilled.
Then, as the bus driver honked impatiently, Candy raised an imperative forefinger. “You should not be intimidated by this test.” She looked them in the eye, every one of them. “You are my students. This test should be intimidated by you.”
Their shoulders had straightened, feet braced wide as if for battle.
“Cry
‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war!” she’d roared, and her students had laughed and whooped and climbed onto the bus, looking as confident and steady as any group of test-bound kids he’d ever witnessed.
He’d pictured Candy in a toga then, laurels crowning her dark head, one shoulder exposed, her long arms bare and pale and strong. A distaff Julius Caesar, bursting with power and command. He’d immediately tried to dismiss the image, yet it had burned behind his eyelids for days.
Before she could turn back toward the school, he’d slunk away and hidden from her. Hidden from himself.
For over a year, he’d been repressing thoughts of one woman to keep the memory of another sacrosanct. But thoughts of Candy were the heads of a Hydra. Cut off one, and two more sprang forth. Sometimes in unexpected places and without warning.
At the faculty meeting last week, for instance, he’d arrived early. And to his shock, Rose Owens—accompanied by her devoted fiancé and fellow history teacher, Martin Krause—had settled herself in the seat beside his.
“You know,” she’d said, adjusting the pristine cuffs of her satiny black blouse, “you should ask Candy about her AP pass rates. They’re astounding.”
Despite his confusion, he’d nodded. “Okay.”
He didn’t teach AP, and he didn’t consider Candy’s test results his business. But he also wasn’t going to argue with Rose, who—quite frankly—scared him a little.
Her amber-brown eyes had locked onto his. “Too many people confuse surface and substance. They see only what’s evident at first glance. Good historians, though, are trained to look harder. Dig deeper. Search for context and contradictions and alternative points of view. Some important tales can be told in a single look, a single sentence. Most can’t.”
Martin had been gaping at his fiancé, brows raised high, but he hadn’t intervened.
Sitting back in his chair, Griff considered her. Evaluated her motivations. Fought his own desperate curiosity, his insatiable, maddening hunger for anything that would make Candy’s subtext more easily decipherable.
Finally, he’d set his elbows on the table and turned his left ear toward Rose. “Tell me the rest of the tale, then.”
So she had, at least until others joined their table.
That tale wasn’t yet complete, he knew. But it was burgeoning, swelling with footnotes and the sort of context he couldn’t have supplied on his own.
And he wasn’t letting Candy’s distorted view of herself stand unchallenged.
Before saying anything else, he closed his classroom door. For a variety of reasons, this conversation required privacy.
As he returned to his desk, he slanted her a stern look. “Your students adore you.”
“No.” Her fingers twisted together, but that obstinate chin jutted forward. “They fear me.”
“Is that so?” He cocked his head. “Did you sleep through the speeches at graduation, Albright? Because I distinctly remember the valedictorian, salutatorian, and class president mentioning you by name.”
She rolled her eyes, a gesture she rarely indulged. “To say I terrified them.”
“Yes, that.” Moving until he was directly in front of her, he waited until she made eye contact again. “But they said it while they were laughing. And two of them also thanked you for all your help and dedication and said they learned more in your class than anywhere else.”
Her lips pursed, because she had no good rebuttal to that.
“Your carrot may not look like my carrot, but it’s there, Candy.” He paused. “Please allow me to clarify that I do not refer to any of my more intimate extremities as my carrot.”
She snorted.
“My point is that your students know you care. Your means of expressing it is simply different from mine.” He raised his brows. “Since you mentioned your relationship with our colleagues, Ms. All-Stick-No-Carrot, let’s discuss that too. I know you mentor first-year teachers each and every fall. I know you sponsor the literary magazine because Khalid was depressed and needed to shoulder fewer responsibilities. I know you coordinated weekly meal drop-offs for Yelena all last year, as soon as her husband became ill and for months after his death.”
Candy’s mouth dropped open. “Who told you—”
“Furthermore, I saw you help with Rose’s ridiculous promposal at that faculty meeting, and you were magnificent.” He stabbed a forefinger into the desk. “If our colleagues don’t realize you have a heart as big as the skies, that’s on them. Not you.”
He allowed his hand to rest on the desk, surrounding her on that one side, leaning in close. Her apple scent filled his lungs, and her heat wracked through him in a shudder.
“But—” Her eyes had turned glassy, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her. “Mildred called me a bully.”
He knew. Rose had already told him. More importantly, Rose had told him why.
He put his other hand on the desk, surrounding her without a single inch of their skin touching. Providing the mute comfort of animal heat. Blocking out the world outside the two of them. Making certain he could hear her or read her lips, no matter how quietly she spoke.
Within the circle of his arms, she looked up at him and blinked, lips parted.
He lifted his shoulder a fraction. “Mildred called you a bully. Why? What’s the context, Candy?”
She was an intelligent woman. She knew what he wanted her to articulate.
“She decided to skip her meal-delivery week for Yelena, but didn’t alert me or find her own replacement. When I told her that was unacceptable, she got embarrassed, so she wanted to turn the blame on me. I get that, Griff.” Her chin trembled, and the urge to duck his head and plant a comforting kiss there almost overwhelmed him. “But that doesn’t mean she was wrong.”
Dammit. More tears. “Candy…”
He couldn’t stand it. He had to touch her somehow.
Lifting one hand, he gently thumbed away the tear creeping down her cheek. “What’s going on? Why are you suddenly so determined to think ill of yourself?”
When she leaned into the contact, he maintained it. Cupped her cheek and watched her struggle to find words for a long, long time.
Finally, she sighed, still resting against his hand.
“Dee and I…” She swallowed back a rough, raw sound. “She’s—she was—my baby sister. My only sibling. Just a year younger. Our mom died when I was three and she was two. A drunk driver. So Dad raised us, and he worked a lot, and he was—”
Her laugh broke in the middle. “He loved us, but he didn’t know how to talk to us or what to say when we were sad or angry or lonely, and we didn’t know how to talk about it either. We were just kids. So we mostly just sat and watched movies together, and at some point it became kind of a family game. Our own language, really.”
He tipped his head, confused. “What became a family game?”
“To use stuff we’d seen from the movies to talk to each other. Especially when we got a little older, and he let us watch his favorite mobster films.” Her lips stretched, but it didn’t look much like a smile. “Instead of saying I’m sorry you’re sad, we’d threaten to deliver a horse’s head to whoever was teasing Dee at school. Instead of saying I’m worried about you, we’d tell Dad we were going to put a hit out on him if he didn’t start sleeping more. He responded better to that than…”
When she bit her lip, he took a guess. “Emotions?”
She nodded. “He loved us, but the way he showed that was through service. Working hard. Helping us fix our bikes. Going to Dee’s flute recitals. We didn’t—we didn’t talk about it.” Her eyes searched his. “It was like reading a poem. A novel in a foreign language. Everything required interpretation and translation. Our words, what we did. And when we said we were fine, we were unreliable narrators.”
Through the new lens she’d just offered him, he suspected he could see her more clearly. But he couldn’t use it to study his memories of her, his observations. Not yet.
He needed to kee
p paying attention. Because she was still crying, and he still didn’t know why. And somehow, while he’d been sorting through his thoughts, she’d entirely misinterpreted his expression and taken his silence for judgment.
“I-I’m not trying to excuse myself, Griff.” She shrank back against the desk, away from his touch, her face crumpling. “I swear on my mother’s grave I’m not. I’m forty-seven years old. I’ve had plenty of time to learn better and find the right words. I’m just trying to explain why—”
For some reason, she was pleading with him, tears pooling beneath both eyes and dripping from her chin, and his scarred heart ripped open along a new axis.
“Sweetheart.” He ducked his head to catch her gaze, hands hovering yet again. “I don’t understand, but I also can’t imagine why you would ever need an excuse for anything. You try your best, Candy. Always. You care. Always. Please stop crying. Please.”
Leaning past her to snatch a tissue, he dried her tears, but they kept coming.
“Dee and I talk—talked—” The sob bucked her body against his, and he tentatively touched her shoulder. When she moved closer, he drew her into his arms. “We talked every week, and last winter, a few months after our father died, I knew something was wrong. Sometimes she was…off. Slurred and giggly one week, dull the next. Not herself.”
The subtext was becoming text, at long last.
Once too spindly and faded to discern, the words were now stark and bold and black on a bone-white page, and he didn’t want to read them. But he knew Candy was poring over them every day, flagellating herself as she read the same story, the same inevitable, tragic ending, again and again.
She deserved some company. Some respite. A new interpretation of the text.
She deserved—
That didn’t bear contemplating, not right now.
Candy’s fingers curled in the cotton of his button-down, and her eyes were huge and agonized. “I got worried, but she always had some reason for it. She had shoulder surgery the week after our father’s funeral, and things went wrong, and they had to go back in. While she was recovering, the pain meds they prescribed made her loopy. Then she said she was tired and punchy from long weeks at work, once she went back. Then she’d tell me she’d just come home from getting drinks with her friends, even though my sister didn’t drink. Not ever, Griff, not after what happened to our mom.”
