You'd Be Home Now (38)

“What’s so bad about a little change?” Simon says. “Ease up. Let them feel like they have a voice. Is that so bad? Aren’t you tired of teaching the same old thing, day in and day out?”

“They just get worse and worse every year. With their whatsits and hoo-hahs and filming everything. They all just want to be celebrities.”

There’s a pause.

“And everyone’s so sensitive. Everyone’s so tender. In my day, you didn’t have a nervous breakdown at the slightest thing. You just dealt with it and moved on. They’re like pieces of china.”

A coffeemaker gurgles. A chair scrapes the floor.

Simon Stanley says, “The world is different now, Walter. Here, do you take cream? It looks like we just have the dry packets. I think the new PE teacher keeps finishing the cartons of cream and not replacing them. So entitled, those athletic types.”

“And if I could transfer that deVos kid to another class, I’d do it in a hot minute. That child is dumb as a rock.”

“Walter, they’re children.”

    “I can’t transfer him, anyway. Or give him detention. I play bridge with his grandparents. They’d kill me.”

Simon Stanley laughs.

“And that Wankel kid. What a smart-ass. Dresses like he’s some sort of beatnik, for goodness’ sake. A scarf indoors! Smart as a whip, though. Same with Liza Hernandez. I like her. But her family. What a mess. Did they ever find her parents?”

My face goes red. Liza’s parents. Always going out to the car when I would visit. Coming back in the house sniffly and red-eyed.

“No, they didn’t.”

Simon is quiet before he speaks again. “Walter, Daniel wears the scarf because he had thyroid cancer last fall. Don’t you remember? He got very sick around November and had to get surgery and treatment. He did his work at home until he could come back in the spring. He has a scar. That’s why he’s wearing the scarf. Please, don’t make him take it off. Don’t make it an issue.”

Daniel. Daniel’s scarf. Oh. My stomach does little flip-flops. Cancer.

“My, my.” Mr. Watson sounds sad. “I do recall now. I do. Terrible thing. So young.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Simon Stanley says. “We were all young once. And we had our nervous breakdowns and our cancers and our heartbreaks and our anger and we hid them and pretended they didn’t exist and we moved on because everyone said we should. And we’re not one iota better for it. Not one. Let them have this. Just this. Let them be tender, Walter.”

Mr. Watson humphs. “I’ll take it under consideration. But if I end up reading about hobbits and faeries, I know where you live.”

    “I’ll invite you in for tea. I still have my mother’s beautiful set.”



* * *



—

I walk slowly to the auditorium. Liza. Her family. What a mess.

I don’t want her in that house anymore. That’s what my mother told my father four years ago. I went to pick Emory up and I don’t know if they were drunk or if they were high or what, but they were passed out in their car, Neil! It’s not safe over there.

My dad was trying to calm her down. I understand, Abigail. Maybe Liza can just come over here from now on. I’ll talk to someone at the hospital. Maybe they can send a social worker out.

The house is a pigsty all the time. I don’t know where her brothers are. Who’s taking care of that child?

Have some sympathy.

I am having sympathy! But I have to think of Emory. I’ve never been comfortable with her over there, but Liza is her only friend, so I let it pass. But it’s gone too far.

I didn’t really think about her parents. Sometimes when I was there they’d spend a lot of time in their car parked on the curb, and it was just Liza and me, which seemed fun. Sometimes her brothers were around, but they mostly stayed in their rooms playing video games. More often, Liza came to my house. “My house is boring,” she’d say. Or “You have the pool,” or “You have more toys.” Then that day when my mother came to get me, we’d actually been at the library most of the afternoon and were just walking up when my mom’s car pulled up behind Liza’s parents’ car. Liza got very skittish.

“Okay, bye,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She moved between me and her parents’ car. My mother got out of her car and came around to us. But she was taller than Liza. She saw Nancy and Lou in the ratty old Chevrolet. I guess I thought they were just sleeping. What was I supposed to think? They went out to their car a lot when I was over there. “Getting some air,” they’d say, or “You kids are making too much of a racket.”

    “Liza,” my mother said. I could not figure out her voice, whether it was sad or mad, or both.

My mother leaned down and rapped hard on the car windows.

Liza said, “Please just go, Mrs. Ward. Please. It’ll be fine. It’s always fine.” She was crying.

There was a stirring inside the car. Liza’s parents peered at us, confused.

Liza whimpered and looked down at the sidewalk.

My mother told me to get in the car. She didn’t talk the whole way home.

That weekend, Liza didn’t call me at all. I left messages. I emailed her. I texted. Nothing. I thought maybe she was mad about something, maybe I’d talked too much or made her watch too many of my favorite videos on YouTube.