Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  I suspect she fancies me as well. I mean, what could be more attractive than a twenty-four-year-old, divorced high school teacher with a two-year-old, a student-loan debt that rivals the GNP of any number of small nations, an efficiency apartment, and a six-year-old Civic with a crack in the windshield?

  “I’ve got Kiki,” I say.

  “Aaaah. Bring her too.”

  “So? What do you think?” Jennifer asks. “Juicy, huh?”

  Kiki is sitting on her knees and eating a yogurt parfait. I wrinkle my nose at her and she wrinkles hers back. I stack the pages neatly together and hand them across the table to Jen.

  “I think you’d better change the names and maybe a few other details, or someone’s going to sue your ass one day.”

  She laughs. “Ah, they’re just placeholders. Once I get the story down, I’ll run a global search and change all the names.”

  “So, is that stuff true? I mean, aren’t both Philip and Liz married. . . with children?”

  “That’s really sweet, Drew. You actually believe in that stuff, huh?” She flicks a bit of ice at me with her straw. “You know, if you’d ever come out of your classroom, you might learn all kinds of things. Like, for instance, that those two leave for lunch together every day. Every day. Different doors, different cars, but they follow each other out of the parking lot. Like that isn’t obvious.

  “And then last week, I went into Philip’s office to ask him to show me how to use Audacity. He was on the phone. So he says, ‘Gotta go. I’ll see you later. Love you.’ All that crap. So then he opens Audacity on his screen, and he’s showing me stuff, and a few seconds later this e-mail pops up in the corner from Liz. I’d have to be blind not to see it. And stupid not to add up two and two.

  “Trust me; they’re doing it. And everybody knows it.”

  I wonder if Philip Moore has any idea whatsoever that his colleagues are talking about him behind his back, that his little subterfuge is not nearly as covert as he thinks it is. He’s one of two technology liaisons on our campus, the go-to guy for everything software related, from converting YouTube video files to getting our contacts groups to show up in Outlook. Everybody knows him. It’s his job to respond to technology crises or last-minute queries about how to incorporate some little gizmo into a lesson.

  But even I’ve heard rumors that Liz Masters seems to have more crises and queries than most. Not that I care. What they do is their business.

  “So is this how you get your jollies?” I ask. “Speculating about what those two are doing in the backseat during their thirty-minute, duty-free lunch every day?”

  “It’s twenty-seven minutes now, and hey, a girl’s gotta get it somewhere,” she says coyly.

  I laugh lightly and pretend I don’t notice the subtle suggestion.

  She throws a quick glance at Kiki. “So,” she says, “are you going to the Christmas party Saturday?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come on. Why not?”

  “Why would I want to spend my Saturday night with a bunch of people I hardly know? Besides, last year it was mostly couples. Awkward, you know. And borrring.”

  “You could go with me.”

  Don’t think so. “I have Kiki anyway this weekend. I’m taking her to see Santa on Saturday, and then we’re going to eat graham crackers and watch The Lion King again, right, baby girl?”

  Kiki holds out her spoon, and I take a bite and wink at her.

  “And then when she falls asleep, I’m going to write my plans for the next nine weeks.”

  “Wow, your social life kind of takes my breath away.”

  I wish it took mine away.

  Chapter 2

  Robert

  I turn my cell phone back on as I cross the parking lot. It vibrates immediately. Five new texts. All from Nic. I thumb through them as I walk.

  I’m standing by your car. Hurry up.

  Answer your phone.

  OMG. Where are you? I don’t have all day!!!

  WAITING!

  I’m done. Leeeeaving.

  I note the time stamps and estimate he waited a whole ten minutes. I reply, although I don’t know why I bother:

  Had to make up test. Have group tonight.

  He responds immediately. You could have told me that sooner.

  I might have if I could have gotten past his posse of cheerleaders. Besides, we had no plans to meet after school. We never have any plans to meet after school. We rarely have any plans to meet anywhere. Sometimes I think Nic is my boyfriend in name only, when it’s convenient, when he needs some arm candy. Not that I consider myself arm candy, but I think he does the way he clings to me and parades me around on the rare occasion when we do go somewhere together.

  Sorry. Text you later.

  He doesn’t respond. I have about an hour before I have to be at Ms. Momin’s for my music therapy group—we’re playing “Jingle Bells” today—but I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with Nic right now anyway. And I damn sure don’t want to go home.

  So I climb in the car, put my phone on silent, then tilt my seat back and close my eyes.

  I allow myself to drift back to the classroom, to those gray eyes with the dark rings around the corneas, and that snug sweater over a striped, collared shirt, and the chest hair at the base of his throat that always shows no matter what he’s wearing.

  I wonder if Mr. McNelis could smell it on me—the want to. Freshman year, in health (the sex ed unit, not the oh-my-god-that-feels-good unit as Coach Gideon liked to remind us, ha, ha), we learned that humans, like animals, give off a scent when they want to mate. I’m not saying I want to mate with Mr. McNelis, but I’m not saying I don’t want to either.

  I’m pretty sure I don’t want to mate with Nic. Not that I haven’t tried once or twice. Nine months of dating and I haven’t touched him. In fact, the last time I tried, he followed his No with a That’s nasty. I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t hurt my feelings. I haven’t tried again. I do sometimes wonder why I tried at all. Yes, he’s cute. And, yes, he can be very sweet when he wants to be. But I don’t know him any better today than I did nine months ago, and he doesn’t know me. And I don’t think either of us really cares one way or the other.

  On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind touching Drew McNelis. In fact, I’m indulging myself and imagining what that would be like when a sharp rap on the top of my car startles me. I turn the key and roll down the window. Luke Chesser sticks his head in.

  “Hey, bro, no sleeping in the parking lot. People are going to start thinking you like it here.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He shivers. “It’s cold out here. Unlock the door.”

  I do and he climbs in the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. I roll the window back up.

  “I’m really sorry about your dad, man. Anything I can do?”

  “You want to make out?”

  He grins, then laughs.

  He knows I’m kidding. Luke and I have a history, but mostly a platonic one.

  “You want the wrath of Curtis to fall on your head?” he jokes. “He’s the jealous type, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  I study my good friend. Luke is the head drum major and my former pseudo-boyfriend. Long story. Curtis is a junior at Sam Houston State University. They’re crazy about each other, and I’m crazy with envy. He settles back in the seat, grabs the cuffs of his hoodie, and folds his arms tightly across his chest to warm up, then puts his feet up on the dash and rolls his head to me.

  “So what’s going on with you and Nic?” he asks.

  “Have I ever thanked you for fixing me up with Whore-Hay?”

  “No, I don’t believe you have.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  He laughs. “That good, huh? Well, I never told you this, but remember when I set you two up? It wasn’t exactly the way I told you.”

  “Exactly what way was it?”

  “I told him you liked him and he should ask
you out. He said—wait.” He sits up and takes on a prissy air, then says, “ ‘I don’t ask boys out; boys ask me out.’ ”

  His Nic impression is so spot-on, I can’t help but laugh.

  “Listen,” he says, “you should come up to Sam with me one weekend. Curtis has friends. Who knows, you might like one of them.”

  “What’s it like dating an older guy?” I can’t resist asking.

  This slow grin inches its way across his face, and he flicks his eyebrows at me.

  “That’s just cruel,” I say.

  He props his feet back on the dash and breathes a dreamy sigh. “So, um, what’s it like with Nic?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Really? Ha, ha. You know, one day you’re going to consider that a blessing.”

  I already do. Reluctantly, I check the time on my phone. “I got to get going. I have my music therapy group in fifteen minutes.”

  “You still don’t have all your service hours?” Luke asks, surprised.

  “I just need a couple more.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out loudly. I do the same and he smiles. “You call me if you want to talk. Okay? Don’t worry about Curtis. I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger.” He winks and gets out.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” Ms. Momin asks as she closes the front door behind me. She’s the facilitator of the group, an elementary school music teacher who does music therapy with special-needs kids on the side.

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  I wasn’t so sure about working with these kids when Ms. Lincoln first suggested it. I’d completed most of my sixty hours of community service—a graduation requirement—last summer working at the animal shelter, but Ms. Lincoln thought some diversity would look better on my college applications and hooked me up with Ms. Momin’s group. I’m glad she did. It’s the highlight of my week now.

  From the foyer I see Patrick wrestling an ornery chair toward the living room. It tips. He steps back and utters a frustrated “Bah” as the chair falls over on the tile floor.

  “Patrick,” I call out.

  When he sees me, a big goofy grin takes over his face. He lumbers over and gives me an awkward hug.

  “Hey, man. Thanks for starting to set up the chairs. You want some help?”

  He bears down and concentrates hard before exploding with a big “Bah.”

  “All right. Let’s do it.”

  I right the chair and help him maneuver it into the other room, careful not to get ahead of him and pull the chair from his hands. When we position it, he steps back and throws his bent arms out to the side. “Bah.”

  “Good job, man.”

  “Ya. Ya.”

  Patrick makes me smile. He’s fourteen and tall and lanky, with a sprinkling of acne on his forehead. But despite his physical challenges, which play out in exaggerated smiles and frowns and spastic movements, I think he is quite handsome. One in a million in fact, or perhaps one in seven hundred thousand to be more exact—the odds of being struck by lightning in any given year. He was only nine. Sucks to stand out sometimes.

  By the time Sophie and Jo-Jo arrive, the chairs are set. Ms. Momin helps me settle everyone, then straps Jo-Jo into his chair so he won’t slide to the floor, and takes up her usual position behind them all.

  I look at their faces, and I’m really glad I came.

  “Who’s excited about Christmas?” I ask.

  Patrick jumps up from his chair and spazzes a moment, then drops back in his seat. Sophie is staring off at something or nothing over my shoulder. Jo-Jo, the smallest in the group, is laughing. It’s an uncontrollable kind of laugh, but I find it infectious. Jo-Jo is the least physically capable of the three. In addition to some physical challenges I don’t fully understand, Ms. Momin says that, like Sophie, he has some form of autism. He laughs a lot, at nothing, and sometimes he whimpers, and sometimes he breaks down and cries. But he’s laughing right now, and that’s good.

  “Me too, Jo-Jo. Soooo, I have a surprise for you guys. We’re going to learn a new song today. ‘Jingle Bells.’ ”

  There’re a couple of beats of silence, and then Jo-Jo’s face contorts and he starts this snuffling crying.

  “It’s okay, Jo-Jo. Let’s just try it. I think you’ll like it.”

  Patrick looks like someone just farted. Sophie’s expression remains blank. Ms. Momin grins at me, then tries to comfort Jo-Jo.

  “I’ll play it first.”

  I’m hoping once they recognize the Christmas song their attitudes will improve. So far, we’ve only played “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” “Jingle Bells” requires only two additional notes. I mean, after three months I think we’re ready for a new song. And frankly, they aren’t really playing the notes anyway, so learning a new song is no big deal.

  Despite their obvious displeasure, I place the recorder in my mouth and play “Jingle Bells”—chorus only.

  With each note, Jo-Jo grows more distressed and is soon wailing.

  And Patrick looks downright angry. He’s agitated and throwing his arms around and drops his recorder. Then suddenly he leaps up and tries to cover my mouth with his hand. His fine motor skills are rather deficient and he misses my mouth altogether, but succeeds in smacking me in the eye and knocking my contact off center.

  “Bah.”

  “Patrick!” Ms. Momin darts out from behind Jo-Jo and grabs his flailing arms and settles him back in his chair.

  “Are you okay, Robert?”

  I think I may have a corneal abrasion, but otherwise, I’m okay. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom to reset my contact. When I return, Patrick is sulking. I take my seat.

  Ms. Momin smiles down at me and shrugs. “They don’t much like change,” she says.

  Got that. I survey my charges. “All right, guys. I have a great idea. How about we play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”

  Patrick beams. It takes him a couple of tries, but he finally manages to get his mouthpiece in his mouth and grins with self-satisfaction.

  Ms. Momin helps Sophie. Jo-Jo is gripping his recorder and sniffling and rocking back and forth. I lift his arms so the mouthpiece fits in his mouth. It’s like moving a toy robot. His arms will stay exactly where I put them until one of us moves them again.

  “On three. Ready?” I smile to myself. Ready enough. “One. Two. Three.”

  The racket that comes from the recorders sounds nothing like “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” It doesn’t matter. I ratchet up my own volume so they hear the tune and believe in their own performance.

  We play the song maybe a dozen times, and I congratulate them after each one. And after each one, Patrick stands and spazzes because he’s happy, the kind of happy that is so pure and simple it breaks your heart, the kind of happy I don’t think I’ve ever known, or at least can remember. Sophie still stares off into the distance, but she played. I could hear her play, and that’s something of a triumph in itself. Jo-Jo is laughing now. It’s truly one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard, and I can’t help but smile back at him.

  Sometimes it’s hard to say good-bye when the session ends. Today, it’s especially so.

  I step in it when I get home, although I’m not exactly sure what it is. At first it looks like apple juice pooled in the grout grooves between the kitchen floor tiles, but it could just as easily be pee. I don’t really want to know. I pull some paper towels from the roll as I scan the rest of the kitchen—a soggy waffle with one bite out of it crowning a pile of dishes in the sink, a carton of milk warming on the kitchen counter next to an open jar of peanut butter with a knife sticking out of it, the refrigerator door standing open.

  I close the refrigerator door, and I’m just about to wipe up the floor when Noah darts through the living room toward me. “Wobert!” he squeaks in a voice I know means he’s a little freaked out. “Aunt Whitney needs help.” He grabs my hand and tugs me toward my parents’ bedroom. I drop the paper towels on the counter, and with a feeling of dread, follow Noah.
r />   Franny, who at twelve is the oldest of my cousins, presses herself white-faced against the wall as we pass her in the hallway, and I fear what new horror awaits me. At the foot of the bed, the huddled twins—Matthew and Mark—look up at me with tear-filled but hopeful eyes.

  “Robert, is that you?” Aunt Whitney calls from the bathroom.

  There’s something about a crisis in a bathroom that screams, You don’t want to be a part of this. As it turns out, it’s not as bad as I feared. Dad is sitting on the shower floor and leaning against a plastic chair seat, his forehead cradled in the crook of his arm, his eyes closed. A towel is draped across his lap.

  “Where have you been?” Aunt Whitney demands.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “He slipped off his shower chair,” my aunt says, stepping into the stall with Dad and gripping him around his bare shoulders. “Get this chair out, then I need you to help me lift him.”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  She rounds on me with a suddenness that makes me flinch. “I don’t know where your mom is. But she’s damn sure not here where she’s supposed to be. Your dad’s been on this shower floor for twenty minutes.”

  I seethe at the unfairness in her words as I brace myself against the far shower wall and lift the chair over her head and Dad’s. She has no right to dump on Mom. Mom’s the one who has taken care of Dad all these years—drove him everywhere he wanted to go when the seizures robbed him of his ability to drive, sat with him during endless rounds of doctors’ visits and MRIs, filled his prescriptions. She’s the one who supported the family because he couldn’t, who paid the bills and took care of the house and me because he wouldn’t. She’s been the glue holding this family together, but not once have I heard any of them thank her or defend her. It’s like she’s the hired help.

  “Where have you been?” Dad repeats in a pained voice.