Cackle(33)

“Yeah,” I say. “He hasn’t been in my class most of this week. There was an . . . Well, I don’t know if I’d call it an incident. He got sick in class on Monday.”

“I heard,” she says. Her expression is overly empathetic. Sad eyes, big frown. I wonder if the kids make fun of her like they make fun of me.

“I had a student escort him to the nurse. I wasn’t sure if he was still sick.”

“Mm, yeah.” She nods a lot, in a way that I think is meant to show me that she’s listening but has the reverse effect. “Chris has not been absent. He’s in good health, so that’s good news. He did request an immediate transfer out of your class.”

“Okay.” I can’t even guess at what reaction I should make, but I can tell she expects one. Her tone indicates this is bad news.

“Now, I think he may be embarrassed about getting sick the way he did. I spoke with Madison, and she gave me a very graphic, detailed description of the incident. It sounded very upsetting.”

“He threw up.”

“I know,” she says. “But you know how it goes. Kids and their imaginations.”

“Okay,” I say. I’m not going to bring up the spider. She can bring up the spider.

“It’s typical young-adult behavior. Deferring is very, very common at this age,” she says. “It’s difficult for them to process their own behavior, their own embarrassment. It’s much easier to point the finger at someone else.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks solemn for a moment, then shakes her head. “Never mind. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the transfer and okay with everything.”

“I’m fine with him transferring. If I’m honest, he was pretty disruptive,” I say.

“Mm,” she says, reaching into the Jolly Rancher jar and pulling out a purple one.

I’m baffled by anyone who prefers anything grape flavored. Sam is, too. It was one of the first things we bonded over when we met. Why not go straight for the cherry?

“Every student is different. It’s our job as educators to foster a positive environment conducive to growth and learning for all of our students. Candy?”

She tips the jar in my direction.

I shake my head.

“I want you to know that my door is always open,” she says. “Always.”

“Thanks,” I say, standing. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Any fun plans for the weekend?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say. “My friend is coming over tonight for dinner.”

“Ooh, fun!”

I suppose I should ask her what she’s doing, but I don’t want to hear about her and her husband going apple picking or kayaking or whatever. Typically, I’d ask anyway because it’s the polite thing to do, but there’s a little voice in my head that says, Don’t bother. Spare yourself.

The voice sounds a lot like Sophie’s.

“Bye,” I say.

“Bye now!”

I let the door slam behind me.





HONESTY


I pull into the driveway, and as I step out of my car, I hear my name being called.

Sophie walks toward me. She wears a long emerald green dress with a square neckline and puffy sleeves. Her hair is down, and it blows back even though the air is completely still. Not even a hint of breeze.

She carries a large wicker picnic basket.

“Am I too early?” she asks. “Perhaps I should let you settle.”

“No,” I say. “I’m happy to see you.”

It’s true. I might have my misgivings, but she’s been nothing but good to me. I can dismiss my suspicions in exchange for some company.

I mean, they’re ridiculous anyway. Curses? Really?

She sets the basket down and reaches for me, giving me the sweet hug that I desperately need.

“Pet,” she says, stroking my hair, “you’re sad.”

“It’s been a long, weird week,” I say.

“You can tell me all about it,” she says. “Or not. We can forget it ever happened. Poof. Gone.”

I realize something, and as the words form in my head, they simultaneously blurt out of my mouth. “Wait. How did you know where I live?”

“Oh, I’m here all the time. Watching you while you sleep,” she says, picking up the basket. “No, darling. Lynn mentioned she was getting an upstairs neighbor. Have you met her yet?”

“No.” I’m beginning to think she doesn’t exist.

“She’s a photographer, so she travels a lot for work. She’s lovely, a bit shy, though I suppose that might be ideal for a neighbor,” she says. “Anyway, we don’t get many new residents in town. Hardly ever. Ever, ever. But here you are, and here I am.”

“Sorry. I just was like ‘Wait a second.’?” I open the door and we start up the stairs. My footsteps are loud and graceless, clunk clunk clunk. Sophie’s are orderly, deliberate. Almost musical.

I pause with my key in the door. I haven’t cleaned. There are dirty dishes in the sink. Multiple wine bottles empty on the kitchen counter, awaiting recycling.

It’s embarrassing.

“What is it?” she asks.