1
Hazel
I’m sitting behind the teacher’s desk in my dingy little classroom, trying not to think about my past. But that’s the funny thing about it. The more I try, the harder it becomes.
All too soon, I’m thrown back there. Like a gut punch, I feel it. Hard. And all I want to do is run away. All I ever wanted to do was run away. I succeeded, didn’t I? But if that’s the case, why can’t I shake these thoughts?
In my mind’s eye, I see a little girl—naïve, stupid. It’s me, back when my nightmares first really started in earnest. I hate the way that I cried as I ran through the house. I hate the fear in my eyes. I hate the way I screamed as I scrambled like a fleeing rodent under the bed.
Then I hear it.
The rumbling of my father’s voice.
He’s drunk, that bastard. That two-faced, hot-and-cold, Jekyll-and-Hyde bastard. For years, I was terrified that whatever craziness was in him was in me, too.
Maybe it is, just a little.
I’ve spent years pretending it’s not. But lately, I’m less certain than ever.
In this memory, he wants to hit me. The alcohol always made his fists swing. But before he can find me, before he can let loose, my big brother lies and tells that snarling, heaving animal that I went out the back door.
That was before my brother became just as bad. Maybe the craziness was in him, too. Maybe even worse. Or maybe—
I’m jolted from my reverie by the arrival of my first student. Lucille is a Mexican woman with sass for days and hair that sits on top of her head like a halo.
“You up in the clouds, girl,” she tuts.
I can only nod and smile sheepishly. She’s caught me red-handed. “I’m up in the clouds.”
“No good up there.” She shakes her head.
I think she senses something off about me, which is not good at all. I’m supposed to be a regular woman living a regular life. Introducing: Hazel Conway, anonymous twenty-four-year-old and woefully underpaid teacher of an English-as-a-second-language class for adults at the local recreation center.
That sounds so innocent and simple. I wish things were what they seemed.
“Down here better,” she says sagely.
“It is better down here,” I correct, taking on my instructor’s voice.
She echoes me, chuckling. Her laugh is infectious. More students arrive behind her, some of them taking cookies from the little table at the front. I spent all last night baking, losing myself in the process. Life is simpler when I’m cooking.
I shake my head to clear the thoughts and get started with teaching the class.
Lucille, Max, Johnny, and Sofiya sit at the front. Max and Johnny are Korean twins who have refused to give me their real names, just laughing and telling me I’d never in a million years be able to pronounce them. They are black-haired and brown-eyed and move with eerie similarity, like they’re each other’s shadows. Sofiya is a Ukrainian girl who sits quietly and takes diligent notes.
At the back is where the troublemakers sit, just like in high school. I guess some things never change.
In my case, the troublemakers are four Italians wearing sharp suits and sharper expressions, without an ounce of desire to be here. They smack loudly on the cookies I made. Their leader, a vending machine of a man with a flat face and flinty eyes, starts dealing a hand of poker.
I ignore them and keep teaching.
They have done the same thing the last two sessions, just generally being pains in the ass. I’ve managed to get them in line a couple of times, but I sense that there’s something shady about them. I’ve got a good radar for that. Too good. So I’m wary about overstepping. I know what men like that are like. They could blow up this new life I’m trying to build for myself.
Focus, I warn myself silently.
“I love sooker,” Johnny says.
“Soccer, honey,” Lucille corrects, giggling.
“Sooker!” Max echoes. Both of the brothers laugh.
At the rear of the class, another Italian stands up. He’s tall and very, very thin, with combed-over gray-brown hair and a vague scar over his left eye. He looks worn-out. He keeps his hand near his hip, like there’s a gun there. I know that little nervous tic. I’ve seen it too many times. It’s like he’s expecting an attack.
Sometimes he’ll walk in and out of the classroom—which is exactly what he does right now, not even bothering to look at me on his way out the door.
I bite my tongue. Don’t make a fuss. Keep your head down. That’s the whole point of this fresh, shiny new life.
But then one of the hard-eyed Italians lights up a cigar, grinning like he’s daring me to say something, anything.
Consider the camel’s back well and truly broken.
He thinks I won’t say anything. He probably believes my patience is never-ending.
Wrong on both counts.
The cigar smoke billows under the fluorescent lights. Sofiya, who has had a cough recently, throws a pained glance towards the back. She won’t say anything; she’s too nice.
But I’m not. Before I know it, I march over there and stab my finger in his face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to learn? This is a no-smoking building. Just because you want to give yourself cancer, doesn’t mean we all need to go down with you. Put it out or get out.”
He blinks at me, pretending not to understand. But I know for damn sure that he comprehends far more than he’s letting on.
He mutters something to his pals in Italian. They all laugh. Behind me, I hear a chair scrape. I don’t have to look back to know that it’s Lucille, readying herself for war. It’s nice to know that she has my back, but right now, it’s not necessary. I’ve got this.
“Out,” I snarl. “Now.”
The thin man walks back into the class just then. He glances at us, chest-to-chest like wrestlers in a grudge match. His eyes narrow instantly. “What is going on here?” he demands.
I throw my hands up. “Look, I haven’t said anything for the past two weeks, but this is getting ridiculous. He can’t smoke in here. And they need to stop disrupting the class. If they can’t focus, fine, go somewhere else. But I’ve got students here who actually want to learn.”
The vending-machine man dispenses more drawled Italian. More laughter from his pals ensues. Lucille is at my shoulder now.
“The fuck you say, pendejo?” Lucille aims her blood-red fingernails, freshly manicured, at him. They’re like weapons. I wouldn’t want them pointed at me. “If you think you got cojones, spit in English. I’ll make you my lapdog.” She flounders for the words, but I’m quite proud. It seems like anger makes her articulate. “Lick my boot, you will, motherfucker.”
Absurdly, I hear the last in Yoda’s voice: “Lick my boot, you will …”
“Bitch,” the Italian growls. “Mexican bitch.”
“The fuck you—”
The thin man steps forward as Lucille makes to leap at him and the Italian jumps to his feet. More hands stray towards more hips. It’s more of an instinct, I think—at least, I hope; I pray. They’re not really going to start shooting, are they?