by Erica Kiefer
Shane and I didn’t make a big announcement about being together, but word spread fast enough. Our interactions weren’t as apparent as Tara and Austin’s. But maybe people had seen Shane playing with my hair when we sat together at lunch, or noticed the way I smiled more often. Perhaps someone had even seen him pull me into the empty gym a time or two, during the late hours after school when everyone was done with practice—or maybe when Shane, who seemed to enjoy catching me off guard, would pull me into an empty room to kiss me before a teacher walked in. I was getting the sense that he enjoyed the thrill of sneaking around, with or without cops involved.
I thought that by becoming “official” with Shane, I would feel less judged—that all the kids and teachers who had been evaluating me from a distance or whispering about me from the sidelines would cease to exist, or at least diminish in number. Over the next couple of weeks, I found the opposite to be true.
With Shane and I walking hand in hand down the hallways now, not far from Tara and Austin, kids continued to watch me. The difference was, instead of talking about my summer accident and spreading rumors about the details, they seemed to be admiring me for making a comeback. If my story were a sports headline, it might read, “Against All Odds, Allie Collins Returns!”
Younger students, especially those in Leah and Taylor’s sophomore class, seemed to follow me with admiration—or maybe it was envy. The latter was certainly the case when it came to Crystal. Her dark, smokey-eyed makeup glowered at me, one hand on her narrow hips. I’d often catch her looking me up and down, as if she couldn’t figure out why Shane would pick me.
Regardless of the purpose behind people staring, whether it was having Shane’s arm linked around my waist or enjoying the stardom at our basketball games, Tara was right—senior year was picking up in pace and becoming exactly what we imagined it could be. It was a refreshing change. I felt like I could hide within my new group of friends—a merger of mine and Tara’s friends, and Shane and Austin’s. Many of them were athletes, too. I was back where I belonged.
Still, a part of me knew this was all a veneer. Just when I thought I was making strides in getting over last summer’s ordeal, images of Maddie drowning would pop into my head—sometimes out of nowhere, and other times, based off harmless comments from others. When kids talked about vacation or swimming, knots would build up in my stomach, or my brain would spiral into headaches that would send me home from school.
I felt pathetic. Weak. I kept telling myself that if I could pretend to be over Maddie’s death, then eventually, those thoughts would seep into my emotions. It would feel real. I just needed to keep acting the part long enough.
But on days when my façade wavered, I escaped to the library, knowing it was a safe place to hide. Anyone who ventured into the library would be there for a purpose, whether it be research or finding something good to read. Either way, eyes would be directed at books and not at me. I sank into a chair, resting my head in my hands. Despite my role change, I was getting tired of being on stage.
“Everything all right, Ms. Collins?” a gravelly voice asked from behind my chair.
I whipped my head up and looked over my shoulder. Mr. Nordell greeted me with a close-mouthed smile. As the high school biology teacher, I wasn’t surprised to find his hands occupied with thick textbooks. His face looked worn and tired with wrinkles that aged him, but there was a kindness to his small, brown eyes that peered down at me from his rectangular glasses.
“Oh. Hi, Mr. Nordell.” I had to crane my neck to look up at his lanky form, my eyes stopping briefly at his ridiculous brown-and-orange plaid bow tie. What awful colors together.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “How are you doing, young lady?”
I let out a quiet laugh. Talk about a loaded question! My eyes glistened.
Crap. I wiped the tears away before they could spill down on their own. I really didn’t need another teacher contacting the school counselor with concern for my well-being. “I’m fine, Mr. Nordell. Really.” I managed to turn the corners of my mouth upwards, hoping it passed for a smile.
“I haven’t seen you around much,” he commented, surprising me by maintaining the conversation. I had expected he would take his research material and return to his office. “You know, I always thought you’d end up in my AP Bio class this year.”
I did, too, in fact. I always found biology fascinating, and I did well in Mr. Nordell’s class when I was a sophomore. I still kind of regretted not taking the advanced course, but after Maddie died, I ended up dropping the class, not sure I would be able to handle the intensity. That was back when I was making decisions to drop a lot of things from my life.
The bell rang, giving me an excuse not to engage, but Mr. Nordell persisted.
“I have something I’ve been meaning to show you,” he said, taking a couple of steps towards the library doors. “Stop by my classroom during lunch tomorrow. I’ll tell you about it then.”
Confused, I rose to my feet. “Oh… sure, ok.”
Mr. Nordell nodded at me in satisfaction. “Ok, Ms. Collins, I’ll see you then.”
The next day, I walked past the cafeteria, finishing an apple. I walked the halls. Reaching the biology room, I knocked on the door. Mr. Nordell’s calm, low voice welcomed me inside. I tossed the core in the trash and approached his desk.
“Hi,” I said with uncertainty.
Mr. Nordell closed one of the thick books I’d seen him holding yesterday. “Go ahead and have a seat,” he invited, pulling up a chair beside him. I didn’t like the idea of sitting down. That meant this was more than just a quick chat. Tentatively, I did as he asked. I hadn’t spoken much with Mr. Nordell since he was my teacher. He was just the typical boring science teacher—nice enough—but I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to show me.
He conversed pleasantly with me for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Finally, I asked, “So, what did you want to show me?”
Mr. Nordell pulled a beat-up wallet from the pocket of his mustard khakis. His weathered hands flipped it open, and he pulled out a laminated photo. I could tell the photo was older because of how the corners were peeling and bubbling apart.
I accepted the photo in my hands of a woman in her late thirties, though her clothes suggested it was a couple of decades old. She was pretty enough, even with her light brown hair curled with bangs over her forehead. What touched me was the sweet smile on her face. “Is this your wife?” I asked, though I wondered why he was keeping such an outdated photo of her in his wallet. Then it dawned on me why he must be showing me this picture, even as he answered.
“Yep,” Mr. Nordell said. “That’s the last formal picture I took of her, the day before we found out she had ovarian cancer. She didn’t like too many picture of herself after that.”
I handed the photo back to Mr. Nordell. Gingerly, he accepted it. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Twenty years ago,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Death—it changes you.” He made eye contact as though waiting for my response.
“Yeah, I know.” My words were curt, though I spoke softly so I didn’t come off disrespectful. Even though I didn’t like being tricked into the topic, I wasn’t about to walk out when he was speaking of his dead wife.
“I know a little something about change,” he said, his gaze strong. He didn’t push me to speak, though I could feel the window of opportunity cracking open. Even though the situation was a little uncomfortable, there was an aura of kindness and understanding about him.
“I’m sure you do. It must have been difficult to watch your wife pass away.” I didn’t know what else to say besides the generic response—although, personally, sometimes I wished people would stick to general comments instead of diving into “sage advice”. Especially when they’d never experienced death.
Mr. Nordell simply nodded, his expression thoughtful. I waited a few moments, expecting him to dive into his story and tell me all about how h
e overcame his loss. The school counselor had probably put him up to this since she had been unable to make headway with me herself at the beginning of the school year. Or maybe Mom had called him…
Instead of talking about himself and then probing me to share the details that the whole school seemed interested in hearing, Mr. Nordell surprised me. Interlocking his fingers, he placed them on the desk. “If you ever want to hear more about that change I mentioned, stop by after school some time.”
“Is… that all?” I asked, confusion touching my expression. Adults didn’t normally end this topic with me so easily.
Mr. Nordell’s weathered brown eyes stayed with mine. “If you’d like.”
I glanced at the open classroom door, hesitating. “Ok, then,” I said. “Um, bye, Mr. Nordell.” Picking up my backpack, I stepped quickly into the hall, shutting the door behind me.
