Now
Rarely do I feel I abuse my position as an authority figure, which is why I find it difficult to stop thinking about Zoey and our conversation yesterday. I’ve spent so much time viewing her as a threat, I didn’t consider her unsettling behavior might have reasonable explanations. I suppose that’s what Pam was insisting all along. In the past, I’d projected my own fears about Brian onto others. Is that what I’d done with Zoey? Was this my way of bringing a dose of excitement into my life? Bringing back the flutter of the new?
“I’m ready for the weekend,” Marge says, walking up behind me in the employee lounge. I’m shakily pouring a cup of coffee, still not feeling fully awake. “Any plans?”
“Yes, actually. Danny rented a cabin in the mountains,” I say, smiling. “We leave tomorrow morning.”
“A cabin in the mountains,” Marge says, arching her eyebrows. “Sounds romantic.”
“I need to get away,” I say, although Marge has no idea how much my mind has been longing for an escape.
“You going to the track meet tonight?” she asks, as if I’m no different from one of the students. Because that’s how Marge is, forever winning the award for Most School Spirit.
“I don’t think so,” I say, failing to come up with a speedy excuse as to why.
“Well, that’s where I’ll be,” she says, pushing open the employee room door with her backside. “That Zoey Peterson is one helluva runner.”
Zoey Peterson. Oh, this kid won’t stay out of my head. She displayed a different side of herself yesterday. I remember that gleam of desperation in her eyes when she admitted, through shame, that her mom wouldn’t even come to her meets. It’s bad enough she’s made Zoey change zip codes three times in the past year. I can’t imagine having a child, but if I did, I’d support their activities.
When Zoey walks into my classroom, I feel the dynamic between us has changed. Her posture is straighter, and she seems attentive during my lecture.
“Good luck at the meet today,” I tell her, at the end of the block.
She flips her ponytail to the opposite shoulder. “Thank you, Mrs. Mayfair.”
Darcy, who barely spoke today, follows her out. And Adam follows Darcy. I feel sorry for my students. Still, they trudge through their days with summer on the horizon. I suppose you can put up with anything for a few weeks.
My planning period is interrupted by the buzz of my room intercom.
“Della?” asks the secretary’s voice from overhead.
“Yes?” I respond to the ceiling.
“Pam would like to see you in her office.”
“Thanks.” I pause the Europe itinerary that I’ve (finally) taken the time to plan. I’m six days in, having us fly into Paris and then take a train further south. Once I finalize our course and book hotels, I can put more detail into the daily excursions. The museums and parks and tours. Danny did give me a budget, but it’s so large it’s almost insulting to call it that. At least now when he asks how planning is going, I won’t be completely lying.
“You rang?” I ask, standing in the doorway of Pam’s office.
“Sorry to make you walk down here,” she says, waving for me to come inside.
“No problem,” I say, taking a seat. “I wasn’t very busy.”
“Good,” she says, clearing a stack of papers and placing both forearms on her desk. “I was out yesterday, this time because Daniel broke his arm.”
“Oh goodness,” I say, a rowdy image of her twin boys entering my mind. “Is he all right?”
“Yes,” she says, sighing. “They were roughing around outside with the neighbors and Daniel fell off the trampoline. We always tell them one at time, but what can you do?” She raises her hands and shakes her head. I’m not even sure Pam was aware, all those years ago when she conceived, how chaotic her life would become.
“Don’t you have one of those safety nets?” I ask, immediately regretting the question. I don’t want to come off as one of those childless people who thinks they know everything about raising children.
“Yes, well, we did. They broke it some weeks back, and my ex never came over to fix it.” She shakes her head again. “Oh well, enough about my problems. Otherwise, we’ll be here all afternoon. I wanted to let you know I did speak with Zoey Peterson about the paper you received.”
“Oh good,” I say, straightening my posture.
“Of course I didn’t let her see it. I only told her you had received a disturbing writing sample in the computer lab and that I was questioning multiple students about it. I was pretty stern with her,” she says, clenching her jaw. “She claimed she had no idea what I was talking about. You know, I hear lies all the time in here. I think I’m pretty good at figuring out who is telling the truth. I must say, I believed her.”
Pam’s right. Students do tell her lies. They also tell her legitimate information, claims that should be taken seriously. They trust her, which is why she was the first person on staff Darcy’s parents called after the incident.
“Did she say anything else?” I ask. “Did she have any idea who might have written it?”
“No,” she says, looking down. “She said she was so busy finishing her own essay she didn’t have time to pay attention, let alone write a second one.”
I remember grading Zoey’s essay. It was well written, which wasn’t surprising considering how intelligent she is. In fact, it was one of the best in the group. And none of her paragraphs were pulled from the internet, unlike some of the others.
“All right,” I say. “Maybe I jumped to conclusions.” My conversation with Zoey yesterday changed my perspective. Before I’d seen her as a monster. An extension of Brian, in some ways. I’d forgotten she was a teenage girl struggling with her own problems, searching for a way to adjust.
“She actually seemed bothered. She wanted to know what it said and why it had disturbed you. I didn’t tell her it was about Darcy.”
“Either way, thanks for asking,” I say, standing to leave.
“It’s what I’m here for,” she says, smiling. “I meant to tell you yesterday, but the unfortunate trampoline incident impeded my plans.”
“No worries,” I say, opening the door. Then, I pause. “You weren’t here yesterday. When did you talk to Zoey?”
“On Wednesday afternoon. I actually went by your room after school, but you’d already left.”
“You’re sure it was Wednesday?”
“Positive.”
I return to my seat. “I spoke with Zoey yesterday. Briefly. I brought up the letter. She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Really?” She leans back in her chair and rocks.
“Yes, I specifically asked her if she’d written anything off topic in the computer lab. She looked at me like I was crazy. Like she had no idea what I was talking about. You’d think she’d mention you already questioned her.” I pause, re-examining my conversation with Zoey and trying to remember her exact reaction. “Are you sure you told her the letter was in my class?”
“Yes. I told her all the specifics without revealing the contents.”
“Then she knew exactly what I was getting at during our conversation. She played dumb. Didn’t let on she’d already talked with you about it.” I look down and grit my teeth. “Even gave me some sob story about her mom afterwards, like she was trying to gain my sympathy.”
Pam, still rocking in her chair, stares at me and thumbs her chin. “And you spoke with her yesterday?”
“Yes,” I say, a bit too loudly. “Don’t you think it’s manipulative of her to act like she has no idea what I’m talking about?”
“Look,” she said. “I do think it’s odd, but sometimes high schoolers do odd things.”
Yeah, I think. Like assault their classmates and write about it.
“I’m telling you,” I say, standing again. “This kid is up to something weird.”
“I’m not sure why she would play dumb, but maybe she really was clueless. Mayb
e she didn’t connect the two essays.”
“I don’t buy that,” I say, picturing those puppy dog eyes she displayed when discussing her mom. “I think she’s playing you and she’s playing me. I’m convinced she wrote that paper now.”
“Stay calm, Dell. Getting worked up won’t help anything.”
What I can’t get her or anyone else to realize is staying calm won’t help matters either.
I’m furious Zoey lied to me. She’s had fun dropping hints about Brian and she wanted to further rattle me by writing that essay. When I asked her if she attended the party, her attitude changed. She knows I see past the shiny hair and good grades and speedy running time. And everything I’m seeing, down to her manipulative actions, looks all too familiar.
I’m no longer in my teacher mindset; instead, I’m contemplating ways I can confront her again. By now, it’s after three o’clock, and the dismissal bell has turned the hallways quiet and empty. Zoey is at the field, preparing for her afternoon meet. I consider taking Marge up on her offer to join her in the stands. Maybe my presence will make Zoey uneasy.
But then, who might see me? Who might question why I’m targeting a student? I’ve already been told to let the subject of the essay rest. I can’t. Not when I know it’s the closest thing to a witness of Darcy’s struggle.
Then I consider a different option. Perhaps I don’t have to go to the game. Perhaps I don’t have to interact with Zoey at all to get a better understanding of her.
I return to my computer and log in to the information system that hosts the personal details of every student in the building. Their medical conditions, their semester schedules and their home addresses. Despite her recent arrival, all of Zoey’s information is up to date. Her file tells me she lives in a house down the road from the local library; depending on how far, it could very well be in the middle of nowhere. She only has one family contact on file. Mother: Tricia Peterson, age 37.
I print the information.
Nineteen
Now
Twenty minutes later, I’m driving past the library, edging closer to nothingness. The buildings grow shorter and farther apart as I move toward blue sky and grassy fields. Less than a minute before I’m supposed to reach my destination, I see a lone house surrounded by trees. I think this can’t be the right location, but it’s the only one within sight. As I pass the mailbox, my phone dings to let me know I’ve arrived.
I drive down the gravel driveway and watch as the white farmhouse grows before my eyes. This can’t be the place where poor Zoey lives. With her unstable mother who is constantly moving her from one school to the next. This seems like the type of home people would aspire to have. It might be a bit outdated, but the bones are good. Even Danny and I talked about one day renovating an old farmhouse like this.
I park my car beside the only other one in the driveway, a rusty minivan. I turn off the engine, pull out the keys and freeze. I realize I have no idea what I’m doing here. This is the type of thing Marge would do, inserting herself into the lives of her students in hopes of making a change. Or even Pam, abandoning her weekend for a student in need. But I’ve never done this type of thing, and what would I even say? Hi, Ms. Peterson. I’ve known your daughter for three weeks and think she attacked her classmate. What was I thinking coming here without a plan?
I push the keys back into the ignition, hoping I can pull back onto the main road without being seen. But I’m too late. When I look up, there’s a woman standing on the front porch, staring at me.
I smile at her and sigh at myself. I’m in over my head and I know it, but I can at least speak with the woman. Ask her about her daughter without necessarily sharing my concerns.
I step out of the car, press away the wrinkles on my skirt and walk toward the porch. “Hello,” I say as I approach. “Are you Ms. Peterson?”
She has a slim torso and straight dark hair, like Zoey. As I move closer, I see her beauty is corroding. Wrinkles branch out from her mouth and eyes, which are rimmed with dark circles. Easy, Dell, I tell myself. She’s thirty-seven. This is you in six years. And yet, I don’t think that’s true. She appears to have lived hard.
“Yeah,” the woman says, one hand on her hip, the other on the railing. “Who are you?”
“I’m Della Mayfair. I’m Zoey’s English teacher,” I say, offering a smile.
The stern look Ms. Peterson wears doesn’t completely drop, but she seems more at ease. As though she was expecting someone worse than myself. “What are you doing here?”
I’m asking myself the same thing, as I mount a rickety porch step.
“I was hoping to speak with you about Zoey,” I say, clutching my purse like a badge. “I apologize for not calling first.”
She looks down and gently taps the railing with her feet. “Phone’s messed up right now. Wouldn’t matter if you had.”
“Okay,” I say, standing awkwardly on the porch. Still smiling.
“Would you like a drink or something?” she asks. “I just brewed sweet tea.”
“That would be lovely.”
She walks across the long porch and scoots a chair toward me, the legs scraping against the wood. “Wait here,” she says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I take a seat as Ms. Peterson walks inside. I scan my surroundings, immediately taken aback by how quiet it is. I’ve lived all my life surrounded by neighbors. First, the Wilsonville suburbs. Then cheap apartments and college dorms. Even now, Danny and I could throw a rock and hit homes on either side. Here, there is nothing. If I squint, I can see a small house in the distance, which could be a mansion up close for all I know.
An afternoon gust whooshes, grabbing the tall patches of grass in the yard and shaking them. There aren’t many flowers around, and I imagine if I lived in a place like this, landscaping would become my newest hobby. I’d do something about that gravel driveway, too. I imagine how beautiful the place could be with a little bit of work.
Ms. Peterson comes out carrying a round serving tray. There’s a pitcher and two tall glasses on it, along with a miniature bowl of cut lemons.
“You want lemon with your tea?”
“Please,” I say, straightening and placing my bag on the porch.
The ice cubes tinkle against the glass as she pours.
“You said your name is Mrs. Mayfair?”
“Yes,” I say. “Zoey is in my first block.”
“I think she told me about you. Are you the one reading about witches?”
“Yes, that’s my class,” I say, taking a sip of the tea. I’m surprised Zoey would tell her about me, or any of her other teachers. Brian never talked about school, unless he was ranting about how intellectually superior he was to everyone there. Perhaps that’s how my name came up in conversation.
“Yeah, she’s mentioned you,” she says, taking a sip and looking over her empty yard. “She’s a smart one, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Zoey is extremely smart. I know she’s doing well in other classes, too. You must be very proud.”
Ms. Peterson doesn’t say anything. She keeps staring at the fields.
“I was wondering,” I say after several seconds of silence, “if you could tell me a little bit about her educational background.”
“We’ve moved around a lot,” she says, at last. She holds her glass with two hands and looks down in her lap. “When my parents died, I figured it was time to finally move back home. Give this place a try.”
“You’re from Victory Hills?”
“Born and raised. I left when I met Zoey’s father, but that didn’t last. When she was a baby, I moved us around hoping to find a better place. Didn’t want to be the stereotype who ends up where they started, you know?”
It explains why they would have such a nice piece of land. They inherited it.
“What do you do, Ms. Peterson?”
“Oh, I’ve done a lot of things. I work from home mostly,” she says, taking another sip of her drink. “You know those people who call you
asking about health insurance? Well, I’m one of them now.”
“It must be nice being able to stay at home. You’ve got a beautiful property.”
“A roof is a roof, even if it’s the same roof you’ve lived under most of your life, I guess. I’d like to fix the place up. Maybe I will after Zoey leaves,” she says, raising a single finger into the air. “One more year.”
I understand the relief most parents feel when their life is finally their own again, but I’ve also heard of empty nesters. I find it odd that Ms. Peterson, who seems very much alone, is anticipating the departure of her only child.
“Does Zoey talk about college?”
“Since we’ve moved here, she thinks she might have a chance at an athletic scholarship. Between that and her grades, she should get most of it paid for. As long as she doesn’t set her sights too high.”
I’m trying to figure Ms. Peterson out. Disengaged would be an appropriate word. She’s friendly enough, but I question what type of mother would rather sit at home alone than watch her daughter excel in a sport.
“Well, I’m sure Zoey will find a way to do whatever she wants,” I say, wondering, still, what I hoped to figure out by coming here. My mother never believed Brian was dangerous. I’m not sure why I’d thought Ms. Peterson would be any different.
Ms. Peterson looks at me for the first time since she sat down. “Is she in some sort of trouble?”
“No. Not really,” I say, stumbling over my words. I have to give her some reason for why I’m here besides sipping tea on her front porch. “I do worry about her socialization. It’s hard for students when they enroll in a new school late in the year.”
“Well, it’s not like we had much choice,” she says, taking another gulp. “Not sure how she makes it sound, but all the leaving isn’t because of me.”
“I’m not trying to pry—”
“Yes, you are,” she says. Her eyes aren’t accusatory, but honest. “You’re trying to figure out Zoey. And I’m trying to figure out why. Has she done something?”
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 12
