by Eva Robinson
Go away, Jerry. Mentally, she was still on the testing disaster, and she struggled to shift gears. She blinked, trying to orient herself, and pulled her well-worn trick of repeating a word to buy time. “Upset.”
Jerry sighed and dropped into the chair. He steepled his fingers. “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”
Hannah stole a glance at herself in the reflection of the silver picture frame. Dark circles under her eyes gave her a haunted look, and her brown hair had ballooned with an unfortunate frizz.
“I’m fine.” Lie. “Sorry, what was the problem?”
“Hugo’s mom is very upset. He called her and said you didn’t have time for him this morning. Apparently, you made him feel that he wasn’t important enough for your time. And she wants the report. And she said you hung up on her.”
Hannah nodded. “Yes. I’m working at that now.”
Jerry tilted his head, squinting. “It’s probably better if you do those at home, to free up more time during the day for the students. So they don’t feel ignored.”
Something hot and angry was rising in Hannah now, and her hands tightened around her coffee cup. It would probably be better, Jerry, if the district hired the appropriate number of psychologists.
Jerry pulled out his phone and frowned at it. “Uh-oh. Okay. I gave Hugo’s mom my cell number, and she’s texting me that he’s gone AWOL. He’s left school, walking around Cambridge. So… you know… this is why we have to make time for crises.”
Hannah swallowed hard.
Hugo had done this before. It was a power tactic. Do what I say, or I’ll get you in trouble.
Hannah’s mind started to go blank, fragmenting. She couldn’t figure out which situation to handle first.
Jerry stared at her over the rims of his glasses. “Is something going on at home, Hannah? It must not be easy being a single mom.”
Go away. Go. Away. “Just a toddler sleep regression. I have everything under control.” But she could feel the panic rising. “I’ve never been late to a meeting, or late with a report. However, we have only half the number of psychologists we’re supposed to have.”
“The last one seemed to do fine with the caseload. Here at Woodhurst Charter Schools, we strive for excellence through hard work.”
The last psychologist had lasted a year. They all lasted a year.
Jerry grimaced, holding up his cell phone and shaking it a little. “It’s just, I’ve been getting a lot of calls.”
Her skin seemed hot and cold at the same time. “Is this really the best use of our time right now, Jerry?” It came out sounding sharp and angry.
She’d been an idiot not to hold out for a job in the public schools.
“You should send Hugo’s mom the report.”
At that, Hannah’s mind seemed to go blank, like white noise was playing over her thoughts. She felt herself rise, her hands shaking. Then a high-pitched noise started threading through the buzz. It was like she was watching from an outside perspective as she snatched her jacket and bag. From a far distance, she heard herself say, “Find a new psychologist.”
She couldn’t hear what Jerry was saying in response over that piercing noise. She only knew that she was walking to the door, down the corridor, and that she’d never come back—even if it meant she’d just completely ruined her career for good.
Four
Hannah stood at her kitchen table chopping spring onions, wondering if this day would have gone differently if she’d had the foresight to eat breakfast.
Normally, her cozy little apartment was her refuge. Dark wood floors, sleek grey-white tile on the kitchen walls, white cabinets. She’d hung little twinkling white lights around the doorways so it looked cheerful at night.
During the day, Nora tottered around cheerfully pointing at things. “That’s a spoon! That’s not an apple. That’s a banana!” Before bed, they had stories. Every picture was a revelation to Nora. “That’s a ladybug! That’s a hippo!” Her excitement was infectious.
But right now, this cozy home felt something like a prison.
No, it was worse than that.
For some reason, Hannah had a vague sense that someone was trying to mess with her life. To ruin it. But how could that be? She was the one who had chosen to quit her job. She had no one else to blame.
One thing at a time, Hannah. First, she was going to make herself an omelet, and then rethink the situation with a full stomach. She yanked open the fridge door, then pulled out a bag of spinach, eggs, and Gruyère. The familiar routine of preparing a meal was helping to smother some of her panic.
Hannah cracked three eggs into a bowl, then whisked them and tried not to think about her student loans or the rent that was due. She’d found Hugo’s results at home, but it was too late. It seemed Jerry had been just waiting for the opportunity to give her job to one of his wife’s friends from Pilates.
Hannah poured the beaten eggs into the pan, silently cursing herself for screwing this up. While the omelet cooked, she gripped the spatula with a ferocity that she feared might dent it.
One thing at a time. That was what she always told her students. Break it all up, tackle one thing at a time.
What would she advise one of her students? Make a plan.
She slid the omelet onto a plate. She’d have to enjoy it, because soon she’d be on the value brand cheese.
As she ate, she looked up at the little family photo of her, Nora, and Luke standing in a park in Concord. She and Nora were looking directly into each other’s eyes, both smiling. They weren’t exactly a real family, but it was the closest she had.
Nora had been the result of a one-night stand with her best friend, Luke. They’d known each other since undergrad at BU. She’d always just been one of the guys. Then, one drunken Saturday after a night of dancing, they’d accidentally created another human while listening to Daft Punk in Luke’s apartment.
Throughout the pregnancy, she’d been sure it was the biggest mistake of her life. But as soon as Nora was born, that changed. She never regretted Nora—not even through her recovery from the birth, or the screaming colic phase, or the sleep regressions. To Hannah, Nora was a complete delight, and she was always happiest with her daughter in her arms.
But she did regret one thing. A year ago, Luke had asked her if they might be more than friends. Specifically, he’d asked her if she wanted to be his date to some Harvard function. She’d told him no. And that was the part she was starting to regret. She’d just been so worn out at the time, and she’d felt so unsexy, that romance seemed off the table.
She took another bite of the omelet. Perfectly salted and with just the right amount of cheese, it practically melted in her mouth.
Luke was still her closest friend, the person she went to in all her moments of panic. She sometimes wondered if she was losing her mind completely, and Luke always reassured her.
She pulled out her phone to call him.
He picked up after three rings. “Hannah!”
“Hey, Luke. Are you busy?”
“Just working. What’s up? Is Nora okay?”
“Nora’s fine.” She felt her eyes sting. She was always so close to tears these days, especially when someone made her feel comforted. “Not sleeping a ton, but fine.”
“Yeah, she didn’t sleep a lot at my place this weekend. It was brutal. I’m not sure how you get through five days of that.”
“Yeah. That’s not why I called, though. I sort of… impulsively quit my job. I walked out, leaving them with two meetings to cover, and Jerry’s already hired his friend.”
“You walked out? In May?”
“I know. I only had six weeks left. But I just snapped. I thought I lost a student’s test results, and I couldn’t think of how to fix the situation in time. You know how I was really on top of everything in September? That is no longer the case. At all. Honestly, Luke, sometimes I’m worried I’m losing my mind, and I won’t be able to take care of Nora.”
“That job was insane, Hanna
h. It’s not you. You lasted twice as long as every other psychologist they hired. It’s their loss, really.”
“I just have to figure out what to do next. I don’t suppose the book I plan to write will make me a millionaire until I actually write it.”
“You have plenty of options, Annie.”
She loved when he called her that. “You think?”
“I’m sure there are plenty of districts that need coverage. School psychologists are always getting pregnant.”
He wasn’t wrong about that. “True. But I won’t have any references. Jerry must think I had a nervous breakdown. I’d have to leave the last two years blank on my resumé.”
“Schools get desperate, so you’ll find something.” She heard him suck in a breath. “I think that came out wrong.”
She smiled. “No, you’re right. Desperation is what I need.”
“And then some day, you’ll write your book.”
“I guess I could do some private testing, try to build a client base. It seems to be mostly word of mouth for recommendations, but I’ll see if I can get started somewhere.” She chewed her lip. “But sometimes I get the sense that it’s easiest to get a foot in the door if you’re willing to just make up a diagnosis so a high schooler can get extended time on the college boards.”
“I think you’re making it sound more nefarious than it is. When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail, right? Psychologists are looking for something wrong, so they find it. And the worst that can happen is kids have time to finish the math problems instead of being rushed. You know what? That is pretty terrible. I’m going to speak to Theo about adding a chapter to our Psychology of Evil book about it. What kind of twisted mind allows kids to finish their tests?”
Hannah had to smile. “Well, I guess you two are the experts.” Luke was a brilliant moral psychology researcher, and he worked with the famous Theo Leigh. Theo never failed to mention his New York Times bestseller status, or his appearance on Oprah years ago. Now, he and Luke were working on a book about how anyone could turn evil given the right conditions. Any person—no matter how functional and ethical—could slip over the border between human and monster, if the environment were right.
“Hannah?”
“Sorry, I zoned out for a second. Luke, I don’t know how to describe this. But I’m starting to feel paranoid. Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched. But it’s more like—when I’m awake in the middle of the night, I have this weird certainty that someone’s poisoned me and that’s why I can’t sleep. Like I’ve been drugged with cocaine.”
“That is some serious insomnia, I won’t lie.”
“I know how that sounds. If I have a complete psychotic breakdown, promise me you’ll look after Nora.”
“Annie. You’re not going to have a complete psychotic breakdown. Everyone has trouble functioning without enough sleep. We both know this. You need less stress, and you found a way to make that happen by quitting your job. And I don’t want you to worry about the money too much right now. I can help you cover your rent for a while. So just forget about that stress, okay?”
Relief flooded her. “Well, I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity. Like you said, I’ll find something soon.” God, he was amazing sometimes. “Anyway, thanks, Luke.”
“Tonight, you should just relax. Watch some dumb TV. I can bring you over more of my homemade wine. I think this batch came out really nicely.”
“It’s always good, Luke. Highlight of my day.” She could hear “Moonlight Sonata” playing in the background, familiar and soothing. She wished she was near him.
“Um, Hannah? I wanted to ask you about this weekend. Are you busy?”
She felt a strange spark of hope. Was he going to ask her out again?
“This weekend?” She smiled. “I’m free. What did you have in mind?”
He paused before answering. “Oh, good. Because I have plans for Saturday night, so I’m wondering if you can keep Nora for the night. And I can maybe take her Sunday and Monday.”
Her stomach fell. “Yeah, of course. Anything fun?”
“Just cooking at my place with a… a friend.”
Suddenly, she regretted the rich food she’d just eaten. She felt a bit sick. A date, then. He had a date—and he didn’t want to tell her about it, which was somehow way worse.
Never had she regretted turning him down more.
Five
When she hung up the phone, disappointment curdled her stomach.
No, it was pure, searing jealousy. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how she actually felt about Luke. She should have told him yes a year ago.
Of course she wanted to be more than friends. Luke was undeniably handsome—tall, with blue eyes and dark hair. He was smart and patient, and the dorky cat sweaters he wore only added to his charm. He was probably way out of her league, even if they were best friends.
She opened Instagram, hoping to find out who his date was. Maybe she’d find a picture of him out canoeing with a woman who had a perfectly taut stomach, a stomach that had never stretched out to accommodate another human.
Vaguely, she wondered if he was in a fancy hotel, with the sonata playing in the background. Maybe he was waiting for his glamorous lover right now.
His Instagram photos were the usual—the mint he was growing, a picture of his cat, the sunset over the Charles River. No gorgeous, flat-stomached girlfriend.
She scrolled through her feed, letting her mind go blank. This was what she did to relax—looking at photos of the wide world outside her tiny apartment. Places she’d visit if she ever had the money and the freedom.
There were the photos of Norwegian fjords in the sun, and English gardens streaming with sunlight. German botanical gardens. Leafy tables in Palestine set with bowls of berries and wildflowers. Golden buildings in Oxford.
She particularly liked the photos of people reading in the sun in gardens or library nooks. She’d started her own Instagram book blog, and she hoped to put it to use when she finally wrote her book. She posted entirely wholesome images: cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows, croissants next to an open book, wildflowers growing along a riverbank with a pile of novels.
As she scrolled, a photo popped up of Rowan Harris, her former high school friend who’d become an early Instagram star. Hannah loved Rowan’s photos—and hated them in equal measure. She loved them because they were pure escapism. Rowan took sexy selfies in the most elegant backgrounds in Europe: strolling through Parisian gardens or past medieval buildings in Edinburgh, sailing in Boston Harbor in a striped sailor shirt. She lounged in windowsills in nothing but perfectly rumpled shirts, like she’d just woken up at a boyfriend’s apartment and he’d brought her coffee. She strode across the Harvard campus while male students turned their heads to gape at her shapely legs. She had a signature look: dark brown curly bob, full red lips, eyeliner swooping like Sophia Loren.
In the newest picture, Rowan glowed, her high cheekbones sparkling. Ruddy light sparked in her eyes, and she held up a champagne flute that glittered like pale honey. Blurry dots of light dappled vines in the background. It looked like the most perfect garden party in the world.
It seemed Rowan was celebrating the completion of her second book.
And there it was—the thing that marked them as members of the same elite tribe: the delicate gold fleur-de-lis bracelet. An ache grew in Hannah’s chest. This was the life she wanted.
And that was why she dreaded Rowan’s photos as much as she loved them.
With over a million followers, Rowan could net thousands of dollars for each sponsored ad. And it wasn’t even like Rowan needed any of that money. Her father was a real estate developer—a multimillionaire.
For just a moment, another flare of jealousy seared Hannah, so hot she could almost hear it hissing like water on coals.
She clicked on one of Rowan’s photos—a promotional one where she wore sheer red lipstick.
Beautiful as her new posts were, the
really stunning ones were the older ones—the old, sun-soaked photos from her days at Harvard, lying out on the grass in a cute dress. The whimsical photo of her blowing on a dandelion puff. There were always one or two chisel-jawed, preppy guys in the background.
It had been Rowan’s year abroad in Paris that had kicked off her career big-time. She’d found herself a glamorous boyfriend—a famous literary writer named Marc. What followed was a series of sleek photos: at the tables of Parisian cafés, balconies with the Eiffel Tower in the background, Rowan draped in a lacy gown with the rising sun behind her.
As Hannah pored over the older photos, it struck her what she loved the most about them. The older ones had the most magic, a sense of the unexpected. In one, Rowan stood before a medieval sundial painted on a sandstone wall. In another, she was in front of a wooden door carved with the head of Medusa, the setting sun, bathing the whole scene in peach.
The photos were full of possibility—something Hannah desperately needed. Rowan could go anywhere, could meet anyone.
The new ones seemed slightly… unhappier. A newer caption read, Forgetting the haters for today. Indulging in chocolate spread on my toast on the balcony.
Why would Rowan think about the “haters” at all? She was rich and beautiful; she couldn’t possibly care what they thought. What was that expression—wolves don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep?
People seemed to find plenty to criticize about Rowan, but the fact was that they were all watching, enraptured. Rowan was never boring.
“I want to be a freaking wolf,” said Hannah out loud.
It may have been the photos with Arabella that made Hannah feel the most inadequate. Arabella—the beautiful Harvard PhD candidate—who appeared next to Rowan, flaxen-haired and sexy, smart and gorgeous, with a certain fragility to her. The photos of her conveyed glamour and sadness all at once. She was like a Keats poem come to life.