No One Ever Asked

by Katie Ganshert

  “Cody’s taking his frustration out on us. Bennett worst of all. Rick’s ready to ship him off to military school.”

  “Do you think he regrets quitting?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s all finally starting to hit him. He’s a senior. He won’t get another shot, you know? This was it.”

  “At least he has tennis in the spring,” Deb said.

  Kathleen gave Camille a pointed look. “So long as Darius Jones doesn’t play tennis.”

  * * *

  Anaya would be happy never to set foot in the Crystal Ridge High School gymnasium ever again. All the hostility and animosity that bred in the atmosphere back in July had turned into a ghost haunting the rafters. She could feel its cold presence pressing against her skin and wondered if she was the only one who could.

  She finished writing her name on a name tag and stuck it as close to her shoulder as possible. She hated name tags. Not only because it created that awkward moment where eyes flickered toward chests but because people inevitably said her name wrong.

  “Hey, A-nay-a,” they’d say, like they were old buddies.

  And she would smile and say hello back and let her name be butchered.

  She worked her way through the bodies toward the bleachers, the ghost hovering over her shoulder. Crystal Ridge was holding a district-wide staff meeting to kick off the second semester. An attempt to rally the troops, snap them out of their Christmas-cookie comas, and share several PowerPoint presentations about the latest and greatest pedagogy. Anaya was anxious for it to be done so she could leave this place and head to her classroom, where it was easier to forget who employed her.

  Halfway to her seat, someone grabbed her attention with a clap on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Anaya.” It was Troy Brewin, the head football coach. “How’s my boy doing? Did he have a good break?”

  Darius wasn’t his boy. In fact, Darius didn’t even like Coach Brewin.

  “Hey, do me a favor. Make sure he’s taking good care of that arm on the off season, will ya? A coach has to look out for his star.” Troy gave his eyebrows a wag. “Speaking of which, I hear you’ve been busy recruiting one of your own.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Shanice Williams. I had her in gym class last semester. That girl can run. All the fuss about these transfers? I don’t know about you, but I’d say it’s doing us wonders.” He gave Anaya a conspiratorial jab, like they were in on it together. Not a single thought for the fifty-plus teachers and staff out of a job in the South Fork district last month. It was like he didn’t care about them. He probably didn’t.

  Troy lifted his arm. “Hey, Kyle!”

  Anaya’s throat constricted. She felt ill. Very suddenly ill.

  Kyle Davis nodded at Troy Brewin, and then Kyle’s attention flickered to her. Anaya student taught with him last year. He was standing beside a big-chested young woman with a tiny waist—a figure made evident by a top that seemed one size too snug. “Anaya, hey! I was wondering when we’d run into each other. How’s your first year going? Everyone treating you well? Allow me to introduce you to my new student teacher, Ellie Sorrenson.”

  Ellie reached out her hand and shook Anaya’s; then she shook Troy’s. His attention lingered overly long on Ellie’s name tag.

  “Anaya was my student teacher last year.”

  “Wow,” Ellie said. “You got a job in the district, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got big shoes to fill,” Kyle said. “Anaya’s one of the best student teachers I’ve ever had.”

  Troy Brewin’s smile turned into the Cheshire cat’s.

  Kyle picked up on the innuendo. “Hey, now. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Anaya’s skin crawled. She tried to tell herself it was only a scratch, but her heart pounded like a drum. And Ellie Sorrenson stood there looking like she felt the sting too.

  Forty-Four

  Anaya had to hand it to the woman. She knew how to make a person’s birthday special. A candy-bar wreath hung on the door of her classroom, and a pile of homemade birthday cards littered her desk. After they said the Pledge of Allegiance, Camille presented her with a large framed picture of a dandelion painting, the kind with the seeds that blew off in the wind. Only instead of spores, the painting was made up of twenty unique thumbprints, each one with the name of a student written below. Off to the side was the message:

  Wishing you a Happy Birthday

  Love, Yellow 2

  They all sang her “Happy Birthday,” waving their fingers back and forth like conductors of an orchestra, and then Camille left and Jan McCormick came in carrying a large bouquet of red roses. The class made a collective sound, as though they’d just witnessed two people kissing.

  “Someone has an admirer,” Jan said with a wink.

  Anaya buried her nose in the rose petals, then plucked out the card, unable to contain her grin as she read the short poem.

  “Are you smiling because those are from your boyfriend?” Nia asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Marcus.”

  Madison sat up on her knees. “My brother’s name is Marcus.”

  “Are you gonna marry him?”

  Anaya set the vase of roses on her desk and wiggled her left ring finger at Nia. It was naked, although ReShawn kept saying it wouldn’t be by summertime. Every time she said it, it tied Anaya’s stomach into knots. With excitement. And also dread. She couldn’t shake the feeling that soon—very soon—the other shoe was going to drop.

  “How old are you?” Madison asked.

  “Twenty-three.”

  “That’s old,” Gavin said.

  “That’s not old,” Paige corrected. “My mom is forty-three. That’s old.”

  Anaya chuckled.

  “I wish it was my birthday,” Aaishi said dreamily. “I love when it’s my birthday.”

  Anaya did too. From the time she was old enough to remember, Mama would wake her up, a steaming pile of homemade pancakes on a plate in her hand. She’d sing her “Happy Birthday,” and then she’d sit on the edge of Anaya’s bed and tell her all about the day she was born and how she got her name while Anaya smothered those pancakes in syrup.

  Names were a big deal in her family.

  Anaya’s meant “God answered.” Darius’s meant “upholder of the good,” like King Darius from the Bible. Auntie Trill called him Lil King until he turned ten and Darius didn’t want to be called little anymore. Her mama’s name was Latasha because she was born on Christmas Day, and Daddy’s parents named him Jeremiah because they needed to believe that the Lord would lift them up.

  She looked around at her students and set her hands on her hips.

  “You know what? I have a fun idea.”

  They all perked up.

  “Today we are going to study our names.”

  * * *

  “I don’t like my name,” Paige announced as she climbed into the backseat after school.

  Camille frowned. “You have a lovely name.”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “Uh…something from a book?”

  “That’s p-a-g-e, Mom. Not p-a-i-g-e.”

  “Right. Sorry.” She waited for Paige to click her seat belt into place, then pulled away from the curb. Snow crunched under the tires. “How did the rest of Miss Jones’s birthday go? Did Mr. Kelly remember to bring in the cupcakes after lunch?”

  Camille was quite proud of herself for all she’d put together for Anaya’s birthday. In fact, she was positive that after today, Miss Jones would change her mind about what a horrible person she must be.

  “You really didn’t look up the meaning of my name before you named me?”

  “No, I really didn’t.”

  “Then why did you give me the name?”

&nb
sp; “I liked the way it sounded.”

  Paige shook her head, like she couldn’t believe how utterly shallow her own mother was. “It means ‘little servant.’ ”

  Camille bit her lip to keep from smiling. Paige seemed very upset about the meaning of her name. Camille would not laugh at her.

  “Do you want to know what Sarah’s name means?”

  “What?”

  “Princess. Why didn’t you name me Sarah?”

  “Because, my darling dear, in this family, we appreciate a nice bit of irony.”

  Paige scrunched her nose. “What’s irony?”

  “The meaning of your name.”

  When they got home, her youngest went in search of the baby name book Camille told her she purchased a long time ago, when she was pregnant with Austin. It was probably somewhere in the basement storage room. She didn’t think Paige would actually find it. But lo and behold, she did.

  She brought it with her to the dinner table.

  “Austin’s name means ‘magnificent’ and Taylor’s means ‘tailor.’ ”

  “Well that’s boring,” Taylor said.

  “Daddy’s name means ‘champion.’ ”

  Camille stuffed a bite of buttered tilapia into her mouth. If she couldn’t say anything nice, she wouldn’t say anything at all.

  “But it also means ‘cloud.’ ”

  Now that was more appropriate.

  “Mom, your name means ‘perfect.’ ”

  “I quite like that, thank you.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes.

  “And also…a noble virgin?”

  Austin almost spewed his milk all over the table.

  Taylor smirked into her napkin.

  Paige looked up from the book. “What’s a noble virgin?”

  “Something I hope you will be until you’re married.”

  * * *

  The next day, the kids took turns sharing about their names after the morning read-aloud time.

  Nia told the class her name meant “bright.” And then she told the class that her mother’s name meant “a slender young tree,” which made her mama laugh and laugh and laugh like it was the funniest darn joke she ever heard.

  Jubilee was practically glowing when she said, in her heavily accented voice, “My name mean ‘joy’ and ‘celebration.’ Papa said he and Mama gave me da name Jubilee because I am joy and celebration.”

  Anaya called on Aaishi next. She’d been raising her arm ramrod straight in the air with such excited stillness Anaya could tell she was using every bit of focus not to wave it around. Her students learned quickly that they wouldn’t get called on when they were ooo-ooo-oooo-ing and bouncing around in their seats.

  But Aaishi didn’t talk about her name.

  “Miss Jones, are you Hindu like me?”

  The question came out of left field.

  “No, Aaishi, I’m not.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slumped.

  “Why did you think I was Hindu, sweetheart?”

  “Because I wanted to look up your name last night, and my mom said that it was Hindu.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. She has a cousin in India named Anaya.”

  Hindu.

  Anaya had no idea, and she couldn’t get it out of her head, either. While the rest of the kids shared what their names meant, she kept thinking about her own.

  According to Mama, she came eight days late, after twenty-seven hours of hard labor. Every time that nurse told her to bear down, she’d cry out fervently and with much volume for God’s deliverance. Finally, Anaya came—in a knot of umbilical cord, tiny arms flailing to fight free, nearly strangled before life could touch her.

  It took a whole day before Daddy named her, and when he did, Mama’s head fell back against the hospital bed and she let out a hoot of laughter. If ever a name fit, it was this one. Anaya. Hebrew for “God has answered.” “He sure did. But it woulda been nice,” Mama said, “if He answered a little bit sooner.”

  Anaya knew her name was also Nigerian, Ibo to be precise. In that translation, it meant “Look up to God,” which Mama loved just as much, if not more, than the Hebrew one. But in all those years hearing that story, nobody said a thing about Anaya being Hindu.

  As soon as she dropped her students off at their art special, she sat at her computer and began to search.

  It turned out, Aaishi’s mom was right.

  Anaya was Hindu too, and in Sanskrit the meaning was different. In Sanskrit, Anaya meant “completely free.”

  It reminded her of what her dad would say after her track meets.

  “You run like you got wings on your back, Anaya. You run like you’re free. When I watch, I feel like I am too.”

  Forty-Five

  Channel 6 News online:

  The unaccredited South Fork School District has been buckling under the financial weight of Missouri’s school transfer law, and on Thursday the Missouri Board of Education voted unanimously to take financial control.

  “The amount of money South Fork is spending on transfer tuition is 1.5 times more than it receives in per-student state aid,” says Deputy Education Commissioner Clint Fultz. “The potential for bankruptcy isn’t a matter of if; it’s a matter of when.”

  Many residents of South Fork want to know what this means, including Mercy Ward, a mother of three students who have been attending school in the Crystal Ridge district. “People keep talking about dissolving the district, giving it a different name. Which is all well and good, unless they’re trying to stop my kids from transferring to a better school. If that’s the case, then we’re going to take it to the court all over again.”

  The latest in local sports: Two Crystal Ridge track stars are breaking records, and one has come out of nowhere. Get the full story here.

  * * *

  Late March in Missouri could never make up its mind. Hot, cold. Warm, cool. Sometimes all in a single day. It remained indecisive while a cluster of people stood at a graveside, setting flowers in front of a tombstone.

  It was impossible to believe that it had been three years.

  Three years since the smell of peach cobbler became forever tainted by grief. Three years since an entire church community stuffed itself inside Anaya’s childhood home to eat that peach cobbler and reminisce about a man who’d been taken much too young. Three years since Granny’s lament—an unbroken wail that joined the birds as she beat the ground with its insatiable appetite for black bodies.

  She would never forget Mama’s phone call or the hysterical sound of her voice on the other end. It came in the middle of Anaya’s Title 1 practicum. Thirty minutes later she was sprinting through a hospital parking lot, desperate to get to her daddy. When she arrived, she found him in bed surrounded by beeping monitors, getting a verbal lashing from Mama.

  “Your diet’s gonna change,” she said, wagging her finger. “No more bacon. No more french fries. No more donuts.”

  “Latasha, if I can’t have bacon, I’d rather the good Lord take me now.”

  Mama threw her hands in the air and told Anaya to talk some sense into him. Then she kissed Daddy’s cheek and left the two of them to talk alone. Daddy patted the bed, and she sat beside him, sandwiching his large hand between both of hers, alarmed at its coldness.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said.

  She dipped her chin, because she already knew that. Daddy told her every day. And whenever he introduced her to anyone, it wasn’t just, “This is my daughter, Anaya.” It was, “This is my daughter, Anaya. She’s on a full-ride track-and-field scholarship. One day she’s gonna win gold for Team USA. Just you wait.”

  “Anaya.” His eyes found hers, and they held all the world’s gravity. “Anaya, Anaya, Anaya.”

  “Well, are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna keep repeat
ing my name?”

  He chuckled, and coughed. And then his eyes got serious again. “It’s your birthright, baby. I want you to live it.”

  Her brow had furrowed. What was her birthright? And what did Daddy want her to live? But before Anaya could ask the question, a nurse bustled in to check his vitals and her brow furrowed too.

  And then quicker than Anaya could blink, Daddy’s heart attacked again. She was ushered out of the room while medical staff hurried in. No matter how many times the doctor shocked his heart, it refused to be revived.

  For months and months afterward, her father’s curious words repeated in her mind.

  It’s your birthright, baby. I want you to live it.

  But how was she supposed to live it when she didn’t know what it was?

  Well, are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna keep repeating my name?

  Her name.

  Anaya.

  All of a sudden, the confounding advice stepped into clarity. Her father had named her. He was a man who studied religion at Howard University.

  And in Hindu, Anaya meant “completely free.”

  Forty-Six

  April: Two Months Before the Color Run

  Jen could run for thirty minutes without dying. She didn’t think it possible at first, when she was contending not only with debilitating stitches in her side but cold weather and icy roads and hills that made her want to take up swearing. But then the weather warmed, the sun stayed up longer, and the pair of jeans languishing at the bottom of her dresser drawer almost fit.

  Slowly she worked her way up to two miles without walking, and today she didn’t even get a stitch. Now, as she stretched her legs in the backyard where Nick had the grill heating up for dinner, she experienced a rare wave of optimism.

  Maybe this was a runner’s high.

  The screen door opened behind her. Nick walked outside and shot her a wink, a plate of raw chicken in his hand. He nodded toward their daughter. Jubilee sat beneath the shade of an oak tree, rocking her exorbitantly expensive American Girl doll in her arms. She was singing softly.