Isobel smiled and glanced back at Mark, whose eyes said, I told you this would be good. “What petitions?” she asked. Plural? And what T-shirts?
“You don’t know?” said Allen. “There are a couple. One was started by a ninth grader, Tracy something. And there’s another one on Change.org. There are over two hundred signatures there.” Isobel felt her chest expand, tears threatening beneath her delight. “I also want you to know”—Allen leaned toward her—“Ms. Johnson, my mom and I both told the bosses you’re excellent.”
Isobel smiled at his earnestness. “Thank you, Allen,” she said. “I really appreciate that.” He stood up straight again, looking proud.
“Is this your family?” The boy’s eyes were suddenly wide, as Callie and Riley crowded in on either side of her. “Are you all running?”
“It’s run-walk, right?” Isobel confirmed.
“Oh, absolutely,” Allen said. “We’re not even keeping times, although some people are gunning to win.” He gestured toward the starting line, where a few students—Isobel noticed Maeve Hollister and Melissa Young—jumped up and down, warming up.
“Well, I certainly won’t be giving chase.” She pulled cash from her wallet. “So, can I have the faculty discount?”
“For sure,” he said. “For four, then, it’ll be sixty.”
“Dollars?” asked Riley, shocked.
Allen laughed. “I know it’s a lot.” He tucked Isobel’s twenties into the cashbox in front of him. “But it’s for a good cause. Head over there for your T-shirts.” Allen pointed at an adjacent table. “It looks like my mom and Mrs. Hollister will be helping you.”
A fresh wave of anxiety flooded Isobel’s stomach as she approached the parents, though Allen had assured her that his mom was on her side. Isobel felt Mark’s firm hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the two mothers, who hadn’t yet noticed her. She took a deep breath.
“Ms. Johnson.” Vivian Song smiled. “I keep calling Principal Wallace. We need you back in the classroom.” Isobel felt the tension in her shoulders ease. “I gave him an earful the first time we talked. Ridiculous, the whole thing.”
“Thank you so much for your support,” Isobel said. She knew without looking that Mark was beaming beside her.
“What sizes of T-shirts can we get you?” Vivian asked.
“Small!” piped up Riley, stepping in front. Isobel smiled down at the top of his head. As she looked up, she caught sight of a familiar blond ponytail behind Vivian. Julia Abbott. She strode determinedly toward the registration table, looking over the crowd.
Vivian turned her head to see what had caught Isobel’s attention. “Oh my God,” she said when she realized. “Sally, where’s Annabelle? And didn’t Robin come up with a plan for this? I can’t believe she came.”
The two women stopped fussing with the T-shirts and stood on their tiptoes, heads craning. Isobel looked, too, even though she hadn’t seen Melissa Young’s mother.
“There she is!” said Vivian suddenly, coming out from behind the table. “I’ll go warn her. Sally, you keep going with the T-shirts.”
“What’s going on?” Callie pulled on Isobel’s sleeve.
“Just some mom drama.” Isobel couldn’t help but feel grateful that the spectacle was someone else’s. Perhaps Julia Abbott’s notoriety overshadowed her own.
JULIA ABBOTT
When Tracy insisted on leaving early with Andrew for the 5K, Julia had almost bailed on the whole morning, despite her dedicated training. The past few years, Tracy had waited for her at the finish line, cheering her on. Now her daughter hadn’t looked her in the eye since Thursday. Julia had tried to explain her rationale for publishing the information about Robert Miller. “Parents need to know who’s teaching their children,” she’d said, but Tracy had practically shouted at her about privacy and bullying.
Though she didn’t say it aloud, Julia attributed Tracy’s newfound volatility to Ms. Johnson. Before she got into that class, Tracy had not only been her easier child, but she’d actually been one of the most agreeable of all of the children Julia knew, eager to please and cooperative. Now she’d become angry, belligerent, and secretive. When Ms. Johnson asked her to “see multiple perspectives,” Tracy tended toward the negative, articulating all kinds of exaggerated problems that hadn’t bothered her before. And then there was Kate Awakened, whom Julia was almost certain was Tracy. She hadn’t been able to rally herself to ask her. If she knew for sure, then other people might also: They’d know Julia’s own daughter had trolled her on the Internet.
Julia looked for Tracy among the runners warming up for the race, but she couldn’t pick her out. Maybe she was inside with Andrew, setting up the hot chocolate station. Julia approached the registration table, and Allen Song smiled blankly. “Just me,” she said, handing over a twenty.
Allen pointed at the T-shirt table, which would provide the real challenge of the morning. Maybe I don’t need a T-shirt, Julia mused, and then dismissed the thought. Of course she was getting a T-shirt. She’d paid her twenty dollars, and someday, long after they’d all forgotten about Tryg Ogilvie’s video and Ms. Johnson’s poor choices, they might actually want to remember Ellis Island. The T-shirt would be the reminder, and they’d laugh when one of them wore it—one of the three of them, anyway, since Henry had kept his usual Sunday morning squash game.
Sally Hollister stood behind the piles of shirts, hands on her hips, glowering at Julia. “I’d like a small,” Julia said.
“They’re running a little small this year. You might prefer a medium.” Julia thought she could detect the beginnings of a sneer.
Julia glanced at Sally’s lumpy middle and smiled placidly. “I’ll take a small.” She jogged the shirt back to her car, where she unfolded and inspected it—Lions’ green with a yellow Statue of Liberty emblazoned right of center. I would have switched those colors, she thought, and tossed the shirt on the backseat. Then she headed for a spot near the starting line. She’d just pulled out her phone to scroll through Instagram photos when she heard a shriek from somewhere near the finish. She looked up and saw Robin Bergstrom and Vivian Song, both wearing blaze orange T-shirts over their winter jackets. Not the color I’d have chosen, Julia thought. They could have accomplished visibility without compromising everyone’s skin tones. Annabelle Young approached them. “Here we go,” Julia whispered. She turned back to her phone. The clock on the screen said nine fifty-one. The race began at ten. Surely she could avoid Annabelle for nine more minutes.
The next time Julia looked up, she found Tracy standing near the registration table, holding a clipboard and wearing a lime green T-shirt over her jacket. Had she signed up to volunteer? Tracy chatted with Isobel Johnson and what had to be the teacher’s family. She studied Isobel and frowned. What was it about her that Tracy admired so much? Her chin-length hair poked out beneath a shapeless knit hat. Her fleece jacket fell loosely over generic black leggings. She didn’t even seem particularly fit. Tracy reached down and put an arm around Isobel’s son, her eyes still adoringly on her teacher.
Julia hung her heels over the curb, stretching her Achilles tendons. A toxic mix of sadness and anger began its run from her chest down her arms. She’s stealing my daughter from me, Julia thought. Just then Tracy turned toward her and pointed. Julia felt herself flinch. She raised her right hand in a wave, her ubiquitous “This, too, shall pass” silver bangle clanking against her running watch. And then Tracy seemed to be walking toward her, and hope pierced through her misery. “Good luck!” she heard her daughter call. She looked back at her phone—nine fifty-four.
Tracy’s smile evaporated as she approached. Julia read the block letters screen printed on Tracy’s shirt—#FREEISOBEL—and she felt weak. The “I” in Isobel rose into a fist, primed for protest. “I just didn’t want it to seem awkward,” Tracy said, and then walked past Julia without saying anything else, the clipboard swinging in her hand. Julia turned after her,
hurt all over again. Tracy hurried toward a table slightly apart from the starting line and dropped her clipboard in front of a girl wearing a matching shirt. As she moved on, Julia could read the sign hanging from the table. #FREEISOBEL, it read, in the same block letters as the ones emblazoned on her daughter’s chest.
JAMIE PRESTON
Jamie slid into the back of the pack just moments before the race started. She’d had second and third thoughts about showing up, but decided she’d better, if only for the sake of appearing casual. She should do what she’d done the previous year, before she’d gotten the e-mail from Mary about declining enrollment, when she’d still felt like the promising new teacher with a spark.
Jamie had parked her car on the street and planned to pick up her T-shirt after she finished, when no one else would be near the registration tables. She wasn’t sure why she felt she had to hide—it wasn’t as if anyone knew she was Lisa Lions. She also hadn’t been suspended for teaching radical curriculum, nor had she made that ill-advised comment on Channel 6. Isobel should have been the one who was embarrassed, and yet the night before she’d responded to Jamie’s text that she planned to bring her whole family to the fun run, as usual.
At the race, Jamie disappeared into the crowd. Without her sweater sets and dresses, she looked even younger than normal. She felt anonymous in her black workout pants and skullcap, pulled low over her brow. Only a single student had recognized her so far, and it had been a double take. “Ms. Preston,” the girl had said, “you look so different!” She felt different, too, less like an insider. The realization made her angry, and she shook her arms to dissipate the feeling. The whole purpose of the Facebook page was to elbow her way into the very parent world she’d now infiltrated, and yet she remained invisible and inconsequential. Maybe Monday’s Humans of LHHS profile, the first of Tracy Abbott’s “teachers without tenure” posts, would increase people’s recognition. A girl lined up next to her, ready to race, a bright green T-shirt billowing over her turtleneck. Jamie cocked her head to read the lettering. #FREEISOBEL, it said, and Jamie’s anger verged on rage as she followed the “I” up into its fist.
Jamie searched the throng of runners for Isobel as one of the theater moms in a comically large orange T-shirt climbed a stepladder next to the starting line. It was hard to identify anyone in their winter attire, but she finally saw her, brown hair puffing out beneath a green hat. Isobel smiled down at Callie as Jamie looked on. How could she be here and smiling? Isobel was from some Podunk town and on the verge of getting fired, and yet somehow Jamie felt under attack while Isobel looked relaxed, silently defended by what Jamie could now discern was a large number of #FreeIsobel tees. She scooted up a bit in the crowd as the theater mom finished her announcements. She didn’t want to weave around so many people at the beginning, and yet she needed several rows of distance between herself and Isobel.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Robin Bergstrom held a bullhorn and stood to the right of the starting line on a stepladder. Feedback blared as she pressed the button to speak to the crowd. Isobel smiled at Callie. She felt suddenly relieved that her daughter was here with her, that her family had heard Vivian Song’s compliments at the T-shirt table. Certainly, Callie had picked up pieces of her parents’ discussions about Isobel’s problems at work. Maybe the raves from Vivian would counteract any doubts Callie had about Isobel’s competence. And then there were the many lime green T-shirts Isobel now saw in the crowd, matching the one Tracy Abbott had worn. Tracy said Susan, Isobel’s earnest student in first hour, had designed the protesting-fist logo, which had almost made her cry. The kids cared more than she’d realized.
“What’s wrong with the microphone?” Callie whispered.
“I’m sure she’ll figure it out.” Isobel squeezed her in a side hug.
As she pulled her arm back, she noticed Julia Abbott standing alone, the white cords from her earbuds trailing down over her black jacket. She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. Fury replaced the warm feelings Isobel had been having for Callie. How dared this woman dig up information about her father and splash it on that Facebook page without any thought about Isobel’s well-being?
Robin tried again with the bullhorn. “Welcome to the annual Theater Booster Club five-K!” she said. There was some applause from the group. Isobel batted her mittens together in support. “We really appreciate you all coming out for this event,” Robin continued. “Your entry fees will help us put on one of the best productions yet, Ellis Island.” The theater kids, most of whom stood on the sidelines in orange volunteer T-shirts, whooped at this.
“Is it time?” Riley turned around, his eyes wide.
“She’s going to tell us.” Isobel pointed at Robin.
Robin continued. “The route is marked, and thanks to Annabelle and Martin Young, we have some Liston Heights police officers helping with traffic control.” Robin pointed at Annabelle, who stood near the registration table. She waved at the crowd. When Isobel looked to see whether Julia Abbott would react to Annabelle’s shout-out, she saw affixed to a table adjacent to the starting line a tagboard sign with the same clever #FreeIsobel logo. Susan stood behind the table, engulfed in a ski jacket under a matching T-shirt. Isobel pulled at Mark’s sleeve and pointed.
“See?” he said, one arm encircling her waist.
“You’ll see a clock at the finish line, so note your time if you want to.” Robin was wrapping up. “Otherwise, have fun out there!”
The crowd clapped again, and Robin had descended two steps when something flashed on her face. “Oh!” she said, laughing into the bullhorn. “I almost forgot. On your mark.” Riley bounced up and down in front of Isobel. “Get set!” Isobel caught sight of Julia, suddenly alert, shifting her weight from left to right, her ponytail swinging. “Go!”
The Johnson family started to move with the crowd. Isobel waved at Susan as she ran past the #FreeIsobel sign just as Riley shot ahead. “Mom,” Callie said, “he’s going too fast.”
“He’ll be back,” Isobel told her.
“I’ll go with him,” Mark said, surging forward.
Isobel smiled down at Callie as the two jogged. “Fun, right?” Callie nodded, and Isobel felt buoyed by the students’ visible support. When they reached the first mile marker, Callie asked for a walk break.
“Sure!” Isobel agreed. As they slowed, she patted Callie’s back. “I’m glad you suggested a break.” And it was true; it had been a long time since Isobel had run three miles in a row, though she’d been a regular runner in her early years of teaching. It was an efficient means of exercise for someone with no free time. Callie stretched her arms over her head. Runners plodded past them, including Jamie Preston.
“You made it!” Isobel called to Jamie as she ran by. “Good job!” Jamie gave a thumbs-up and kept moving. “How are you feeling?” Isobel asked Callie.
“Fine,” Callie said. “I just wanted a rest. Where do you think Riley and Dad are?” The course had enough turns that they couldn’t see far ahead.
“I bet we’ll catch up,” Isobel said.
On her left, Isobel saw Julia’s blond ponytail swing past them, her legs kicking out to the side with each stride. Suddenly Isobel wanted to go again. “Should we start up?” she suggested to Callie. “Take it slow?” Callie shrugged, but Isobel pressed. “Let’s just give it a try.”
JULIA ABBOTT
Julia checked her Garmin and saw she’d run the first mile in just over nine minutes. Not bad, she thought, and increased the volume of her cardio playlist, a mix of Kelly Clarkson, Shakira, and Pink. She repeated her trainer’s directive to keep her arms close to her body and her thumbs reaching her hips on their backswings. Looking good, she decided. If she could average nine-minute miles, even Ron the Trainer, as Henry always referred to him, would be impressed.
On her left, Julia noticed Isobel’s frizzy bob and green cap. She was running with her daughter, and Julia could see
a slight jiggle above the backs of Isobel’s knees as she took each step. Has Ms. Johnson’s own daughter announced over dinner that she no longer wishes to have children? What kind of literature do they read together?
Julia’s eyes narrowed as Isobel crept a few feet in front of her. She felt the cold air on her cheeks and on the back of her neck. She glanced at her watch. Could she pick up the pace? At less than halfway through the race, it was risky. She watched Isobel move a few feet in front, and her palms felt suddenly itchy. Certainly she could keep up with Isobel Johnson, who didn’t appear to adhere to any fitness regimen.
An uptick in pace begins with the arms, she told herself, parroting Ron once again. She pumped her elbows a little harder and brought herself even with Isobel, who ran ten feet to her left. She’d stay here, she thought, and glanced at her Garmin. Current pace: eight minutes and fifty-two seconds per mile.
Julia worked to regulate her breathing. As she thought about her belly, willing it to rise and fall per Ron’s directions, she passed a few people. Her confidence surged. Hold on, she told herself. Don’t get too excited. Every thirty seconds or so, Julia allowed herself a sidelong glance to check for Isobel. During one of these looks, she saw Annabelle Young wearing the volunteer shirt on the side of the road. “Straight on, runners!” she yelled, idiotically waving a Norwegian flag.
Julia rolled her eyes. She could just discern the second mile marker a couple of blocks up, opposite the Lutheran church where she’d sent the kids to preschool three mornings a week, back when they still appreciated her, and clung to her when the teachers insisted they come into the classroom. Julia began panting a bit, her breath coming harder. She reached into her pocket and turned up her playlist again. You can do this. Only a mile to go. She pictured Ron’s red face at the end of her circuit training. “Get it!” he’d shout at her. She heard the words in her head and smiled. “Get it,” she said aloud to herself on the next exhale.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 28