The other students paused at their easels to gaze upon the excitement.
Hemp was a teeny bit melodramatic. It came from his mother, who had A) named him Hemp and B) told me, with tears in her eyes, that when her husband bought her a blue BMW for her thirtieth, she thought her heart might break into a million little pieces because she specifically told him she wanted silver.
I seized on the chance for Another Teachable Moment. “Let’s talk about this. Class, can you crisscross applesauce, hands on your lap?”
They collapsed to the floor like rump-shot dogs, as my grandfather would have said, legs crossed, hands clasped.
“Grace, would you please tell me what happened?” I asked.
“I was painting and he took my brush,” she said, her eyebrows nearly touching. She was gifted at the art of scowl, that was for sure.
“I did not! You were a green paint hog! You don’t share, Grace! You don’t!”
“Hemp, please, honey, wait your turn. Grace, how did it make you feel when Hemp took the brush?”
“Mad!”
“Why, sweetheart?”
“Because I was painting and he made me stop and he didn’t even ask!”
“So you were having fun using the green paint,” I offered. “And all of a sudden, you couldn’t paint anymore, and it was a surprise that Hemp took the brush away.”
“Yes. A very bad surprise.”
I squashed a smile. “Okay. Thank you for telling us about your feelings, Grace.” Vocalizing emotions fell under the social development part of our program.
I turned to Hemp and dabbed his tears. “And Hemp, how did you feel when you saw Grace using the green paint? Before you decided to take the brush.”
“I felt happy because I liked her painting, and I wanted mine to look like that, too.” Imitation, the sincerest form of flattery. His lower lip stuck out adorably.
“Oh, did you hear that, Grace? Your painting made Hemp feel happy! That’s a nice thing to say, Hemp. But you did grab her brush and yank it away. Why did you do that, when we all know we should ask for our turn?”
His eyes filled up again, and I gave his hand a little squeeze. “It’s okay, honey,” I said. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s what we do afterward that matters.”
He sucked in a shaky breath. “I was afraid all the green paint would be gone. And I would never ever have a turn.”
“Green is your favorite color, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes. My most, most favorite.”
“Can you think of another way to get a turn with green paint?” We had it by the bucket, but I was seeing if he could use some common-sense logic.
The class was rapt.
“No,” he said. “Because Grace doesn’t share.”
“I do, too!”
“Class?” I said. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Silvi’s arm shot up, as did Charlotte’s, Grace’s sister, and the hands of Nash and Cash. “Silvi?”
“He could say, ‘Grace, would you please let me borrow the green paint before it’s all gone?’”
“Very good, Silvi. Charlotte?”
“He could say, ‘Grace, please share with me.’”
“That’s a great idea. Don’t you think, Hemp? Cash, how about you, honey? What would you say?”
“I would say, ‘Grace, I love your painting and will you help me make mine green, too?’” Empathy and conversation reframing, both very advanced skills in conversation. Cash was such a sweetie.
“Excellent, Cash. Nash?”
“That’s what I was going to say,” Nash said.
“Very good. I like those ideas,” I said. “So let’s try this again, Grace and Hemp. Gracie, pretend you’re painting, and Hemp, you ask her nicely if she’ll share.”
“Grace, you make the best paintings and I love green, it’s my favorite color and I want a turn to use some green, so can I have a turn? Please?”
“That was very nice, Hemp. Grace, what would you say to that?”
She stared at me stonily for a second, then spoke. “I would say, ‘You can have a turn when I’m done.’”
“And would you also say thank you, since Hemp said something so nice about your paintings?”
“I would,” she said solemnly. “I would say, “‘Thank you, Hemp, it’s because I like to paint and I practice painting at home all the time.’”
I smiled. “Very good. And Hemp? What would you say next?”
“I would say, ‘Please don’t use all the green paint.’”
“And then I would say, ‘I won’t because I do so know how to share, and also, we have a million green paints and you could just ask Miss Georgia for your own.’” Another scowl, but she’d brought up the logical solution, which was tough for kids this age.
“Of course you know how to share, and you’re right, Grace. We do have lots of paint.” I sat back on my heels, beyond pleased. “So, class, this is a reminder to use our words, not our hands. And also, when someone understands how we feel, they’re more likely to be kind. Good job, Grace and Hemp! You both get happy stickers on your papers for using your words so well. Okay, let’s finish up those paintings, because it’s almost time for our story.”
I went to my computer and pulled up Bach’s Cello Suites for a calming influence. Grace handed the green paint to Hemp and even smiled at him.
“Nice way to turn that around,” said Lissie, my student teacher.
“Thanks,” I said. I added a happy goat sticker to Grace’s behavior sheet and wrote, Used her words very well in expressing her feelings. Improvement on sharing. Put a smiling sun sticker on Cash’s sheet and wrote a comment praising his diplomacy and kindness. For Hemp was a smiling dog sticker. Good job verbalizing his feelings after grabbing a paintbrush from another student. Able to express admiration for her skill. A month ago, Hemp had drizzled black paint over one of Grace’s masterpieces, so this was a step in the right direction.
I snuck a peek at my phone. This morning—the third morning in a row—I’d reminded Mason he was due to check something off his list, since running (or hobbling) in a sports bra had been checked off mine. No reply just yet.
Am eagerly awaiting a list update, I wrote. You’ve got this. I believe in you. I stuck in a unicorn emoji for good luck, then went to check on Silvi and Rose, who were playing librarian most adorably.
“Miss Sloane?”
It was Mr. Trombley, the head of the school, leaning in from the hallway. He got my name right! He was staring at the kids, frowning, almost like he wondered why they were here. He deemed children noisy and sticky, which, to his credit, was mostly true. “Can I see you for a moment?”
“Of course. Lissie, I’ll be right back.”
There was a smear of green paint on my skirt. No worries, since everything I owned could be tossed in the washer and dryer. No cashmere or silk for me. We walked in silence down the hall to his office/nap room.
“Sit down, sit down,” Mr. Trombley said, ushering me in. “It’s come to my attention that we need a new director of curriculum.”
The last director of curriculum was the woman who’d hired me, and she’d been gone a year. In fact, I’d lobbied for the job last spring, since I already did much of the curriculum development. Mr. Trombley had told me they were looking for someone with a different skill set but failed to elaborate on what that was.
“Yes, I know,” I said. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to train the new person.
“Would you like the position?”
I jolted in my chair. “Really? Sure, I would love it!”
“Do you think you’re qualified?”
“Um . . . yes. Absolutely.” I’d also been qualified last spring. I had the degree in sociology from Princeton, a JD from Yale and a master’s in early childhood education from UNC. For the past three summers, I’d taken
workshops and day classes, too, quite a few of them on curriculum development.
“Good,” he said. “All set, then.”
I started to get up, then sat back down.
“Will there be a raise in line with my new duties?” I asked.
“Of course.” I got the impression there wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t asked. “We want to keep you at St. Luke’s for as long as possible, Miss Sloane.” He smiled, revealing his brownish teeth. “Eight thousand more a year.”
Eight? Eight? Last year, I’d asked for a $1,500 raise—my first such request at St. Luke’s—and been told there wasn’t enough money in the budget.
Our budget hadn’t changed since then. Guess he’d been lying.
“Twelve,” I said.
“Ten.”
I almost fell out of my chair. “Done.”
“Congratulations, Miss Sloane. My secretary will e-mail you the necessary documents and deadlines. If you don’t mind, write up a press release for the website and parent newsletter.”
“I will. Thank you so much, sir.”
As I walked down the hallway back to the class, my thoughts were a jumble.
Last spring, I’d been turned down for that very job and a nominal raise.
Last spring, I’d also weighed more. I even remembered what I wore to that meeting, because I’d dressed carefully that day, wearing a navy blue skirt from my lawyer days that cut into my stomach and a jacket that wouldn’t have stayed buttoned if I’d taken a deep breath.
Now, I’d just been given a raise, a promotion, and Mr. Trombley had gotten my name right for the first time. Nothing had changed since April . . . except my size.
I turned around and went back into his office. He looked up at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Yes, Miss Sloane?”
“Does this promotion have anything to do with my weight, sir?”
He didn’t answer, but it seemed to get a little chillier all of a sudden. “Are you implying that St. Luke’s has engaged in discriminatory practices, Miss Sloane?” His words were clipped.
“No, sir. Of course not.” Employment discrimination law flashed through my brain. No one at the school had ever treated me differently than the other teachers. I’d never asked for special accommodations because of my size, and I’d never needed to.
But still.
“I’m just wondering why I was turned down last year for the promotion and a raise, and I got both now.” My heart beat hard in my chest. Even bringing this up was hard for someone who usually preferred invisibility.
He didn’t answer for a moment, just fiddled with the fountain pen he always used. “Perhaps you should just be grateful that present conditions at St. Luke’s allow us to, ah, recognize your gifts, Miss Sloane.”
I looked him in the eye for a long moment. “Good.”
With that, I went back to my classroom, feeling a little bit proud of myself. At least it hadn’t been left unsaid. At least he knew it hadn’t slipped my notice.
After school let out, I went home, clipped the leash on Admiral and walked over to Cambry-on-Hudson High. The cross-country team practiced every day, the poor lambs, and I wanted to see Mason with his teammates. He’d run in two meets already, finishing dead last but smiling. Thankfully, Hunter hadn’t come to those due to work conflicts. Last place for his son was not something I could see him accepting with grace.
There was Mason, still heartbreakingly thin, his skin white as skim milk, like mine. He was talking to another boy, also skinny—most of the team was, however.
When he saw Admiral and me, he said something to the other kid, then trotted over. “Hey, you guys!” He knelt down and petted Ad, who gave his chin one dignified lick.
“How’s it going?”
“Great! Christian was just giving me some stretching tips.”
“He’s the captain, right?”
“Yep. Guess what, G?” He glanced around to ensure no one was in hearing distance. “I talked to her!”
“Adele?”
“Yes! And she’s a girl and everything. Not just a girl, but the girl.”
“Oh, my God, that’s great! What did you say?”
Another glance. “I said . . .” He grinned, making me wait.
“What? Tell me.”
“I said . . . ‘Could you pass the ketchup, please?’” His face was filled with utter joy.
“That’s brilliant! Did she say anything?”
“She did! She said . . . ‘Sure!’ Like, in this really happy, nice way, too.”
“Oh, honey, that’s great.”
“And then I said, ‘Thanks.’ Probably too much, do you think?”
“No! No, it just shows you have nice manners. Mason, I’m so proud of you.”
A middle-aged man came over wearing a shirt emblazoned with COH XC. “Hi! Are you Mason’s mother?” he asked.
“His aunt,” I said.
“We’re so happy to have him on the team. He gets better every day. Such a nice kid, too. Great attitude.”
“Thanks, Coach!” Mason said. “Now, if I could just finish a race without walking . . .”
“Oh, that’ll come soon enough,” the coach said. “I’m not even worried.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Coach Davis. Nice to meet you. Did I see you at a meet or two?”
“Yes. Georgia Sloane.” We shook hands.
He smiled, his kind face worn from hours in the sun. “Okay, Mason, back to practice. Have a great day,” he added to me.
They went off. Mason looked over his shoulder and waved.
I waved back, wishing abruptly that I was Mason’s mother. I loved him more than anything. Leah would’ve been proud of her boy. I knew that with all my heart.
As I turned to leave, I almost bumped into someone. “Sorry,” I said.
It was my brother. “Oh. Hunter. Hey.”
He glanced down at Admiral, who lifted his lip just enough to show his teeth. That saying about dogs reading people?
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Just taking the dog for a walk. Thought I’d see how Mason’s doing.”
“He strained his Achilles tendon. Stupid coaches didn’t have him warm up enough.”
“I think the coaches are pretty great.”
“Well, you don’t know anything about running, do you?”
He had me there.
“No, but I just chatted with his coach, and he had only nice things to say about Mason.”
“Really?” For once, my brother’s tone wasn’t dripping with condescension.
“Yeah. He mentioned how his times are improving, and what a great attitude he has.”
“His times need improving.” But it wasn’t said with as much rancor as most of his sentences were. He looked at the ground for a minute, perhaps pondering what great attitude meant.
“He’s a great kid, Hunter.”
“I know, George. Jesus. I don’t need a spinster giving me parenting advice.”
“Okay. Good to see you,” I lied.
“Did you know Mason went out with Dad the other night?” Hunter asked abruptly. “After that race?”
“Yes. I did.”
“I thought he was going with his friends. Guess he still doesn’t have any. It’d be better for him if you’d stop hanging around him. It doesn’t look good.”
He still could drive me to tears, my shithead brother. I thought of Leah and took a deep breath. “Well, for one, he’s making friends. Look at him right now.” Mason was laughing with some other kids. “And for two, Dad and I are his family, too, even if you hate us both. We love him. Don’t take that away.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
As ever, I was held hostage by my love for Mason where Hunter was concerned. “Okay. You have a good day.” I gathered Ad’s leash and turned to leave.
“You’ve lost weight, haven’t you?” he said, and I jerked to a stop. “It’s a start.”
I glanced back at him, but he’d already turned away, leaning on the fence, barking orders at Mason.
* * *
• • •
Marley was waiting for me when I got back to the house, holding a manila envelope. “You need to see this,” she said. “You got one, too.” She handed me mine.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Have a seat and open it.”
“Okay, okay.” I closed the gate and sat at the little iron table in the courtyard. “The garden looks great, by the way,” I said.
“Thanks. Read it.” She was buzzing with energy, but her eyes were suspiciously red.
I opened the envelope, which was from a lawyer’s office in Delaware. My mouth opened as I saw the document.
Last Will & Testament of Emerson Lydia Duval
“Oh, God,” I said.
Emerson had left us her house.
And, according to the stock portfolio summary, a total of $3.2 million.
There was a note in her pretty handwriting, too.
Dear Georgia and Marley,
Surprise! You’re my heirs. Which, unfortunately, means I’m dead.
I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about this. I guess I thought I’d have more time, but on my last visit to the ER, the doctor told me I was in trouble, so I had to get this done. Don’t be sad. Well, don’t be too sad. Be just sad enough, and then cheer up, okay? I hate picturing you guys crying over me. It makes me cry, too. If there are splotches on this paper, now you know why.
I think you knew that my mom never had to work because of getting a big inheritance from my shitty grandfather. On top of that, when my dad died, he left half of his life insurance to me, so that explains all this money.
I should’ve done more with it. I was waiting for life to really start.
You’ve been such good friends all these years. I’m so sorry I didn’t see you more. Even though I knew you’d be so nice about it, I didn’t want you to know how big I am.
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