“It’s a lot of work.” I shifted in my seat, hoping to catch Elena’s eye, begging her to see the giant NO flashing across my face.
Elena sat up, beaming at Albright like an overeager puppy. “I’d be happy to do it. I might need some guidance, though.” She glanced toward Nick.
“I’ll help her.” The words slipped from Nick’s lips a little too quickly, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Great.” Albright clapped his hands together. “Jane. Can we make you part of the team?”
My chest deflated. I scanned the room, but there was nowhere to run. Albright’s beady eyes pinned me to my chair. “Sure.”
He pumped his fist in the air. “Terrific. Time to make my rounds. Thanks again.” The principal hobbled away, letting the door to the lounge bang closed behind him.
I slumped forward. My resolve to not allow the school to force me to do any extra work without extra pay had already been defeated.
“We should go out for a drink sometime to talk about it.” Nick’s eyes shot from Elena and toward me as if he’d suddenly remembered I was there. “How about tomorrow? No soccer practice.”
Elena’s lips curved into a timid smile, her gaze flickering between Nick and me. “Sure. But only if Jane comes with us.”
I shrugged, amused by their awkward dance. “Sounds good.” I wasn’t one to turn down a happy hour with colleagues. Still, their attraction had ignited a spark and now they were fanning the flames. I swallowed back the uneasy feeling that I was walking directly into the fire.
Two
Amy
Amy clipped back the stalk of the rose bush, letting the withered cluster of petals fall onto the mulch. The deadened, chopped limbs lay in messy clumps along the front of her house as the September sun burned against her exposed arm. She pulled the brim of her hat lower on her forehead and considered going back inside and applying some sunscreen but decided against it. She wouldn’t be out here much longer. Besides, two or three months from now in the frigid grip of another Michigan winter, she’d yearn for the feel of the sun against her skin.
Be grateful. Good things will come your way. She silently recited the mantra she’d been repeating to herself in recent weeks to combat her destructive thoughts. She twisted her head and stared up at the brick 1960s colonial behind her. Scott had stolen so much from her—her trust, her pride, the business, her dream of a happy future—but at least she’d gotten to keep the house. More importantly, except for every other weekend, Phoebe and Ben didn’t have to be uprooted. They could live with her, go to the same schools, and keep their friends.
Her white-brick colonial was tucked into a wooded acre in a subdivision full of sprawling lots and spacious houses. Over mornings spent waiting for the bus and summertime potlucks, the neighbors had become friends. Or at least she thought they had. The landscape of friendships and allegiances had become murky since the divorce.
Amy clipped another stalk, but this time the razor tip of a thorn poked through the membrane of her gardening glove and pierced her fingertip. Yanking her hand toward her, she removed her glove and sucked the bead of blood off the pad of her finger. She considered going inside again, washing her hands, and drinking a glass of iced tea. She checked her watch. Ben would be home from his second day of seventh grade in about forty minutes. She wanted to be outside to greet him when the bus dropped him at the end of their driveway. Then she’d leave to pick up Phoebe from tennis practice at the high school. She could finish pruning before then if she kept working.
Her phone dinged in her pocket, alerting her to an email. She set down her glove and checked her phone. Welcome to eleventh-grade English! An email from Phoebe’s new ELA teacher, Elena Mayfield, appeared. Amy had met the young teacher briefly yesterday in the teachers’ lounge, Elena’s eyes dancing with hope, her lips stained the color of summer berries. An unexpected swell of sadness had filled Amy’s chest. She, too, had once been young, beautiful, and idealistic. She mentally added the losses to the list of things Scott had stolen from her.
The email began with a few niceties and then outlined the week’s assignments. A final paragraph read: My goal is to provide an encouraging and nurturing environment for personal growth through the exploration of literature. There are no stupid questions or bad ideas. All thoughts and emotions, no matter how uncomfortable, are welcome to be expressed in my class.
Amy sighed and turned off her phone. She was all for progressive learning. That was one of the main reasons she and Scott had stayed here. They wanted their kids to have the best education, to expose them to diverse cultures and different viewpoints. But pretending there was no such thing as a stupid question wasn’t going to help anyone.
She picked up her sweaty glove and pulled it over her hand as she searched for more wilted petals, her mind wandering back to yesterday. It had been her first day at her new job in the office at Ravenswood High School. It wouldn’t be her dream job, but she’d decided to make the most of it. When she’d spotted the opening for a part-time accountant who was also required to do light administrative work five weeks ago, she thought it would be a perfect stepping stone to something more in line with her abilities. As a bonus, she could keep an eye on Phoebe and her friends. More than the extra money, Amy craved a routine, something to add structure to her days since Scott had pulled the real estate business out from under her.
Despite being overqualified for the position, she’d been slightly overwhelmed at all the new people she’d met and the passcodes she’d been instructed to remember. They’d given her a lone cubicle in the back corner of the main office, complete with her own computer and an email address. Her supervisor, Lydia, was the surly receptionist she’d encountered in previous years when Phoebe had arrived late to school from dentist and doctor appointments.
Amy lifted her chin at the familiar sound of the school bus rumbling down the dirt road. It lurched to a halt at the end of the driveway. She checked her watch again, wondering why the bus was stopping. It was too early for Ben’s bus and Phoebe would be at tennis.
The doors opened, and her daughter stumbled down the steps, blinking against the sunlight. Strands of hair fell out of her bun. The vehicle spewed diesel and pulled away as Phoebe moped up the driveway, her shoulders weighed down by something other than her backpack.
Panic rippled through Amy’s gut. She stepped back and pulled at the tips of her gloves. “What happened? Why aren’t you at tennis practice?”
Phoebe stopped walking and fixed her moon-shaped eyes on her mom. “I quit.”
“What?” Amy dropped the shears she’d been clutching. “You finally made varsity. Why would you do that?”
Phoebe shrugged. “It wasn’t fun anymore.”
She studied her daughter’s body, noticing for the first time that she didn’t have her tennis racket with her. She hadn’t caught the omission this morning. “When did you quit?”
“Last week.”
Amy’s breath caught in her throat, her stomach turning over. Phoebe’s varsity tennis tryouts and practices had started three weeks ago. “You can’t just quit. You should have talked to me about it first.”