by Tamer Lorika
“Put down your hair,” Paris suggested, her voice holding a slight note of desperation, of wheedling. “They won’t stare if you do.”
“I don’t see any reason to hide it,” Jeanne said with a shrug.
Armand came to collect Jedrick, making his little cross on his hip before nodding to the two girls. Under his breath, he swore the next time they returned Jedrick to him late, there would be hell to pay, and Jedrick had better finish his geometry because he was smart and there was no reason for him to slack off.
Armand was humming “Ode to Joy.”
And so the day went on. When the bell rang, Jeanne watched from the back of the room as Paris strode out with the other girls, not giving her a backwards glance. Jeanne figured she had better warn Paris and Jedrick, anyway, that she would be staying at school late. Ms. Milovskaya was scribbling in her green-backed grade book when Jeanne passed, mumbling an excuse and a promise to be right back.
She found her friends sitting on the front steps of the school, Paris leaning against the wall with her eyes closed and Jedrick squinting at the horizon.
“I have to stay for a geography review,” Jeanne said with an intake of breath. Perhaps she had run through the halls, perhaps because she was not happy with the attention.
“It’s easy enough,” Jedrick answered sarcastically. “There’s a few big continents, an island or two, and a really big ocean they try to pass off as a bunch of little ones.”
“I have to learn where Malta is.”
“You’re on your own, then,” Paris said.
“We’ll talk to you tomorrow, yes?” Jedrick asked, walking away. “Have fun with Malta.”
Jeanne raised her hand in a half-waved salute, then turned to go back inside. The halls were relatively empty, and she did not feel so on display as she had before. She made her way down past the elementary level classrooms to the intermediate wing. Her classroom was the first on the right, and she was about to enter but she saw two distinct shadows on the rippled glass window in the door. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear what was going on inside very clearly.
“Marianne, please.” It was Ms. Milovskaya’s voice, out of breath and distressed. “I can’t—I have a student coming in—for tutoring—”
“Mmm, you could say you’re closed for some private tutoring,” another voice sounded, low and rich and female and familiar.
A sigh, and the shadows in the window had such an awkward position.
“That was a strange way of putting it, and I really can’t—ah! Marianne!” Ms. Milovskaya gasped deeply, her voice shaking.
Jeanne knew where she had heard the other voice in the room. It was Ms. Roma. Jeanne covered her mouth, though whether to hold back a gasp or cover a smile was beyond her; perhaps both.
She could see a sliver through the open door, unbuttoned blouses and questing fingers and bare skin. Ms. Roma smiled, less like a predator and more like a possessor, confident in the way she made poor Ms. Milovskaya react. Ms. Milovskaya looked nervous and upset but she, too, gave off a sort of glow, as if she were comfortable with these hands on her and these lips teasing her. It was fascinating, to see two people who, despite the situation and the back and forth, were utterly in love.
Jeanne didn’t know how she knew they were in love, but they were, and it made her happy.
She planned to back up a few steps, return, and knock politely, give them a chance to break off and button their shirts, but as she did so, she tripped over her own feet or a knot in the floor or a tricky pixie and fell right through the door onto her face.
Her nose hurt a little where she slammed the floor and her palms were skinned; she could tell already. Ms. Roma let out a little cry and her hands flew to her chest, covering it. Ms. Milovskaya moved in the opposite direction, rushing to Jeanne’s side before she could remember her own appearance, and by then it was far too late.
“Jeanne, are you all right?” she asked, flushing as she tucked stray hair behind her ear. Jeanne nodded, sitting up and flashing them both a wide, innocent smile.
“I—I mean…I know you must be confused at what you are—”
“You found the person who has the other end of your red string, right?” Jeanne replied brightly.
Ms. Milovskaya’s eyes widened in confusion. “What—oh. The story, from before, I—”
“Yes, I think she has,” Ms. Roma broke in. She had buttoned up her own shirt by now and smoothed down her tangle of short hair, the color receding from her freckles. She knelt next to Ms. Milovskaya on the floor and put an arm around her shoulder. “Is there a problem?”
Jeanne’s smile did not fade as she shook her head. “I’m happy for you.”
Ms. Milovskaya, on the other hand, had not calmed down a bit; her entire face burned a shade of red that looked faintly adorable, and she scampered to her feet, trying to fix her appearance. “I—I mean—I know this is difficult for you to—not many people understand—”
“Cece, I think she gets it,” Ms. Roma marveled softly.
Jeanne still sat on the floor, cross-legged now and mildly amused by the proceedings. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” she assured them. “I’m happy for you. Truly.”
“Hey, child, what happened to your face?” Ms. Roma asked, ogling the mark openly, her nose awkwardly close to Jeanne’s as she inspected it. It was Jeanne’s turn to flush. “Nasty burn there—anything to do with that panic attack and fainting spell you had earlier? What a scare. Really, child, have you had any history of medical problems?”
“Marianne…”
“It isn’t a burn,” Jeanne said, sitting very still as Ms. Roma scrutinized her, color matching the flush Ms. Milovskaya had displayed earlier.
“What is it, then?” Ms. Roma asked, poking the scar.
“Magic,” Jeanne breathed.
“Fair enough,” Ms. Roma laughed and stood up. “So, what are you in here for?”
“Geography.”
“I get to unroll the map!” she said with a laugh, scrambling to the front of the room to pull on the drop-down map.
Ms. Milovskaya put a hand to her face, looking at Jeanne. “I’m still sorry, Jeanne, about all this.”
“I’m not,” Ms. Roma interjected, heaving on the map cord. The map spiraled down, only to yank itself back up again, hitting her under the chin as it went. She made a face, rubbing at her jaw. “You’re a funny one. I like you. I didn’t think I’d like little chits your age, but I guess working at a school changes you.”
“She does not have a natural filter,” Ms. Milovskaya murmured in apology.
“Paris and Jedrick are worse,” Jeanne replied knowingly. She watched Ms. Roma tugging ineffectually on the map.
“Have they ever tried to take off your blouse in a classroom?” Ms. Roma asked loudly. “Because I don’t think you can be worse than that.”
“There was that one time we borrowed Paris’s mother’s rouge and got Armand when he was asleep at lunch,” Jeanne said. “I didn’t do much, but Paris made him look rather dashing. The makeup was thick enough Jedrick could see it.”
Ms. Roma laughed loudly, like dark cathedral bells from the city. “I remember that. I’d always wondered what had happened.”
Ms. Milovskaya giggled politely behind her hand. She clicked over to the map Ms. Roma was still struggling with and opened it with a neat jerk of her wrist. This time it stayed open.
Ms. Roma looked dumbfounded, then stuck her tongue out at the map.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Ms. Milovskaya asked pleasantly. She did not clap her hands together. Jeanne noticed that for some reason—and she felt happy again, for reasons that escaped her.
As Ms. Milovskaya spoke, Jeanne felt the familiar warm rush behind her eyes, the feeling of being together with someone. She watched Ms. Milovskaya gesture at the map as Ms. Roma dozed in the teacher’s desk chair, a faint thought hummed in the back of her head. It could be this easy. We could be this easy.
She liked that thought.
Before an hour had passed, she was able to identify countries and mountain ranges and lakes and rivers as well as anyone else in eighth year. She recognized some of them from the stories Jericho had told her, and she smiled at the thought of the rabbit babies or the new lily she would find if she traveled to the places on the map.
Ms. Roma was asleep when they finished. Ms. Milovskaya rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll leave her there,” she murmured.
“Do you go home together?” Jeanne asked.
“Well…yes, I suppose we do. Her apartment is very close to mine.”
Jeanne nodded. Ms. Milovskaya began to gather her books and papers together, and Jeanne made to leave, but the teacher was moving her mouth as if she wanted to say something, eyes flicking to Jeanne every few moments. “I—”
“Yes?”
“If you have nothing to do after school tomorrow, would you like to come over to my house? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Of course, but…I promise, I won’t tell anyone about what I saw today,” Jeanne said truthfully.
“It’s not that,” Ms. Milovskaya said. “Something else. I’m—I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t even be asking, that was an odd request, to be sure—”
“I make odd requests a great deal,” Jeanne replied. “I would not mind coming over, though. I’m sure I’ll have to be home by dinner.”
“Of course,” Ms. Milovskaya replied, looking far from relieved her invitation had been accepted.
Jeanne thought it odd but said nothing more, taking her leave and pretending not to notice out of the corner of her eye as Ms. Milovskaya kissed the sleeping nurse’s forehead.
She tripped out onto the street, where the sun had begun to turn orange and amber and pink, slanting strange, flat shadows across the town. People still ran busily back and forth, getting in their last purchases, business, chores, errands of the day.
Red sky at night, Jeanne thought with a slight shade of disappointment, and then her bones began to thrum and buzz.
Twin shadows appeared just over the horizon.
Jeanne could see them—that was the only thought she could remember with any clarity. Great steel birds that swooped low over the hills, their flat shadows chasing behind them like loyal dogs, barking and yipping and echoing off the valley walls. They were alive—for the first time, Jeanne could see they were alive. She could not frame them as harmless, faceless creatures any longer because they flew straight overhead, and she could see now they were green, sickly rusty green with red and black paint splashed in a strange, twisted Eastern spiral along the sides.
Straight overhead. Perhaps the world was coming to an end; the dead silence and choking fear of the people in the streets were enough for her to come to that conclusion.
Then they were receding, no threat, no threat at all, their tail-fins catching the fading light but not reflecting it. It was a long time before the sound died away and they blended into the dark violet train of the sunset. It was a long time after that before anyone in the street stirred at all. Still, once they did, everything went back to normal, as if nothing had happened. Children still shouted, women still bargained, the world still turned. The only vestige of fear left was in Jeanne’s shaking knees.
The comfort of palms against her cheek, as they had been not so long ago. Jeanne took a deep breath and thought she smelled cinnamon. She was loved. She would always be loved.
She continued on her way home.
* * * *
Jeanne did not pretend she were not intensely curious about what the meeting with Ms. Milovskaya would hail. She couldn’t it imagine it being about school, but she had been assured it was not about Ms. Roma, either. What a curiosity. But Jeanne had been honest—she was full of curiosities herself.
She broached the subject of escape and permissions with Maman and Papa that morning at breakfast; Gramaman was still asleep, but she had not been feeling well for the past few days and the rest of the household had elected to let her rest.
“I need to stay late again after school.” It was strange, to her, that she had to ask these last days for permission to be out, but the shift in dynamics was tangible. This was something she had to do so she did it, even if she never had before.
“Why?” Maman asked shortly.
“Ms. Milovskaya wants to talk to me about something.”
“All right.”
There was nothing else said, just the perfunctory kiss and wish for a good day from Maman. Jeanne hugged Papa, as well, and left.
Jeanne paid more attention in class than she had in a long time, which meant she was not staring out the window. Rather, she stared at Ms. Milovskaya, trying to unravel her and her aims. A puzzle, to be sure.
After class, Paris took off again without a backwards glance, and Jeanne did not tell her she would not be coming along. They hadn’t spoken more than two words to each other all day, even on the way to school. Instead, she shuffled up to Ms. Milovskaya’s desk, staring at the back of Charles’s neck as he, too, slipped away.
Ms. Milovskaya was talking to Monique as Jeanne approached, and she caught the tail end of the conversation.
“…and I’ll take the papers to Tabitha, all right?” Monique was saying. “She hasn’t been in for three days and I want to see how sick she is.”
“Of course, but please, don’t get sick yourself,” Ms. Milovskaya cautioned.
Monique waved her off with a laugh and skipped out. Jeanne was left alone, shifting forward and back on the balls of her feet in front of the desk, as if she were about to get scolded or punished.
“Good afternoon, Jeanne,” Ms. Milovskaya said warmly, still utterly entrenched in her mask of a good, attentive, pinned back teacher.
Jeanne was firmly convinced this, indeed, was a mask. Ms. Milovskaya had been someone else altogether yesterday afternoon, and then there had not been a trace of awkwardness at all. Today it was completely different—an entire pit of muddy, unspoken words.
“Good afternoon,” Jeanne replied. “Are you not ready? I can wait—Maman didn’t give me a time to be home.”
“I’m ready, but I am waiting for Marianne,” Ms. Milovskaya replied. “She should be here any min— “
“Afternoon, Cece!” Ms. Roma announced, barging through the door. She looped an arm around Ms. Milovskaya’s shoulders. “Are we ready to go—oh, hey, child,” she interrupted herself, catching sight of Jeanne. Pouting at Ms. Milovskaya, she asked, “More geography tutoring? You didn’t warn me.”
“No, no, Jeanne is coming home with me today. I have something I want to talk to her about.”
“Hmm,” is all Ms. Roma said, looking less than curious and far more comfortable with the situation than Jeanne felt she had any right to be. But that was just the nerves talking, and Jeanne had been questioning this incident for the better part of the day.
“I guess that means I’m not coming over,” Ms. Roma said with a sigh.
“Later, all right?” Ms. Milovskaya asked with a touch of exasperation. “Marianne, even if one of our students knows, that does not mean you can let down your guard—”
“Aw, you’re no fun—”
“And the classroom door is still open—”
Bickering made Jeanne at ease almost immediately. Things did not change when people truly loved each other, no matter who they were or what their age.
“Jeanne? Are you ready?”
Jeanne was distracted from her thoughts by a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, yes, Ms. Milovskaya, I am.”
Nodding in satisfaction, Ms. Milovskaya pulled on her coat and gathered a stack of books into her arms. They left the school in relative silence, the natural closeness and levity of the older women dropping like a shroud to the ground as soon as they entered the hallway, entered scrutiny, entered a world beyond safety.
Ms. Milovskaya’s apartment was on the other side of the small village, quite near the school, in a small, one-floor complex. Across the street was a similar collection of squished-togethe
r apartment rooms, into which Ms. Roma darted after shooting a long, supposedly meaningful look at the two of them.
Ms. Milovskaya ignored her, padded to the last apartment in the row, and unlocked the door, her school papers balanced precariously in one arm. Jeanne did not miss the slightly longing backward look the woman gave in a way she obviously assumed was discreet. Maybe it was.
“Please, sit down. I’m sorry the table is messy,” Ms. Milovskaya apologized. “It’s the only one I have and I’m currently grading your class’s math tests. Would you like some coffee? Do children your age drink that?”
She bustled off to the kitchen as she talked—it was connected directly to the sitting room, which consisted of a low couch and an even lower table that was slightly burned and a little scarred, as well as a rickety cane chair. There was a narrow hallway off the side of the sitting room that presumably led to a bathroom and bedroom; such a small space, but every inch of it bled memories. There was an entire story lived within these walls, and that was not something common, Jeanne felt.
“Maman and Papa let me drink it usually,” Jeanne replied, perching herself on the edge of an unfamiliar couch. It was quiet for a few moments as the water began to boil. Jeanne closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of life and secrets. Ms. Milovskaya bustled around in the kitchen for a few minutes longer, then came out with two thick mugs and a plate of shortbread cookies Jeanne wondered how she found—they were city-made and definitely under heavy rationing.
She didn’t ask, though, simply reached for her mug and cookies and murmured merci. As she sipped the strong drink, she waited for Ms. Milovskaya to speak.
Ms. Milovskaya certainly took her time. She sat the spindly chair across from the couch. The woman looked everywhere but at Jeanne as she drank her coffee. Jeanne raised an eyebrow at her, silently prompting her.
“Jeanne, I really did have a reason to talk to you…”
Jeanne nodded encouragingly.
“My grandmere used to tell me stories, you know. Very long ago, when we lived on a farmstead a few miles from here. I used to think she was…well, not crazy, but we never put much stock in her stories.”