An advantage of my current setup: I didn’t have any overhead. I just set myself up at a table in Central Library and waited for my students to come. On Saturdays, I held group sessions in one of the meeting rooms, where I took students through test-taking strategies.
Honestly, most of the benefit for my students came from just being there. If I assigned a test for homework, then students knew they actually had to take it before we met again because we were going to go over the results. In some cases, I was paid simply to sit at the table for three or four hours while a student took a practice test. If I was sitting there watching, then they couldn’t do anything else. Couldn’t weasel out of it. Couldn’t check social media for “two minutes.” And frankly, taking practice tests was the best way to study for taking the real test.
I did, of course, bring some value. I diagnosed areas of difficulty. I gave them practice problems. For which services I was paid quite well.
As I walked in and up to the second floor, I had a few minutes to spare. I scanned the room, looking for friends.
I saw Harold sitting in a carrel toward the back, by the windows that looked out on the tennis courts. Harold was retired. He spent his days at the library, reading. I knew him by his hat. It was a faded homburg that had a bright blue feather stuck in the band. I also knew him by his small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. I went over to say hi.
“Hey, Brown Eyes. You’re sure dressed to the nines.”
I smiled. “I had an interview.”
“How’d it go?”
“I’m hopeful.”
“Anyone would be lucky to hire you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I smiled. Asked him what he was reading.
He held up the book. The Jungle. “I never read it when I was in school. I was supposed to. Sometimes I think about all the things I was supposed to do but never did. Finally made a list. The Call of the Wild comes next.”
“That was one of my favorites.” I glanced at my watch. “Have to go.”
I saw Sunny as I staked out my table. She spent her days at the library and her nights on the streets. I recognized her because she always wore pants beneath her skirts. And purple sneakers. I lifted a hand. She waved.
I opened my phone and checked my schedule so I would know who to expect.
Brian.
He slouched into the chair across from me ten minutes late. “Sorry.” His parents would still have to pay me for the full hour. I’d written that into my contract.
As if he’d changed his mind about his posture, he leaned forward and folded into himself instead.
“Do you have the test?” He was supposed to have taken a practice SAT since we’d met the week before.
He shook his head.
“Did you do the test?”
He nodded.
Terrific. I knew what his weaknesses were—they all had to do with reading comprehension—and we could work on those, but I really wanted to see that test. Then we’d know if any of the work we’d been doing had started to pay off.
“So you forgot it?”
“I didn’t bring it.”
“You didn’t bring it, but you didn’t forget it.” I thought about that for a moment. “Does that mean you didn’t bring it on purpose?” Never try to joust with a lawyer-in-training.
He nodded again.
“Why?”
“What’s the point?” I could hardly hear him. And the library was relatively quiet.
“The point was to work smarter, not just harder. You don’t want to waste your time—”
“I’m not going to get into college anyway.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I can’t get into any college worth going to with a score of 1000.”
“Hey.” I reached out and shook his flannel-shirted forearm, trying to let him know I cared without violating the bro code. A teardrop fell onto the table in front of him.
“Brian?”
He pulled his arm from my grasp and swiped at his eye, then crossed his arms as he shifted away from me.
“Do you know what the average SAT score is?” I asked. “It’s about 1050.”
He scoffed. “That would get me into the University of Nowheresville, USA. If my parents didn’t kill me first.”
“But the point is, you already have 1000. And I think we can boost your score by at least 100 points. That would be well above average.”
“Maybe in your family, but everyone in mine goes to Notre Dame. Or Cornell or Dartmouth.”
“There are hundreds—thousands—of universities in the country.”
“But only about ten really count.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what my parents think.”
“Your parents aren’t the ones who will be going off to college next year.”
“Yeah, but what are they going to say to their friends? What kind of magnet are they going to put on their car?”
I wanted to shake him.
He took a swipe at his eyes again. “All of this practice stuff I’ve been doing? It’s not even helping. I did worse on the English and the reading than I did last time.”
“If I could see the test, then I could help you figure out what—”
“No one can help me.”
“With 1000, it’s true: you’re not getting into Dartmouth. But the number of people who get into Dartmouth is just a tiny portion of one percent of the population. Do you actually want to go to Dartmouth?”
“No.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “Then where do you want to go?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. If I don’t get into one of those ‘reach’ schools, then I won’t be able to get into the right grad school, and if I don’t get into the right grad school, then I might as well not even live. Because what’s the point?” He stood up, rubbed a fist against his eye, and then grabbed his backpack.
“Sit down. Because I have something to say to you that I would never tell your parents. Do you want to hear it?”
He put a hand to the table, hesitated for a moment, and then sat back down.
“College is your choice, not theirs. You’re the one who’s going to be going there. You’re the one who’s going to have to do the work. I know your parents only want the absolute best for your future. That’s why they’re pushing so hard.”
He lowered his backpack to the floor.
“And you’ve done some hard work too. So here’s your homework for next week. I want you to find three schools that will take you with an 1100. And not just three schools that will take you, but three schools that you really want to attend. Can you do that?”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“’Kay.”
“And one other thing.”
He waited for me to speak.
“I also want you to tell me five things you like about each one. Got it?”
He nodded. “You want me to bring the test too?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” His spine had started to straighten while I’d been speaking. His shoulders were relaxing.
I had the feeling he’d been sabotaging himself. Subconsciously, maybe he was trying to make sure he wouldn’t disappoint his parents by ensuring, from the outset, that he wouldn’t get into an Ivy. I’d seen it before. Ivies were a lot of pressure. Some students dealt with it by taking the possibility off the table. He probably wasn’t going to get into one, even if he did his best on the test; I wasn’t a magician. But if he could find a school he really wanted to get into, then maybe the motivation would convince him to stop throwing obstacles in front of himself.
I watched him as he jogged down the stairs to the ground floor.
Why did we put so much pressure on kids, requiring them to be perfect? And why couldn’t I follow my own advice? Why did I force myself to keep reaching, keep pushing? Why could I not just admit to myself I didn’t have it all? That I might not ever get it? And maybe that
was okay?
As I sifted through my notes for my next student, someone slid into the empty seat across from me.
My heart thumped in my chest.
“Hi. Sorry. Do you mind if I ask you a question?” He was whispering.
The man wasn’t holding a gun. He wasn’t a killer. But he also wasn’t Zach, my next appointment. Zach had long hair. The guy across from me didn’t. And he was older. I could tell by the lines on his forehead.
“Uh—no.” I paused. Swallowed. “That’s fine. But I have a student coming.”
“Great. Thanks.” He was wearing a pair of chinos and a plaid button-down shirt. “You’re a coach? For those college tests?”
I nodded.
“Could I get your contact information?” He pulled out a phone.
“I’m sorry?” I could hardly hear him.
He raised his phone. “Your number? I have a niece who’s looking for someone and—”
“I’m not taking any more students right now. I’m sorry.” I got asked that question at least once a week. I was booked up until the ACT test in September. After that, I was hoping to be employed as a lawyer somewhere.
“Is there anyone else you can recommend?”
I gave him the name of the test prep company I used to work for.
He entered it into his phone and then stood, lifted his phone. “Thanks.” And then he left me as I swiped at the cold perspiration that had broken out above my lip and tried to slow the arrhythmic thumping of my heart.
Chapter 11
After my last student, I scootered to the Blue Dog to pick up my things and then scootered home. The sun had already sunk behind the taller buildings; the streets were growing shadows. I left the scooter on the sidewalk and walked up to the house. Mrs. Harper’s car wasn’t in the driveway. I couldn’t remember what she said she had planned for the day. I’d give her a call later, once I heard her come in upstairs.
With a glance or two over my shoulder, I walked around to the backyard and quickly let myself in. Leaving my backpack on the couch, I went into my bedroom and pulled a sweater on.
I soon heard the click of heels on the wooden floorboards above my head.
Mrs. Harper.
I grabbed an apple, dug a book out of my bag, and got ready to study.
Taking a bite, I went to close the mini blinds on the door to the apartment. As they slid down, one of the last rays of the setting sun backlit the window, highlighting the pollen smudges on the panes. I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: a handprint.
A big one.
My heart rolled once.
Twice.
I put a hand up to the window. Forcing my trembling fingers apart, I held them up to the print.
The ghostly hand stretched way past mine.
I tried to swallow the bite of apple that I’d taken, but the jagged bits stuck in my throat. My mouth turned sour.
For the fourth time that day, I forced myself to stay calm. To be rational. Mrs. Harper had asked a cleaning crew to tidy up the apartment before I’d moved in. Maybe it had been one of them. Maybe it had happened when they’d cleaned the window and I just hadn’t noticed it before.
Or maybe it was the lawn care company that took care of the yard. Maybe they were the ones who had knocked over my impatiens too.
I put a finger to the handprint and tried to smudge the edges. It didn’t work.
It was on the outside.
I twisted the blinds shut, withdrew my hand, fisted it, and pulled it up into the sleeve of my sweater. I stepped away from the door and took refuge by the bar. But the longer I thought of that handprint, the bigger it seemed to get.
The thing about that door is that it wasn’t any sturdier than the typical closet door. And the window was so close to the door handle that if anyone really wanted to get in, all they had to do was smash the window, reach in, and— I pivoted to the bar top, grabbed my phone with a trembling hand, and dialed Mrs. Harper.
“Whitney?”
“Hey. Hi. It’s me. I was just wondering,” my voice stalled. I swallowed and tried again. “When I came down last night, that planter of impatiens you gave me was knocked off the wall.”
“I’m so sorry!”
“Do you know what happened?”
“Me? No.”
“Was the landscape crew here yesterday?”
“No. They can’t come until the weekend. I wonder if it was that awful wind we had. Or one of those foxes we’ve been seeing.”
I hadn’t thought of the foxes, but they were wary. They always stayed close to the back fence. I didn’t want to worry Mrs. Harper with peeping Toms or would-be intruders though. I didn’t want her to have another heart attack. “I’m sure it must have been.”
“Oh! I’ve been looking all day for that package that came for you, but I still haven’t been able to find it. And everything’s a mess with all my packing. Don’t tell my daughter. She’ll think my memory’s slipping.”
The package. I’d forgotten about that. “Are you sure it was addressed to me?”
“That’s what he said.”
He? The hairs at the back of my neck began to rise. “Who said?” I’d made sure no one knew I lived here. I’d dumped my cell phone plan in favor of a no-contract option. I took advantage of free Wi-Fi wherever I could. Mrs. Harper paid all the utilities. I didn’t have insurance on anything, except through work.
“He did.”
“Who did?”
“The man who delivered it.”
“He asked for me? Specifically?”
“Yes. You’re the one it’s addressed to.”
Of course. He’d only been reading the address.
“He was a very nice young man.”
“How so? How long did you talk to him?”
“I asked him to come in for a glass of water. It was so hot. And it seemed like he could have used something to drink.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday? No. It was the day before. Just before supper. Before you got home.”
The day before yesterday had been a Sunday. “You invited him into the house?”
“He was very nice.”
Her daughter most definitely would not have approved.
“You didn’t tell him anything about me, did you?”
“I told him you were a nice young woman. Very kind.”
“Did you tell him about our arrangement?”
“About how you take such good care of me? Of course I did!”
“And that I lived downstairs?”
“I don’t know. Possibly? I may have mentioned it.”
She probably had. “Let me come up and help you look for it. Can you leave the deck light on for me?”
I made sure the door was locked before I ran up to the house just as fast as I could.
Mrs. Harper was waiting for me at the kitchen door. She waved me through. “Quickly! Before the moths come in.” They were already circling the deck light in frantic loops. Mrs. Harper was wringing her hands. “I’m so sorry I can’t find it.”
I helped her look for it. We scoured the living room and the kitchen for at least ten minutes. We checked the front hall. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere.
“I can’t believe I lost it!”
“Did you sign for it?”
“Did I?” She paused for a moment. Put a finger to her lips. “I must have. That’s why he didn’t just leave it on the porch, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it actually had to be my signature. Maybe he took it with him.”
“I can’t remember. He rang the bell. It was good timing. I’d just gotten home. I opened the door. He explained about the package. He asked if I had some water.”
Wait a second. “He asked you for water? Or you asked him if he wanted some?”
“I did. Or he did. I don’t quite remember how it went. But I asked him in.”
“How long was he here?”
“Five minutes?”
“Do you remember what kind of van he dro
ve?” He had to have been driving something. If it was a big brown van, then it had to be UPS. If it was white, then it was probably FedEx.
“I didn’t see any van.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Gray? Gray. A gray shirt. Or maybe it was a gray suit.”
“Was it a uniform?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see where he went when he left?”
“I didn’t.” She was holding a hand to her chest. And her voice was tremulous. The whole incident was suspicious, but I didn’t want her to get worked up over it. More than anything, she needed to stay calm.
“They’ll probably just try to deliver it again. No worries. Let me know if you find it. Or if you need anything.” I thanked her and raced back down to my apartment. Stepped over the spot where the planter had shattered.
That planter was bothering me even more.
It didn’t take much imagination to picture what might have happened. Only one scenario made sense. That planter was heavy. And it had been tipped from the wall into the stairwell. How could that have happened? If someone had climbed over that wall to hide under the deck. And then crawled back out.
I made sure the door was locked behind me. I glanced over into my living area and made sure the small slit of a window above the leather couch was locked. I grabbed some tall books from the stack in my bedroom and leaned them up against the glass to block the view.
I locked myself in my windowless bedroom and then I called the detective.
Chapter 12
“Whitney Garrison. From the coffee shop, right? You okay?”
As I sat on the floor between the bed and the wall, I explained to him about the mysterious package.
“So you’re worried about what?”
“I’m worried about all of it. What if someone talked his way into Mrs. Harper’s to check out the house? Take a look around?”
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