“How’s Simone? I haven’t seen her lately.”
“She’s well. Very busy, as usual.” Nicolette pressed her lips together as if stopping herself from saying more.
Amy waited for an uncomfortable number of seconds, then held her hand up toward her neighbor. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
The Volvo turned into the circle drive across the way and disappeared into the garage.
The Granger mailbox stood a few feet away and Amy staggered toward it. She pulled open the metal door, her fingers closing around a stack of envelopes. The top one was from the Green Hills Nursing Home in Tampa. Amy’s stomach sank even further, not wanting to think about the outrageous amount she owed so that her mother could waste away in a sterile room while being spoon-fed orange roughy and Key lime pie. She flipped through a few more envelopes containing requests for charitable contributions and a cable bill.
A flimsy envelope poked out from the bottom of the stack, no markings on the front, not even a return address. Amy held up the plain envelope, examining it in the afternoon light as a warning prickled over her skin. She peered over her shoulder. Only a squirrel swished its tail behind her, then skittered up a tree. Satisfied she was alone, she opened the mysterious envelope. Her fingers shook as she tore the seam and unfolded the sheet. Her eyes squinted against the glare of the white paper, but there was no escaping the angry words that screamed from the page.
DIE, BITCH!
She blinked, rereading the horrible words, hands shaking. Who would do this? The message was scrawled in red ink, the lettering written evenly with the dot of the exclamation point in the shape of a bubble. Exactly the way a teenage girl would write.
The Cape Cod sparkled from across the street. Images of the mean girls who had excluded her daughter from their group reeled through her mind. She pinched her lips together and stuffed the note back into the envelope. At least Phoebe hadn’t seen it.
Three
Jane
The bell rang. Teenagers bolted from their tables like bats out of hell. It was Friday. The first week of school had been checked off. I stood behind my desk, gathering my things, and waiting for kids to clear out while reading the text Nick had sent Elena and me a few hours earlier: Friends Brewery downtown? Meet me in the teachers’ lounge after the bell.
When the screeching voices in the hallway faded, I grabbed my keys and oversized canvas bag and turned the corner to the lounge. Behind me, the door to Elena’s classroom sat closed, voices murmuring from underneath. I turned back to wait for her, stealing a peek through the narrow window to the side of the door. Elena sat at her desk, hands folded together, forehead creased. A chair had been pulled up next to her desk. I couldn’t see the student’s face, but the long coat, unruly hair, and multiple ear piercings clued me in: Rowan.
I stepped back. Had Elena heard about Rowan? She must have. There was no way she could have missed the accidental email sent three days before school started. One of the school’s social workers had meant to send a confidential message to Albright, except—in the king of royal screwups—she’d mistakenly copied all Ravenswood staff members into the recipient list. I held up my phone and scrolled back through my emails until I found the one entitled “Rowan Hasloff” and reread the rogue message.
It has come to my attention that incoming eleventh grader, Rowan Hasloff, who is no stranger to trouble at this school, has posted a disturbing image on his Instagram account that appears to praise the perpetrator of a recent school shooting in Virginia. As a result, I recommend the school contact Rowan’s father and the appropriate authorities, and that Rowan is added to Ravenswood’s Watch List, in addition to mandatory weekly visits with one of the school social workers.
An hour after the email was sent, the school scrambled to cover its proverbial ass. Corrections and apologies followed, explaining the “watch list” was a newly instituted precautionary measure Ravenswood had taken in the wake of the nation’s uncontrolled gun violence to protect students and teachers. The list was meant to be strictly confidential, only available on a need-to-know basis.
The damage control had come too late, though. All the staff members had already read the email. Every teacher now knew that the school kept something called a “watch list” and that Rowan was on it.
I tipped forward and focused on Elena’s concerned expression. Had she noticed some disturbing behavior and made Rowan stay after class on a Friday? Maybe she was even more badass than I’d realized. Or had Rowan been the one to hold her up? As quiet as he was, I couldn’t imagine him drawing attention to himself. On the other hand, I’d heard the boys’ comments in the hallway when they didn’t think anyone was listening.
“Check out the new English teacher.”
“Ms. Mayfield is hot.”
Maybe Rowan’s hormones had gotten the better of him.
I hovered outside the door, straining to catch a phrase or a sentence, but the words were muted and jumbled. My resolve running low, I turned and headed toward the lounge without her. Inside, Nick stood near the window. He’d taken advantage of casual Friday. He hooked his thumb into the pocket of his jeans. His navy polo shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and his hair was slicked back with some sort of manly styling product. He’d put in some effort today, and it wasn’t because he was trying to impress his students.
“Elena’s still in her classroom,” I said.
Nick raised an eyebrow.
“With Rowan Hasloff.”
His face fell. “Oh, man. We’ve really got to give her the rundown.”
I tipped my head, assuming Nick meant that we should warn Elena about getting too close to Rowan, or at least brief her on not getting sucked in by too many needy kids and after-school activities.
“Hey, Jane.” He shuffled closer, lowering his voice. I smelled a hint of cologne reminiscent of aging oak barrels. “Do you know what Elena’s situation is? I mean, romantically speaking?”
“No idea, Romeo. No wedding ring, though.” I winked at him.
“I noticed that.” He rolled his shoulders back. “I’m not hounding her or anything. I was just wondering.”
“Yeah. Right.” I punched the solid muscle of his arm and watched his lips twist into a sly grin. “I’m pulling for you, man.”
Nick’s bumbling presence made me extra thankful I was married to Craig. I exhaled, relieved the singles dating scene was a distant memory.
Nick scratched an itch on his forehead then turned toward the door. “Let’s go rescue her.”
My phone dinged at the same time as his. I looked down, a text from Elena appearing: Something came up. Go without me. Sorry!
Nick tipped his head back and sighed. “Seriously?”
“Maybe we can still talk her into it.”
We scrambled out the door, both of us rushing toward room 102. The rubber soles of my shoes squeaked as I turned the second corner in the hallway, finding the door to Elena’s classroom closed. I peered through the thick glass window again. This time, the room was empty.
“She already left? She was just here.”
Nick tried the handle, but the door was locked. He swung his head toward the exit at the end of the long hallway. A janitor wheeled a squeaky bucket toward the girls’ restrooms. No sign of Elena or Rowan.