Falling into Place(15)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Empty Seat


Liz has photography first hour, and nothing gets done without her. Kennie and Julia are supposed to be in this class too, but they don’t make it. The majority of the class—the girls, at least—sits in tears, and Mr. Dempsey, the art teacher, is more than willing to let them take it easy. He is terrified that he might actually have to use the “Things to Say to Distraught Students” handout.

He goes to his office and pulls Liz’s portfolio out of his filing cabinet; he flips through her photos, black-and-white prints, colored and edited ones, and tries to remember the girl behind the camera. Most of the shots have hasty Bs dashed across the backs.

Mr. Dempsey is the kind of teacher who gets so caught up with a piece of canvas that he often fails to notice when students walk in and out of class. He ignores bells and schedules, fails to hear fire drills (though, admittedly, that’s only happened once so far), and he typically grades haphazardly, at the last minute. It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he usually forgets.

Liz has never made much of an impression on him. He knows Julia much better, because she’s the most talented student he’s ever had, and they have had long discussions about aperture and different lighting techniques and the best brand of Earl Grey tea. And he has no choice but to know Kennie, because he’s always telling her to shut up or sit down or not to spill that particular caustic chemical. Liz, though—this was perhaps the one class that Liz Emerson sat through quietly. This class appealed to the little girl she wasn’t anymore, the part of her that was still amazed every time she clicked the shutter and captured a moment.

And her photos. Mr. Dempsey’s vision blurs slightly as he sifts through them. There are close-ups of gravel strewn across a lawn. Tire tracks in the parking lot. Flowers too close to the road. Trampled, frost-choked grass. A cloudy sky through bare branches.

The emotion disarms him. He has never noticed the rawness of Liz Emerson’s photos before, and now he sits guilt-stricken as he realizes that this is the first time he has really looked at them.

The photos slide off his lap and onto the floor. He makes a halfhearted attempt to catch them, but then lets them fall, watching as they drift down around him.

He leans back in his chair and just looks at it all, the final diary of a dying girl.


Second hour pre-calc is filled with jocks and preps and other social elites whom Liz considered more than acquaintances but less than friends. They considered themselves much more than that, though, so when Ms. Greenberg says, “Take out last night’s assignment,” the class just stares at her.

Finally, a braver and slightly desperate student speaks up. “C’mon, Ms. Greenberg. You can’t really think that we’re able to concentrate at a time like this. . . .”

Ms. Greenberg fixes him with her piercing signature stare. “Were you at the hospital last night, Mr. Loven?”

“No,” he mutters.

“Then I expect you were neither physically nor emotionally incapable of completing your assignment. Please take it out.”

Turns out, most people didn’t finish the assignment. Ms. Greenberg docks points from all of them.

After going over the homework and answering questions for the three people who actually did it, Ms. Greenberg, ignoring the incredulous stares of the class, hands out note packets for the lesson. She writes Liz’s name across the top of one and puts it in the folder marked ABSENT.

“Ms. Greenberg . . .”

“Yes?”

Carly Blake hesitates. She plays soccer with Liz and they usually sit at the same lunch table, but she’s no closer to Liz than any of her other more-than-acquaintances-less-than-friends, and I think Ms. Greenberg knows this. Certainly her look doesn’t waver as Carly’s lip wobbles.

“I just don’t think . . . I just don’t know if we can—I mean, Liz is just so . . . and we’re all so worried . . .”

Ms. Greenberg actually glares at her, and Carly trails off into silence. Ms. Greenberg puts down the note packets and looks around the classroom. No one meets her eyes.

“All right,” she says. “That’s enough. I want you all to remember that Ms. Emerson is not dead. Stop acting like she is. Until I have been notified that she is, indeed, destined for a coffin, I refuse to believe that she is. So yes, I will hold her notes and schedule a day for her to make up her quiz, though I’m sure she’ll blatantly ignore both. For those of you who are using Liz’s accident as a reason to neglect your work, I assure you it’s a weak and despicable excuse.”