“What?” A girl next to her swiveled her head.
“Sorry,” said Julia. “Nothing.”
The girl passed. But Julia was still even with Isobel, soldiering forward at an identical pace. She’d pass her in five minutes, Julia decided. Stay even for a half mile more and then go. The woman had poisoned her daughter against her, but she wouldn’t beat her in a race Julia had prepared for. This was within her control.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Every minute or so, when she looked over to encourage Callie, Isobel also checked for Julia, who continued to run about ten feet to her right. Her posture remained impossibly erect, arms swinging methodically at her sides, pointy nose toward the finish line.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Callie had asked after one of these status checks. Isobel realized she’d scrunched her nose and lowered her eyebrows, the same expression she’d employ if she found a hunk of moldy cheese in her refrigerator’s deli drawer.
Isobel immediately relaxed her features. “Nothing,” she said, and then, knowing it would make her daughter laugh: “I thought I smelled something.”
“Wasn’t me!” Callie giggled, and then pointed at Mark and Riley, who were walking less than fifty yards ahead. “Hey! There’s Dad. You were right—we’d see them again.”
“Slow and steady is a great option,” Isobel said. Callie surged to reach them, and then walked. Isobel slowed, too, to greet her husband and son. She watched Julia run ahead, her knees lifting high—ridiculously high, Isobel thought—and her ponytail swinging like a pendulum. “How’s everybody feeling?” Isobel asked.
“Good. Just taking a break before our big finish.” Mark winked and tipped his head toward Riley.
“That’s great.” Isobel reached a palm out, and Riley reciprocated her high five. “Hey,” she said, looking over his head at Mark. “I’m feeling pretty good, and I was thinking of running the last mile. Could I . . . ?” The wind buffeted her cheeks, and yet she could feel the heat in them.
“Go ahead.” Mark pointed down the road, urging her on. “Meet afterward by the T-shirt table?”
She nodded and looked up at Julia, who was now seventy or so yards away. “Yep.” Isobel sped up. “I’ll see you all at the finish. Proud of you!” she called back.
“Bye, Mom,” Callie called. “Have fun!”
Isobel felt a new energy as she gained ground on Julia. Julia had left that horrible voice mail, and then questioned her motives and applauded her suspension. She might cost Isobel her job, but Isobel was determined she wouldn’t lose to Julia in this race. And though her heart felt like it might burst with the effort, she drew even with her again.
When she looked over to verify, to make certain that she was indeed even, the two women locked eyes for a moment. Isobel drew in a sharp breath through her nose, a frisson of anger rippling through her as the wind stung her eyes. Suddenly her right foot caught on a crack in the asphalt and she stumbled. Although she quickly righted herself, adrenaline pulsed through her limbs. I’m not going to lose this, Isobel thought, and took a couple of quick steps to regain her pace.
Though Isobel’s legs felt heavy, she urged her knees up. She found herself leaning slightly forward as she tried to increase her speed. She passed a few students wearing #FreeIsobel shirts, one of whom shouted, “Justice for Johnson!” She raised her right hand to acknowledge the encouragement, but she didn’t look back. “I signed the petition!” another shouted, and Isobel quickened her feet.
The two women made the second-to-last turn of the race, and Isobel could see the faster runners strung out ahead of them. Try to pass one person at a time. Isobel’s footfalls began sounding louder. She realized she’d acquired a slight wheeze on her inhales. You only have a couple of minutes left, she thought. Push it.
Isobel checked for Julia but didn’t immediately find her. It was only when she looked over her shoulder that she saw her, chin up and mouth open. She’s hurting, Isobel realized. The thought propelled her. Another surge here could demoralize Julia, but when she tried to turn her feet over faster, she came up empty. There was nothing to do but hold at her current pace. As it was, it had to be faster than she’d run in years.
The racers took the final turn, and Isobel could see the finish flag, about two blocks ahead, kids and parents standing on either side of the street, clapping. Isobel tried again to speed up, but the back of her throat burned with the cold air, and her thighs felt leaden. Julia’s driving knees came back into Isobel’s peripheral vision, the woman’s arms pumping, her fingers balled into fists. Come on! Isobel squinted and sucked in the longest breath she could muster. Go, she willed, and miraculously, her body responded.
From the sidelines, she heard, “Go, Ms. J.! Wow!” She glanced left, and it was Tracy in her pom-pom hat and protest tee. It occurred to Isobel to wave, but she couldn’t. Julia had pulled a few feet ahead. “No,” Isobel said stubbornly. She gave it her last and best effort, closing her eyes for a beat as she sprinted. She didn’t dare look over to see if Julia had matched her.
When she opened her eyes, she’d passed the finish line. She looked to her left. “You got me,” Julia said then, not smiling, her hands on her hips as she walked.
Isobel blinked. Her chin tipped up, opening her airway. “Good job,” she breathed, her congratulations automatic before Julia walked away toward the gym. Isobel stepped up on the curb and watched the other runners make the final turn. Jamie ran by, and then, after a minute or so, Mark and the kids appeared, jogging the last couple of blocks together.
JULIA ABBOTT
Julia found Tracy holding a cup of cocoa behind the #FreeIsobel table near the finish line.
“What is this?” Julia asked, deflated.
Tracy picked up the clipboard. “I’m collecting signatures to get Ms. Johnson back in the classroom.” Tracy looked past Julia, seemingly searching the crowd for potential signatories.
Julia had hoped that some of Tracy’s outrage would have dulled as she watched her favorite teacher take Julia down in the final moments of the race, but this clearly hadn’t happened. Julia wished she could go back, wished she had accomplished a higher knee drive or pumped her arms with more vigor. She wished she had won.
“That was a fast finish,” Tracy said after a long pause in which Julia flipped through the names of students next to their scrawled signatures on one of the clipboards. Andrew was there, as were most of the theater kids. “There are more signatures online,” Tracy added. “Andrew worked on that version.”
Julia stared at her Nike training shoes, wet with melting snow. Silence stretched between them, and Julia held her ground as a couple of kids walked up.
Tracy handed over a clipboard and a pen. “Reinstate Ms. Johnson?” she asked.
“God yes,” said the girl. “Mrs. Youngstead is so boring.”
After they’d signed and left, Tracy turned to her mother. “Did you plan to race Ms. Johnson? What happened?”
Julia kept her eyes down. What had happened was that she succumbed to a rage-driven compulsion to beat Tracy’s English teacher in an irrelevant fund-raiser 5K. But that didn’t seem like the right answer for her fourteen-year-old. And besides, she’d failed.
“We kind of looked at each other at the second mile,” Julia said, remembering the moment, “and then, as we got close to the finish, we both sped up.”
“You ran a fast time,” Tracy said.
But I lost. “Can we go to the car?” Julia pointed toward the door and began walking, not waiting for Tracy to answer.
Julia dug in her pocket for her key fob and hit the unlock button as they approached the car. It wasn’t until she had pressed the ignition, pulled her down coat over her running clothes, and felt the warmer firing beneath the black leather seat that she realized how much tension she’d been carrying. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Mom?” Tracy said, hesitant. “Are you okay?”
/> Julia tried to smile. “I think that just took a lot out of me.” She imagined what she’d looked like as she sprinted down Liston Boulevard, even with Isobel Johnson. As she saw herself cross the finish line a millisecond behind, a zing of regret hit right at the base of her throat. What was the point of all that personal training if she couldn’t even muster a final burst of speed? She’d tell Ron she needed to focus on power for next year.
She shifted the Mercedes into reverse and watched the in-dash camera as she eased back from her spot. “Whom did you run with?” Julia asked as she turned her car toward the exit. She hoped they could avoid the name “Johnson” at least until they reached home.
“Tatiana.” Tracy scrolled through her phone. “Jessie. Some other people.”
“All kids from your Nordic-skiing team?” Julia realized she wasn’t sure where she’d put her own phone. She reached her hand toward her jacket pocket and patted it. Nothing.
“Yeah,” Tracy said, not looking up. Julia switched her hands on the wheel and patted her other pocket. Empty.
“Damn it,” she said. She reached beneath her coat and into her running-jacket pockets.
“What?” Tracy looked up.
“I can’t find my phone.”
Tracy opened the center console. “Not here,” she said. “Didn’t you just have it at the race?” Julia drove slowly through the lot toward the exit as she reached behind her, feeling the floor in front of the backseats.
“Can you see it back there?” Julia asked, her eyes on the blacktop in front of her. Tracy put an arm on the driver’s seat and twisted around, head panning the length of the car.
Julia dipped her head for a moment, reaching into the well on the driver’s-side door, feeling the bottom and sides of it. Just as she’d found the phone there, relief replacing her panic, she felt a thud and slammed on the brake.
“What the hell?” Julia snapped her head back toward the windshield, her eyes wide.
She heard a muffled yell from outside the car and, a half second later, a gasp from Tracy, who screamed as she pulled the passenger door open and ran around to the front, where someone was bent over in the crosswalk.
Julia blinked. More screams from outside, as a girl—the girl from the race, Julia realized, Isobel Johnson’s daughter—ran toward the car.
“Mom!” screamed Tracy, gesturing at her through the windshield. “Mom! It’s Ms. Johnson!”
ISOBEL JOHNSON
Isobel’s eyes blinked open. She lay on her side, her cheek against the concrete and her feet under the front bumper of a black SUV.
“Mom!” Callie screamed.
“Isobel?” Mark was pushing her shoulder back and forth, his face not two inches above hers. He stopped when they made eye contact.
“Okay,” she said, and Mark leaned back, weight against his heels as he knelt. She tried to push herself to sitting. Too quickly. Her vision blurred as she moved, and she felt Mark’s hands on her back, fingers reaching into her armpits.
“Go slowly,” Mark said. She looked down at her leggings, one side scuffed where she’d hit the pavement. A film of anger spread through her as she realized how she’d ended up here on the crosswalk. She reached up and pushed against the black car with her mitten.
“God,” she said. She shook her head. It thumped uncomfortably.
“Mom?” said Callie again.
Isobel reached out a hand to the voice and grabbed her daughter’s fingers. “I’m okay.” She willed her eyes up for a moment before she dropped her chin back to her chest.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” Mark moved one hand to the center of her back as he reached for his phone.
“No,” she said, suddenly furious. “Don’t call.”
“But—,” Mark began.
“No,” she said again, her voice low and rough. She put a hand on the ground, preparing to stand, ignoring the blurriness of her vision. She felt like screaming. She’d endured the voice mail, the horror of the suspension, and the revelation of her father’s crimes. She’d fought for her job without knowing which families were in her corner and which were plotting against her. And now one of these horrible bitches had literally run her down in the parking lot.
“I’m okay,” she said to Mark, grasping his shoulder with her free hand. She saw Tracy Abbott standing over them. Tracy’s cheeks were pink, and tears pooled in her blue eyes.
Of course, Isobel thought. I’ve been mowed down by Julia fucking Abbott.
“Ms. Johnson?” Tracy’s voice was choked.
Isobel shook her throbbing head. “It’s not your fault,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Isobel, we have to see a doctor,” said Mark. “We need to check your head.” He pointed at her right temple. She reached up and felt it under her hat. Already, a lump swelled there, pain radiating across her skull.
“In a few minutes,” Isobel said. “Help me up.” He hoisted her to standing, and Riley grabbed her around her waist. She kept one arm on Mark and wrapped the other around her son.
“Everything’s fine,” she told Riley as he let go. And then she saw Julia herself approaching, her eyes wide and fearful.
“I’m—,” Julia began.
Isobel put a palm up to stop her speaking. She put one foot in front of the other to keep from swaying. “I don’t want you to apologize.” Julia shrank back, her mouth still open. Isobel, cold now that she’d finished running, took a deep breath, and a surge of fresh rage rushed in with it. She closed her eyes.
“Honey?” Mark said anxiously.
Isobel opened her eyes again, and things looked clearer. A small clump of people watched the interaction from behind Julia’s car. “I’m fine,” Isobel insisted. She took a step toward Julia, away from Mark. She felt surprisingly steady. “But”—Isobel looked straight at her—“I do want something from you.”
A puff of Julia’s breath hung visible in the winter air between them. Mark appeared again at her side, his arm back around her.
“Log in to Facebook,” Isobel said. “I want to see the Inside Liston Facebook page.”
Julia turned back toward her car, ostensibly to get her phone. Mark leaned in. “I think we should get you checked out,” he said, hoarse.
“We can go to urgent care in a few minutes,” Isobel said, “but first I need to see this.”
Julia reached into her car, where the door still hung open. She grabbed the phone from her seat and walked back toward Isobel. Her mouth pinched as she navigated to the app. In a few seconds, she extended the phone.
Isobel looked down at it and blinked hard, willing her eyes to focus despite her dizziness. She leaned against Mark. “What does it say?” she asked him.
Mark squinted at the screen. He frowned. Is the Liston Heights Teachers’ Union lowering the quality of our kids’ education?
“As if,” Isobel said. She pulled her fingers apart over the screen to enlarge the type. The words still ran together. She blinked hard to clear her vision. The next post, she could see, skewered the guidance office. Something about one of the college counselors being inexcusably slow in uploading transcripts and the appalling inability of parents to screen all letters of recommendation.
“For fuck’s sake,” Isobel muttered.
“Mom!” said Riley.
“Sorry.” Isobel looked up and realized her family and the Abbotts were all standing in the middle of the crosswalk, the Mercedes SUV, its doors open, idling behind them. Other cars had begun backing up and turning around, heading for other exits from the lot. Somebody honked, an exasperated blast that made Isobel wince and reach for her head. “This could take a while,” she said. She swiveled too fast toward her husband and stumbled. Mark’s free hand went to her shoulder, righting her. “You and the kids could go get the van?” she asked.
“That doesn’t seem like a good idea.” He looked behind her at Julia.
Isobel smiled at Riley and Callie. “It’s just going to be a few minutes,” she said, her balance restored. And then to Julia: “I’d like to sit in your car, where it’s warm.” She turned to Tracy. “Help me.” Tracy jolted forward and grabbed her teacher’s elbow. Isobel put her free hand on the car for balance.
“You want to sit in the front?” Tracy asked.
“No, thanks,” Isobel said, gripping the phone. “Why don’t you and I get in the back? You can help me with this.”
“Uh,” said Julia, as she scuttled back to the driver’s seat, “I’m just going to pull back around to a parking spot.”
Isobel didn’t answer. Tracy slid into the car after her teacher. Isobel had reached a post by the group’s administrator, the so-called Lisa Lions.
“What does this say?” she asked, thrusting the phone at Tracy.
“‘Breaking,’” Tracy read. “‘Isobel Johnson reinstatement decision coming no later than next Friday.’”
Isobel squinted at the likes and comments, including one from Sheila Warner, which read, The administration fails to acknowledge the harm caused by this out-of-control instructor. Let’s demand action! Someone called Kate Awakened had written, If she’s not back in the classroom, the students will likely riot. Jake Tremaine’s mom, Margaret, had replied, Not my Jakey. He’s happier with the sub. I bet he is, thought Isobel, picturing Jake, perpetually confused. Isobel looked out and saw Jamie Preston approaching. She rolled the window down.
“I’m okay,” she said.
“Kids are saying you got hit by a car.” Jamie looked panicked.
“I did. This car.” Isobel pointed at her seat. She didn’t have the energy to make her explanation coherent. “But now I’m looking at Inside Liston,” she continued. Jamie’s eyes bulged, but Isobel rushed on. “You know, that Facebook group? I needed to see it, and Mrs. Abbott logged in. Can we talk later?”
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 29