Cackle(32)

“Medium good.”

“I’m low good.”

“Why?” he asks.

I hear a siren going in the background, car horns blaring. For some reason it makes me nostalgic for the city.

“Something weird happened today at school and now I think there’s a curse.”

“What happened? And from what I know about curses, which is of course a lot, they’re not real.”

“I know,” I say. “Some kid puked up a spider.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s not even the worst part.”

“How?”

“The spider was . . . still . . . alive! It was still alive!”

“What? That’s not possible.”

“I swear.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not! It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Annie,” he says, “I don’t believe you.”

He’s laughing, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a mean thing to say to someone. An ugly thing.

“Okay,” I say. “Don’t believe me.”

“It was probably a prank,” he says.

“Probably.” I hadn’t considered a prank. If it was a prank, Chris should drop out of school and pursue acting.

“Can’t be worse than Peacoat Bob, though, right?”

Peacoat Bob was the nickname I gave to a kid I had my second year of teaching who wore a black peacoat indoors all year. His name was Tanner Robertson. He was a proud contrarian. A big fan of Ayn Rand. His favorite pastime was trying to make teachers feel stupid by proving his superior intellect.

I’d forgotten all about him.

“Peacoat Bob!” I say.

We chuckle for a moment. I savor it. You never realize how special it is to share a random inside joke until something funny happens and you have no one to tell. Then you realize how much of your life fades away without a witness.

“Hey, do you think you can pay the Internet bill another month? I can transfer you the money. Haven’t had a chance to switch it over yet.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”

“Cool,” he says. “All right, I just got to the bar. Talk soon?”

“Bar?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you said you were going to the train.”

“Oh. I must have misspoken. I’m meeting some coworkers.”

“New coworkers?” I know I shouldn’t be asking. I know I should keep my mouth shut. But I can’t help myself.

“No,” he says. “Why?”

“No reason,” I say, making my voice flat, unfeeling. “You never used to hang out with your coworkers.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, “I used to have to be home for dinner.”

I almost ask, What’s that supposed to mean? Except I know what he meant.

“Okay,” I say. “Have fun.”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “Bye, Annie. Be good. Jesus loves you.”

I hang up.

I set my phone down on the coffee table and pick up the bottle of wine. I drink until the night goes foggy.



* * *



—

I wake up hungover. Late. I don’t bother to shower. A few spritzes of perfume, new clothes. I run out the door with enough time to visit the Good Mug for a latte.

“Same as yesterday?” Oskar asks me.

“Yes, please,” I say. “It was really good.”

“Good enough to be your usual?”

I can’t tell if he’s flirting or just being nice. Neighborly.

I leave a dollar in the tip jar.

School goes fine, except Chris isn’t in class.

“Anyone know what happened to Mr. Bersten?”

“He’s dead,” someone says.

“That’s not funny,” Madison says. “God.”

I don’t ask again. Not the next day. Or the day after that. He’s absent the rest of the week, which is fine, because I’m not in the emotional state to handle any more harassment.

On Friday, I drop by the vice principal’s office after my last class to express my required concern.

She’s a fellow thirtysomething named Jill with straight bangs and a high ponytail. She wears a button-down underneath a sweater. She looks like she could be in a commercial for a wholesome brand. Lactose-free milk. High-fiber cereal.

“I like your sweater,” I tell her. I figure the right move here is to open with a compliment.

“The whole outfit is Target!” she says, smiling. “I get all my stuff at Target. Not the Aster Target. You have to go to the Stillman Target. So, Annie, I’m glad you came by. I’ve been meaning to give you a ring.”

My heart does its weird rapid-descending thing.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “Good, thank you.”

“Good, good,” she says. She’s got a jar of Werther’s Originals and a jar of Jolly Ranchers on her desk. She has framed pictures of herself and a guy I assume is her husband. He’s tall, with dark hair and a beard. They look happy together. “So, about Mr. Bersten. That’s why you’re here, yes?”