Dear Edward(31)

“I don’t think so,” Edward says, thinking: I’m not comfortable anywhere.

There is a pause while the principal looks over Edward’s head, presumably at the orange-flowered bush on the filing cabinet. “You took a standardized test in the spring,” he says. “Your father arranged for it, I believe. Your scores were very high—high enough for you to skip a grade.”

Edward straightens in his chair. “I don’t want to skip a grade. I’d like to stay with Shay, please.”

“That’s what your aunt and uncle thought you’d say. And so it shall be.”

The man is looking at him expectantly, so Edward says, “Thanks.”

“Let me ask you a question, young man.”

Edward braces himself, knowing it will be about the crash.

“How do you feel about flora?”

It takes a second for Edward to understand what the man has asked him. “You mean plants?”

The principal nods. “The foundation of our ecosystem.”

In truth, Edward’s never thought about plants before. His mother had a spider plant in the kitchen, but it had always appeared to him to be part of the furniture.

“Each year I ask a few students to help me with the care of these beauties.” The man gestures around the room. “Perhaps you can be my first volunteer?”

“Okay,” Edward says, because it seems to be the only possible answer.

“I’ll let you know when your services are required. You can go now. But if you run into any problems during your schooldays, Edward, please know that I am here.”

Lacey and Besa are waiting together in the car at pickup. They’re first in line, parked right in front of the school doors, which is fortunate because the parking lot is jammed with cars and people. Besa sizes him up.

“They left you alone today, huh?”

He nods as he climbs into the back seat.

She waves her hand at the crowded parking lot. “You see how bored the lunatics in this town have been, that they’re treating this like some kind of UFO sighting?”

She’s not wrong. The entire town seems to be present, and every eye in the parking lot is on their car. This must be the most highly attended pickup in the school’s history. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, and uncles have appeared. Relatives have traveled from out of town to collect their great-grandnephew on the first day of school. There are teenagers who have rounded the building or crushed their way through the middle school doors in order to collect younger siblings they generally have no time for. The crowd pretends not to stare but does so very badly. A couple brazenly gape. There are myriad cellphones pointed in Edward’s direction. One young man is perched on a tree branch with an old-fashioned camera. There are whispers. There he is. That’s the boy. It’s him.

Edward notes the cellphones and cameras and remembers his total of Google hits. He thinks, One hundred and twenty thousand and one. One hundred and twenty thousand and two. Three, four. Seven. Twenty-two. He can imagine a photo of himself in these stiff clothes, looking skinny and drawn. New versions of this image proliferate. He imagines them being uploaded to Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter.

“Don’t they have anything better to do?” Lacey says.

“Fools,” Besa says. Because of the traffic, the car can only inch forward. A woman who looks like a kindly grandmother holds her cellphone out and clicks it right next to Edward’s window. She offers him an apologetic smile.

Besa leans on the car horn, and the lady startles.

“That’s my dentist over there,” Lacey says. “I know for a fact that he doesn’t have any kids.”

Edward wants to say something, to let them know that he’s all right, because he understands they’re upset on his behalf. But this day seems to have completely drained his battery, and his jaw won’t work.

“Hey,” Shay says, as they finally burst free of the school grounds. “What about me? Isn’t anyone going to ask about my first day of seventh grade?”

The tension cracks, and the three females in the car laugh. Lacey has to wipe her eyes, she’s so undone. They laugh even harder when they pass a line of nuns, a block from the school. The row of black habits nods in the direction of the car.

At dinner, Lacey says, “A moving truck will be arriving next Wednesday.”

John and Edward look at her. Dinner is lasagna and salad. Edward has gained back six of the eight lost pounds and has slowly started to eat normal meals. He experiences actual hunger sometimes and is always surprised by the gnawing sensation in his belly. He knows his aunt’s cooking is organized around putting as many calories as possible into each of his bites. One morning at breakfast, John complained that the milk tasted funny, and she confessed that she’d added some ground cashews to bulk it up a little. John had looked at her like she’d lost her mind, and Edward giggled, his second-ever laugh in his new body.

“You’re … we’re moving?” Edward is unable to keep a note of horror from his voice.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” Lacey says quickly. “I should have phrased that differently.”

“We’re not moving.” John puts a hand on Edward’s shoulder.

“The boxes from the storage unit we rented in Omaha—that’s where the movers stored your family’s things while we figured out what to do with them—are being delivered here. The big items, like the furniture, are being sold, but the personal items are coming here Wednesday.”