The Possibility of Somewhere

by Julia Day

  “With Kurt’s teacher?”

  “With the educational support team. They say that Kurt’s misbehaving in class.”

  “Am not,” he shouted, then jumped from his chair and stormed down the hall.

  I waited until Marta left before continuing the conversation. “What exactly are they complaining about?”

  “His classroom teacher says he sits by himself, refuses to do his work, and growls at the other kids.” Mrs. Fremont’s face sagged.

  Kurt wouldn’t act out without provocation, and Mrs. Fremont was tired. After a night at the hospital, she wasn’t at her best. I had to help. “May I come with you?”

  “Why?”

  “I could babysit him in a corner.” The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. “I want to be a special-ed teacher someday. Maybe I could listen and learn.”

  The glaze faded from her eyes. “You’ll miss your first-period class.”

  “If you want me, I’d rather be with you and Kurt.”

  “I’d like that.”

  * * *

  Following Kurt through the maze of hallways in his school brought back memories. The scent of yeast rolls baking in the cafeteria was overpowered by the nauseating antiseptic cleaner the janitors used to wash everything. Finger-paint paintings and Popsicle-stick sculptures had been attached to every spare stretch of open wall space.

  I remembered it without a trace of fondness.

  Mrs. Fremont introduced me to the school support team, although I already knew the classroom teacher. Mrs. Mannis (The Menace) and I had crossed paths in my elementary days. Ours wasn’t a happy history.

  For fifteen minutes, I did my best to be nice. I stayed quiet, sitting on the floor midway between the teachers and Kurt. He played in the corner, consumed by an elaborate airport model.

  Mrs. Mannis droned on and on. Blah de blah de blah. She didn’t come right out and say it, but the woman resented having to teach an unconventional child. That was the bottom line. He wasn’t normal, and it was too much effort to help him.

  I held my tongue. I’d promised myself to be an observer.

  Then the teacher said the magic words that set me off.

  “He’s defiant,” The Menace said. “He refuses to color because he doesn’t like it.”

  I spun on my butt to face her. “Do you use crayons?”

  The other people at the table went still and blinked at me.

  “Naturally. What else would we use?” the teacher asked with a patronizing smile.

  “Colored markers.”

  “We don’t offer those.”

  “Then, naturally, Kurt will refuse to color. He can’t stand the smell of crayons.”

  “The smell?” Her lip curled. “They don’t really have a smell.”

  “Yes, they do. Kurt’s nose is better than yours, and you’ll only make him use crayons under duress.” I leaned forward, warming to my explanation. “And never ask him to use orange. He hates that color.”

  “Hates orange?”

  I nodded. “It offends him.”

  All of the school staff frowned except the special-ed teacher. Mrs. Hartford tapped a manila folder on the table. “We do have it noted that Kurt has sensory disorders.”

  Mrs. Fremont nodded. “Odors and textures.”

  “Unfortunately, the specific problem with crayons isn’t in his paperwork. I’m sorry. I wish we’d known.” Mrs. Hartford made a notation.

  Relief energized Mrs. Fremont. “This is a simple problem to solve. I’d be happy to send in a box of markers.”

  The Menace sniffed. “It’s not fair to the other students.”

  “Not fair?” I repeated, my voice rising. I took a slow breath and tried again, as calmly as I was able. “Let me tell you what isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that Kurt is different. It isn’t fair he’ll spend the rest of his life in a world that doesn’t try to understand him. But what’s most unfair is that his teacher acts like he’s to blame.

  “If you don’t want him to stick out, maybe you could find color markers for everyone. It’s easier for the other kids to change than it is for Kurt, and the changes will be good for everyone. Gentle colors. Soft carpets. Quiet time. The freedom to concentrate on one thing.” I leapt to my feet, too agitated to sit any longer. “Other kids will learn his way. Kurt won’t learn theirs.”

  Mrs. Mannis opened her mouth to speak, but I kept barreling on. “Look at him. He’s been playing over there quietly by himself for thirty minutes. How many six-year-old boys do you know who could’ve done that?”

  I turned to Mrs. Fremont. “I’m sorry. I tried not to jump in, but I’m tired of him being the problem when, really, it’s the rest of us. Now, I’m going over there to hang out with Kurt.”

  I plopped my butt down on the rug next to him. “Hey, I’m here.”

  He didn’t acknowledge me as he finished what he was doing. After a few seconds had passed, he looked up. “Do you like the scene I’ve created?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is good.” He stood, turned his back to me, and dropped into my lap. I kept my hands on my knees. He wouldn’t want to be cuddled.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The special-ed teacher and Mrs. Fremont nodded knowingly, but the other women gawked. Yeah. They’d never seen him like this before, and it was their fault.

  If I was interpreting the look on Mrs. Hartford’s face correctly, the crayons were doomed.

  * * *

  I missed my entire first-period class, and I didn’t mind at all. Seeing Ash in English would’ve been more than I could stand.

  Mrs. Fremont and I had a quick breakfast at Charlie’s Diner. When she dropped me off at the high school, second period was in progress. I detoured to the media center. I couldn’t have handled statistics today either.

  I ran into Ash. Literally. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, came around a corner, and slammed right into him. He caught my arm.

  “Sorry,” we said in unison.

  He didn’t let go. I didn’t want him to.

  We gazed at each other. Not smiling. Not frowning. The truth between us left unspoken.

  A couple of junior girls walked past us, craning to see or hear what we were up to. They broke into excited whispers. The rumor mill beckoned.

  We stepped apart.

  I reached for his hand. “I love everything about you.”

  His fingers tightened around mine. “Ardently,” he said, his eyes bleak. He dropped my hand and took off down the hall.

  I watched him go, hurting so badly I could hardly move. How could this be? He existed, I existed, but we did not.

  Destination forgotten, I slumped to the floor, undone by what might have been.

  * * *

  I was running out of time to get my teacher recommendation done. After 2-D art ended today, I approached Dr. Holt. “I have a request.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Asking for help never got easier. I clasped my hands behind my back and forced myself to relax. “I need a teacher rec for a scholarship application. I hope you’ll write it.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Oh, damn. We were going to talk about it.

  While I perched on the edge of a chair, he sat on his desk. “Why me?”

  If I were smart, I’d make the answer up. I’d pretend that he was my favorite teacher ever, flattering him into writing me an incredible rec, except I was too tired to lie. “Ms. Barrie is already booked.”

  “I’m second choice.”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed lightly, picked up a pen, and spun it between his fingers. “You’ve known the other teachers at this school longer than me. Why am I second?”

  It was an interesting question, one I hadn’t considered. I’d just known he was.

  Part of the reason was an element of safety. He was Mundy’s dad. If he refused me, he’d have to deal with her.

  But it was more than that. I would’ve wanted his rec without the Mundy connection because of the kind of t
eacher he was. “I admire Ms. Barrie because she excites me to be better for my own good. To take risks with confidence. To see beyond the grades.

  “I admire that about you too. I started out the sorriest art student ever. I was scared to try. You showed me how to gain fuel from the fear. You’ve helped me realize that it’s all about the trying.”

  He smiled, not only with his lips, but with his eyes and his whole body. I ached with envy for Mundy. Did she know how lucky she was to have someone like him for a father?

  With a push, he slid off the desk and bent over it to tidy a stack of folders. “When is it due?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “E-mail me the details. I’d be honored to write your recommendation.”

  * * *

  All day Tuesday, I worried about what to do with my consent form. Tomorrow was the due date for the Peyton Scholarship. Even if I had been speaking to my dad, it would be pointless to ask him to sign. He would refuse.

  There was a solution. I could forge his signature and hope he never found out. If I got the endorsement, I’d find a way to change his mind. It would bother me to cheat, but that signed form was going in.

  Distress drove me out to the dock. I sat at its end and watched the moon climbing the horizon. It was beautiful here at twilight. And peaceful.

  Behind me, I could hear the faint crunch of shoes on dry grass. It was a familiar gait. My father’s. As if my thoughts had drawn him to me.

  His shoes thumped softly on wooden planks. When he was a few feet behind me, he stopped. “Can I join you, Eden?”

  “That wouldn’t be my choice.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

  “Words are easy, Dad.”

  He huffed in frustration. “What do I have to do to make it up to you?”

  “Never hit me again.”

  “I won’t. I’ve promised.” His voice shook. “Mr. Cooper wants you to work a few hours at the store. On the inventory. The holiday season is coming up.”

  No need to react. I didn’t care.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay, what?” I looked at him. Was he crazy? “I’m not helping with that. You have to find someone else.”

  “He trusts you. He’d rather not take a chance on someone else.”

  “Not my problem, Dad.” I faced the bay.

  His breath whistled out between his teeth. Then silence. It stretched, intensified, like storm clouds on the horizon. I focused on the water.

  “Marlene says the boy dumped you.”

  “Shut. Up.” Dad managed to say the one thing I couldn’t ignore. He’d better let this go.

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Shut the hell up.” My voice had risen, echoing across the bay. I scrambled to my feet and turned. “I love him, Dad.”

  “His folks will never let you—”

  “Stop.” My hands fisted at my sides. “We get it. His parents can’t stand the idea of me any more than you can stand the idea of him, and now we’re apart.” When I tried to walk around my father, he held up his hand, blocking my path on the narrow dock, halting me in my tracks. No way would I touch him, even to move his arm.

  “Listen to me, Eden. Don’t be acting surprised about how this turned out. You’re poor, you’re white, and you’re Christian. They don’t want none of that for their son.”

  “Got it, Dad. Hate won this round. Bet that makes you proud.” I pushed past him and ran before I could say something we would both regret.

  29

  More Natural Consequences

  Mrs. Fremont got me to school early Wednesday morning, so I headed straight to the computer lab. It was eerily silent. All the machines had been powered down this past weekend, the furniture scrubbed, the carpets steamed. It was as if no one had been in here since.

  The lights were on in Mrs. Barber’s office, but she was nowhere around.

  The Peyton application was due. Most documents had been submitted online. The essay. The resume and transcript and recommendations. I’d played their games and bragged until I was sick of thinking about myself. It was out of my hands.

  “Mornin’, Eden.” Mrs. Barber burst into the lab. “I checked your Peyton entry. Everything’s there but the consent form.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you have it with you? I have to fax it in by noon.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She continued into her office.

  I opened my backpack and pulled out the form. The signature line was bare. I stared at it, my chest growing tighter. Fumbling around in the bottom of my backpack, I found a black pen. With my left hand, I scribbled Byron F. Moore on the form.

  Trembling with reaction, I walked into her office and handed her the sheet.

  “Thanks, Eden. You’re all set.”

  I glanced at the clock. Still a few minutes until school started. With the Peyton paperwork behind me and no boyfriend as a distraction, I was ready to investigate the photo of me and Ash at North Topsail.

  The weird thing about this vile mess was how unnecessary it had been to involve the school web site. Tiffany could’ve posted that photo anywhere online. It would have been all over the place in a heartbeat. My relationship with Ash would’ve been destroyed either way. But no. She used the school’s web site against me. She went to major lengths to taint the one thing I did at school besides academics, and she’d involved her aunt as an unwitting accomplice. Why had Tiffany wanted to hurt me so badly that she was willing to sacrifice her journalistic ethics over it?

  Dropping onto a chair, I logged into a computer and went to my personal account. The image appeared on the screen, bringing with it the ache of loss. It really was a beautiful shot. A sweet memory of a happy, private moment. Clicking on the properties sheet for topsail.jpg, I checked the Details, only to discover they had been wiped clean. No information on the camera model or how the photo was taken. No data on the type of editing software used.

  I wasn’t surprised. Any criminal who’d gone to as much trouble as she had would’ve been too smart to leave obvious details.

  What could I do next? If I couldn’t track the image back to a specific camera, I couldn’t track it back to her. I had to prove Tiffany was in North Topsail on October 26. But how?

  Witnesses would work. Electronic would be better than human. Did the pier have a security camera? Could I see its footage simply by asking?

  A brief search on the Internet revealed both answers. No and no.

  Okay, human witnesses it would be.

  I might go after Desiree Barber. She would know, but she wouldn’t tell me anything, which meant I’d have to involve Marnie. I wasn’t willing to bring my stepmom in. Yet.

  But there had to be other witnesses. Tiffany hadn’t gone to the beach alone. Her two best friends probably went with her. Starr was a lost cause, so I’d have to corner Tatum.

  It helped that she was naïve.

  I got an opportunity as I was leaving school the next afternoon. Tatum was standing by herself at the carpool lane. I headed for her.

  “Excuse me.” I smiled in genuine delight. “Hey.”

  She backed up a couple of steps and eyed me warily. “Hi.”

  “How are things?”

  “Fine.” When she tried to walk around me, I fell into step beside her.

  “So—”

  “Shut up, Eden. I’m not saying anything.” She pivoted toward a blue Mercedes that was pulling up to the curb.

  Crap. My informant was escaping before sharing secrets. “But I haven’t asked you anything yet.”

  She halted, her hand on the car-door handle. “Do you think I’m stupid? Because I’m not. I won’t answer any questions about North Topsail or the photo.” Tatum yanked the door open and slipped inside.

  Not as much as I’d hoped for, but I did learn one critical piece of data. Tatum knew where that photo had been taken.

  * * *

  The two newest members of the Webmaster’s Club needed extra help this afternoon. After get
ting them started with image-editing tasks, I returned to my computer to continue with updates to Heron High’s web site. I became so engrossed that it took the smell of raspberries to break my concentration.

  After saving the file, I twisted in my seat. Tiffany stood out of arm’s reach, with a chair between us as if to ensure that I couldn’t resort to physical violence. The possibility had crossed my mind, but I would stick with the more natural consequences of ending her career in tabloid journalism.

  “May I help you?” I said in my least helpful tone.

  “You could stop stalking me and my friends.”

  “I could accuse you of the same thing.”

  “Stalking isn’t necessary when you have karma on your side.”

  “I hope you reap what you sow.” Anger drained out of me, replaced by sad regret. “I could’ve ignored this if it had only been about me, but you burned Ash and deceived Gina. Bitch move.”

  “Whatever. You really should give up.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but no.”

  “You’re just pissed because you didn’t know I was smart enough to pull this off.”

  “Wrong. I didn’t think you were sleazy enough to want to. But that’s okay, Tiffany. I’ll find a way to track it back to you.”

  “Sorry, but you won’t.” Her lips curved into a falsely apologetic smile. “The image is scrubbed. The e-mail address is gone. The witnesses will never say a word. I’m safe.”

  I watched her saunter out of the lab, leaving me on fire to find the proof. Every cop show emphasized three elements to a crime: motive, weapon, opportunity. I would just have to work my way through them.

  Tiffany’s motive couldn’t be proven, though it was the most ironclad part of the equation.

  Her weapon? A camera. The journalism club had three incredibly expensive models. If she’d borrowed one with a telephoto lens, I could place a weapon of the right caliber in her hands. I would check the sign-out logs, if I could get to them.

  Opportunity had to be established. Where was Tiffany on October 26?

  It was time to involve Marnie.

  * * *

  I took a high-quality copy of the photo home. Marnie stood before the stove, stirring a pot full of something heavy on the garlic and oregano.