The Wife Between Us(7)

“Tell me those aren’t chocolate croissants.”

“From Dean and DeLuca,” Linda confirmed. “Help yourself.”

Nellie groaned. Just this morning the scale had revealed she still had five—okay, eight—pounds to lose before her wedding.

“Come on,” Linda urged. “I got plenty to sweeten up the parents.”

“These are Upper East Side parents,” Nellie joked. “No one’s going to eat sugary carbs.” Nellie looked at the platter again. “Maybe just half.” She divided one with a plastic knife.

She took a bite as she walked back to her classroom. The space wasn’t fancy, but it was roomy, and high windows allowed in some natural light. The soft rug with an alphabet-train pattern running around the edges was where her Cubs sat crisscross—applesauce for story time; in the kitchen area, they donned tiny chef’s hats and clattered pots and pans; and the dress-up corner held everything from doctor’s coats to ballerina tutus to an astronaut’s helmet.

Her mother had once asked Nellie why she didn’t want to become a “real” teacher and hadn’t understood why Nellie took offense at the question.

The feel of those pudgy, trusting hands in hers; that moment when a child deciphered letters on a page to sound out a word for the first time and looked up at Nellie in wonder; the freshness with which children interpreted the world—how could she explain how precious it all felt?

She’d always just known she wanted to teach, the way some kids feel destined to become writers, or artists.

Nellie licked a buttery flake off her fingertip, then took her planner out of her purse along with a stack of “report cards” she’d be distributing. Parents paid $32,000 a year to send their kids here for a few hours a day; the tepee-link-sending Porters weren’t alone in wanting things done a certain way. Every week, Nellie received emails, such as a recent one from the Levines requesting supplemental worksheets for gifted little Reese. Teachers’ cell phone numbers were printed in the school directory in case of emergency, but some parents applied loose definitions to the word. Once Nellie fielded a call at five A.M. because Bennett had thrown up during the night and his mother was curious about what he’d eaten at school the previous day.

That sudden shrill ring in the darkness had prompted Nellie to turn on all the lights in her room even after she realized the call was innocuous. She’d burned off her surge of adrenaline by reorganizing her closet and dresser drawers.

“What a diva,” her roommate, Sam, had said when Nellie recounted the call. “Why don’t you turn off your phone when you go to sleep?”

“Good idea,” Nellie had lied, knowing she’d never follow the advice. She didn’t listen to loud music while she jogged or commuted to work, either. And she never walked home alone late at night.

If a threat was approaching, she wanted as much warning as possible.

Nellie was scribbling a few final notes at her desk when she heard a knock on the door and looked up to see the Porters, he in a navy pin-striped suit and she in a rose-colored dress. They looked as if they were on their way to the symphony.

“Welcome,” she said as they approached and shook her hand. “Please, sit down.” She suppressed a smile as they struggled to balance on the child-size chairs around the snack table. Nellie was sitting on one, too, but by now she was used to it.

“So, as you know, Jonah is a wonderful little boy,” she began. All of her conferences started with a Lake Wobegon tone, but in Jonah’s case, it was true. Nellie’s bedroom wall was decorated with paintings created by her favorite students, including Jonah’s depiction of her as a marshmallow woman.

“Have you noticed his pencil grip?” Mrs. Porter asked, taking a notebook and pen out of her purse.

“Um, I don’t—”

“It’s pronated,” Mr. Porter interrupted. He demonstrated by grasping his wife’s pen. “See how his hand curves in like this? What are your thoughts on whether we should sign him up for occupational therapy?”

“Well, he is only three and a half.”

“Three and three-quarters,” Mrs. Porter corrected.

“Right,” Nellie said. “A lot of kids haven’t developed the fine motor skills at that age to—”

“You’re from Florida, right?” Mr. Porter asked.

Nellie blinked. “How do you— I’m sorry, why do you ask?” There was no way she had told the Porters where she was from. She was always careful not to reveal too much about her background.

It wasn’t difficult to dodge questions once you learned the tricks. When someone asked about your childhood, you told them about the tree house your father built for you, and your black cat that thought he was a dog and would sit up and beg for a treat. If college came up, you focused on the football team’s undefeated season and your part-time job at a campus restaurant, where you once started a small fire while making toast and cleared the dining area. Tell colorful, drawn-out stories that deflect attention from the fact that you aren’t actually sharing anything. Avoid specifics that will separate you from the crowd. Be vague about the year you graduated. Lie, but only when completely necessary.

“Well, things are different here in New York,” Mr. Porter was saying. Nellie looked at him carefully. He was easily fifteen years older than she, and his accent suggested he’d been born in Manhattan. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed before now. How could he have known?