All the Little Lights(35)

Chapter Nine

Catherine

Mr. Mason turned away from his scribblings on the SMART Board, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. It was still in the midnineties, and the teachers were getting crankier every day.

“C’mon, you guys. It’s almost October. You should know this. Anyone?”

The leg of Elliott’s table screeched against the tile floor, and we all turned to stare at him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Is the table working out for you?” Mr. Mason asked. “Mrs. Mason has been hounding me for an update.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Heard you won the quarterback spot,” Mr. Mason said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Elliott said.

“Barely.” Scotty sniffed.

Every girl in class immediately looked at Elliott with a sparkle in her eye, and I faced forward, feeling my cheeks get hot. “Photoelectric effect,” I said, desperate to take attention away from Elliott.

“That’s right,” Mr. Mason said, pleasantly surprised. “That’s right. Good job, Catherine. Thank you.”

The door opened, and Mrs. Mason stepped in, looking trim and glowing. “Mr. Mason.”

“Mrs. Mason,” he grumbled.

“I need to see Catherine Calhoun in my office, please.”

“You couldn’t have sent an aide?” Mr. Mason asked. Hope was in his eyes, as if he were waiting for his estranged wife to admit she’d just wanted to see him.

“I was next door.” Revenge glimmered in her eyes. Coach Peckham was teaching health one classroom over, and it was rumored they were dating. “Catherine, gather your things. You won’t be back today.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Elliott, although I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because I knew he’d be the only person to care why I was being summoned to the counselor’s office. He was sitting forward, a combination of curiosity and concern on his face.

I leaned over to shove my textbook, notepad, and pen into my backpack, and then stood, sliding my arms through the straps.

Mr. Mason nodded to me and then continued with his lecture, pointing to his pitiful illustrations of photoelectrons on the board.

Mrs. Mason led me down the hallway, across the commons area, to the office. Her long legs took small but graceful steps within the confines of the pencil skirt she wore. The hem hit just below her knee, almost modest if it hadn’t been skintight, balancing the sheer red blouse with the first three buttons undone. I smiled. She was enjoying her freedom, and I hoped that would be me someday.

We garnered stares from the school secretary, Mrs. Rosalsky, a few of the office aides, and a few delinquents who were carrying out their in-house suspension.

Mrs. Mason’s door was already open, a knitted heart with her name embroidered in the center hanging from a single nail in the wood. She closed the door behind me and, with a smile, directed me to sit.

“Miss Calhoun. We haven’t spoken in a while. Your grades look great. How are things?”

“Things are good,” I said, barely able to look her in the eyes.

“Catherine,” she said, her voice warm, “we’ve discussed this. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m here to help.”

“I can’t help it.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but it’s still embarrassing.”

I sat in this chair three times a week during the first half of my sophomore year, rehashing how I felt about my father’s death. Mrs. Mason gave Mama six months, and when she felt Mama wasn’t going to get better, she called DHS to go to the Juniper for an interview. That made Mama worse, and late one night she ended up at the Masons’ home.

After that, I learned to pretend. Mrs. Mason summoned me once a week. Junior year was just once a month, and this year, I had just begun to think she wasn’t going to call me in at all.

She waited, her eyes soft and her small smile comforting. I wondered how Mr. Mason could have ever done anything but work hard to keep her. In any other town, she’d be married to a lawyer or businessman, counseling kids only because it was her passion. Instead, she’d married her high school sweetheart, who’d turned into a grumpy, round, sweaty, mustache-wearing lump of boring. I knew better than anything there were worse things to come home to, but Mrs. Mason was on her way to happy, and Mr. Mason wasn’t it.

“What about for you?” I asked.

One side of her mouth turned up, accustomed to my deflection. “Catherine, you know I can’t discuss . . .”

“I know. But I’m just curious why you left if it wasn’t that bad. Some people stay with better reasons to leave. I’m not judging you. I guess I’m just asking . . . at what point did you decide it was okay?”

She watched me for a moment, trying to decide if being honest would help me. “The only reason you need to leave is if you don’t want to stay. You know what I’m talking about. When you walk into a place and feel you don’t belong—where you’re not comfortable or even welcome. The important things are to be safe, happy, and healthy, and so many times those things are synonymous. When you’re not yet an adult, it’s important to let someone you trust help navigate that for you.”

I nodded and glanced at the clock. In ten minutes, the bell would ring, and I’d be walking home in the heat to a place that fit every one of Mrs. Mason’s descriptions.