The Mother's Promise(38)

“Okay then,” Mrs. Patterson said when everyone had been assigned a role. “I suggest the speakers get together with your partners sooner rather than later. The topic is … wait for it … whether students should call their teachers by their first names. I want to hear strong arguments! One partner will present the argument and the other will remain at the table, passing notes for rebuttals. Both participants will write the initial arguments as well as a full report about what you contributed to the assignment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Patterson,” the class droned.

“Good. Well you can be dismissed a little early today so you can exchange numbers with your partners and make arrangements. I want well-written, well-rehearsed speeches, understood? Get practicing.”

*

After class, by her locker, Zoe felt a presence behind her.

“So I guess we’re partners.”

All of Zoe’s senses went on high alert, but she continued to shuffle books in her locker. “I guess we are.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. She felt his eyes boring into the back of her head. After a few seconds she heard a sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” he said. “You know … ‘Why else would I look at you’?”

Zoe died all over again. “It’s no big deal,” she muttered.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Zoe kept her nose in her locker.

“Oh-kay,” he said skeptically. “But if it’s no big deal, why won’t you look at me?”

Zoe’s cheeks bloomed red, which made turning around all the more mortifying. So she didn’t.

“Suit yourself,” he said finally. “So … how are we gonna do this? The debate, I mean.”

It was the question Zoe had been asking herself since she put up her hand. She still didn’t have a good answer.

“Well … I … I guess we’ll come up with the main arguments in class tomorrow,” she said. “And then we’ll divide them between the three speakers. Then we write the speech.”

Harry moved around to her right side, appearing in her peripheral vision. “Are you really not going to look at me? You know you volunteered to be a speaker, right? You have to stand up in front of the class? Facing the class?”

Zoe continued shuffling books in her locker, dying. “There are only two types of speakers,” she said quietly. “The nervous and the liars.”

It was her favorite quote. She’d always wanted an excuse to say it to someone. But at the same time, she’d laid herself bare—giving away any notion that she was keeping her back to him to torture him or pay him back for what he said about her.

“Mark Twain, right?” Harry said after a moment.

“Yeah.” In her surprise Zoe forgot herself and looked at Harry.

“Okay, point taken,” he said. “Don’t look at me. But we’re going to have to write the damn thing sometime. How about tomorrow? I have an appointment right after school, but I’ll be home by four P.M. Come to my place. I live in West Atherton. I have a closet that you can keep your head in the entire time if you like.”

For a millisecond Zoe nearly laughed. Then she remembered that she couldn’t go to Harry’s. She’d probably have a panic attack right there on his doorstep! The whole thing was ridiculous. She was going to make a fool of herself.

But, because she just needed the conversation to be over, she shrugged and said, “Fine. Tomorrow after school at your place.”

She’d figure out a way to get out of it later.

*

Zoe was on her way to math when she heard her name in the corridor. She assumed she’d misheard, that someone had called “Chloe” or “Joey,” but when she spun around, Mrs. Hunt, the school principal, was looking at her.

“Can you come with me a minute, please?”

Mrs. Hunt wore a strange smile that might have been concealing anger or even sadness. Zoe’s stomach plummeted. Her mom.

“I … I have to get to class,” Zoe stammered, overcome by an urge to flee.

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I’ll give you a pass.”

So Zoe had no choice but to go with her, into her office.

“Have a seat,” Mrs. Hunt said when they got inside. Zoe did. Her hands were shaking and she found herself holding her breath. “Zoe, your mother called me and told me about her cancer. I’m so sorry.”

Slowly she started to breathe again. Her mom must have been alive to make the call. And yet she was surprised her mother had thought to call the school to tell them this. Especially since she hadn’t done Zoe the same courtesy.

“Thank you.”

“I want you to know the school will support you through this. My door is open for you any time, and so is Mrs. Logan’s.”

Mrs. Logan, the guidance counselor. Zoe had seen her once during her first semester, a standard visit after her mother had explained about her social anxiety disorder. Mrs. Logan was the brand of therapist that just sat there and waited for you to talk. Perhaps not the best strategy for someone with a pathological fear of talking to people.

“Thank you,” she said again. She should have felt relieved. Her mother wasn’t dead and she wasn’t in trouble for skipping school. Still, she felt wary.