That explains why Zoey has adjusted seamlessly in the past three days. While she’s new to me, Coach Gabe and her teammates have known Zoey over a week. If she is good at sports, it won’t be difficult for her to make friends at Victory Hills.
“It must be nice to get a good addition this late in the season,” I say. It’s no secret the track team loses more meets than they win. Most athletes only sign up to stay in shape while their primary sports are in off-season.
“Some of my existing members are giving her a hard time about taking their spots. Light hazing.” He rolls his eyes and readjusts his cap. “They’ll sing a different tune if she helps us land a win.” Without saying goodbye, he toots his whistle and jogs toward the track.
I’m a dedicated teacher, but I slack when it comes to supporting school events. Some of my co-workers are different, like Marge. She’s constantly chaperoning trips and sponsoring lock-ins. She’s the type of teacher our students will remember ten years from now. My students will remember the stories we read, maybe a few lively discussions, but my face will blur into unrecognizability by the time they graduate college. And I’m fine with that. I actively try to be forgettable.
An hour later, my assumptions about the team dynamics are confirmed when I see the visiting team has won most events. That tiny voice of professional guilt tells me I should stay, watch the end of the meet and support my students. Maybe I would, if I had any hope we’d win. But it’s already pushing seven o’clock. I’d told Danny I’d pick up takeout on the way home, our usual routine for nights I work late. By the time I retrieve Mexican food and arrive home, I’m drained.
The exhaustion stalks me into the next morning, when I find myself more irritable than usual about my abbreviated evening with Danny. We’d eaten tacos and started a Netflix movie, but we both fell asleep before ten without having much time to talk.
“You need a double dose this morning?” Marge asks. I’m standing at the coffee machine idly deciding what I should add to my drink. If only adrenaline came in little packets.
“I had game duty last night,” I say. “I’m wiped.”
“So, you got to see the big comeback, huh?” she asks, playfully bumping me out of her way so she can fill her cup.
“I didn’t stay,” I say, guiltily. Marge lives for school events and, although she’s not vocal about it, she doesn’t understand why the rest of the staff isn’t more involved. “When I left, a comeback didn’t seem possible.”
“It was all over social media last night,” she said. She flipped her hand in the air. “Sorry, I forget you don’t do that.”
I’ve never had an online account. Social media was just starting to get popular around the time Brian did what he did. In those days, all I wanted to do was disappear. I didn’t want to be found, by anyone. More than a decade later, I feel the same way.
“We can’t all be hip like you, Marge,” I joke. She laughs, because she more than makes up for my lack of interaction. She’s always posting and retweeting, then sharing the good parts with me in person.
“Well, it was a big deal,” she says, taking a seat in the nearby chair and emphasizing her words with hand gestures. “I couldn’t make it because I was hosting an Honors Club function, but my feed was blowing up with videos.”
“That’s exciting,” I say, partially wishing I’d stuck around to watch. I love a good comeback. “What turned things around?”
“Coach Gabe let the new girl participate. She helped the team win several categories. She even beat Darcy Moore’s season record.”
“Zoey Peterson?” I ask, even though I’ve already been told she’s the only new student on file.
“Yeah. You have her in class?” she asks. I nod. “I have Zoey in fourth block. She’s a colorful character. Of course, I had no idea she was such an athlete. An absolute star.”
“Huh,” I say, stirring my coffee. “That’s got to be a great welcome for your first week of school.”
“Seriously. She’s bright, too. She outscored everyone on yesterday’s chemistry test.”
“She’s only been in class three days,” I say, as though Marge is forgetting.
“I know. I’m telling you; this girl is special.” She sips her coffee and smiles. Marge’s tests are notoriously hard. I’ll catch students stealing the last ten minutes of my class to quiz each other before one of her exams. I can’t believe Zoey has already outperformed her peers.
“What about her behavior?” I ask. I’ve had a strange feeling about Zoey since she arrived, but evidently Coach Gabe and now Marge haven’t picked up on it. “Don’t you think she’s a little smug?”
“I’m not sure smug is the right word,” Marge starts, but is interrupted by the first bell. She throws up her hands and rolls her eyes. “I guess there’s work to be done.”
Given Zoey’s newfound celebrity, I’m surprised she doesn’t arrive to first block. Of course, given how much her family moves around, it wouldn’t be surprising if poor attendance becomes habitual.
I log into my school account to post the day’s attendance electronically. Normally, if a student is absent for a medical or school-related incident, the system alerts me. I plug in the missing students for the day and notice three letters by Zoey’s name: OSS. Out of School Suspension.
Uh oh, I think, almost feeling sorry for the kid. She went from a moody first day, to a team hero, and now she’s being punished. For what? OSS is usually reserved for serious offences. I keep my ears open during class. There’s plenty of chatter, but nothing pertaining to Zoey or someone being punished. Instead, everyone’s buzzing about the Spring Fling dance scheduled for Saturday night. Darcy and Devon share pictures of their desired hairstyles. The students in my other classes act similarly. They’re focused on Spring Fling and not much else. I wait until fourth block and visit Pam in her office. If something has happened at school, she’ll know about it.
“Are you chaperoning the dance this weekend?” Pam asks when I walk through her office door.
“I am,” I say, taking a seat.
“I’ll see you there. Any other plans this weekend?” She smiles. It’s hard to imagine a more perfect job for her. She immediately makes a person want to share their feelings. Students love her, too. They’re so comfortable with her they address her by her first name.
“We have a few tasks around the house we’ve been meaning to complete. We’re redoing our guest bedroom.”
When we bought the house two years ago, it needed updating. Since then, we’ve been tackling the place one room at a time. Soon, the guest room, and the whole house, will be complete.
“You live a charmed life, you know,” Pam says. She looks to her left, at a picture of her twin second graders. “We are going to the mall and buying new equipment for baseball season. I know I should be used to it by now, but it really sucks having to get two of everything.”
I can’t imagine how chaotic life with twins must be. I can’t even swallow having one. Any desire to have children vanished after surviving my childhood with Brian.
“I’ve come to gossip,” I say, lowering my voice. “I noticed Zoey Peterson has OSS today. Any idea what happened?”
The friendly sheen in her eyes disappears. She stands and closes her office door.
“Didn’t Bowles come talk to you?”
“No,” I say, my curiosity heightened.
“Not surprising.” She leans against the door, tilting her head upward to the ceiling. “He said he wanted all of Zoey’s classroom teachers to be aware, but besides that he’s keeping quiet. There was an issue on the school bus this morning.”
“What happened?”
She looks at me, crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one side of her body. “The bus driver caught Zoey with a knife.”
My mouth drops. This was not what I was expecting to hear. We never have students—let alone female students—being reprimanded for carrying weapons. A series of potential blades flash in my mind, and my pulse picks up pace. “A knife? She b
rought it to school?”
“Well, not technically.” Pam raises her hands in an attempt to calm me. She walks back to her desk and takes a seat.
“She brought it on the bus, which is good enough,” I say. “What was she doing with it?”
“She didn’t even have it out—”
“Then how did the driver see it?” I suck in a breath and slowly exhale. In my mind, I start counting to de-escalate my worry. One… two… three. It’s a trick Dr. Walters taught me in one of our early sessions. Any weapon would be concerning, but I’m particularly bothered by knives. I hate knives.
“It was a little pocketknife. She was getting off the bus when her bag fell. That’s when the driver saw it.”
“Well, what did he do?”
“It’s not like he could ignore it. He radioed the SRO and got an administrator to meet Zoey at the bus. Bowles handled it from there.”
“Bringing a knife to school is zero tolerance. It should be an immediate expulsion,” I say. That’s our policy, although in my time at Victory Hills we’ve never had to enforce it.
“Well, they aren’t looking at the situation like that.”
“What do you mean?” I remember what brought me to Pam’s office to begin with, the OSS flag on the attendance website. “They aren’t just giving her OSS, are they?”
“For today and tomorrow. Bowles talked to Zoey. He asked her why she had the knife, and she explained she didn’t realize it was in her bag. It was a pocketknife. Not like an actual weapon.”
“Yes, it is,” I argue. I imagine all the damage a person can do with a little knife. The damage that had already been done. The tragedy that could have been prevented, if only I’d acted sooner.
“A pencil can be a weapon, too.” Pam’s tone mimics that of an obnoxious child. “That’s Bowles’ theory, anyway.”
I sigh at the ridiculous comparison. “Yeah, maybe if James Bond is using it. It’s 2020. Every student knows you can’t bring a knife to school.”
“Look, I hear everything you’re saying. I even agree with you, but Zoey claimed to have brought it by accident. They are giving her the benefit of the doubt.”
“OSS is a slap on the wrist and we both know it. It’s school-approved vacation.”
I suddenly feel I am in the position of a student, being counseled from the other side of the desk. Four… five… six. I can’t help but think Bowles is giving Zoey a pass because she’s female. He must not consider her a threat, and maybe she’s not. I wonder if I’m hoping Zoey will be punished because of her attitude on her first day. Sometimes it’s harder for me to shake a grudge than I’d like.
“Bowles is handling the situation quietly. That’s why he wants to speak with all of Zoey’s teachers. Make sure they’re hyper-aware of her behavior. I mean, why would this kid bring a weapon to her first week of school on purpose? Maybe she did just forget.” Pam sighs and looks down at her desk calendar, which is covered in colorful scribbles and doodles. Her efforts to de-escalate the situation aren’t convincing, even to herself. “I think Bowles is giving the kid a chance.”
There’s an edge in Pam’s words, like maybe we should do the same. I don’t like the feeling. I’m not a ballbuster, but I think this is a pretty big offense to let slide. Even if it is her first week.
I uncross my arms. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Zoey’s performance at the track meet, would it?”
She arches her eyebrows and curves her lips. “She will return before next week’s meet. Interesting timing, huh?”
I shake my head, hoping I am wrong, and our school isn’t bending the rules solely for sports.
Pam continues, “We’ll keep an eye on Zoey. Maybe this is the environment she needs in her life.”
It is an optimistic idea, that a certain place or person can make a difference. We all want to feel that way, like we’re doing our part to better the world. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
Six
Summer 2002
“Della,” Dad shouted from downstairs. I was still in bed, my lavender comforter pulled tight over my head to muffle the sounds of him and everyone else.
“Della,” he said again, this time his voice quieter and closer.
I pulled the comforter down, disrupting a few strands of hair in the process. Dad stood in the doorway. He held a cup of coffee and smiled.
“It’s Saturday,” I reminded him, as though he’d broken some rule.
“Correct,” he said. “But it’s also nine.”
“On a Sat-UR-day,” I said, dissecting each syllable in that way teenagers do when they’re trying to make a point.
“Your mom has already called looking for you.”
“Why?” I rolled to the side and stretched my legs.
“She’s been at the clubhouse for hours,” Dad said. “She’s decorating for the party and needs your help.”
“Have Brian help her,” I said, rolling to my left.
“He’s been down there over an hour.” Dad walked into the room and sat on the bed. He put down his coffee and shook me.
“Why do I have to help?” I whined. “This is her job.”
Mom was the Wilsonville community planner. In my short life, I’d never met anyone more perfect for the position. She was responsible for organizing social gatherings and seasonal functions. Fairs and charity events and block parties. Mom was paid well to do what she loved.
“Ever heard the phrase, It takes a village?” Dad always introduced new sayings, many of which I didn’t appreciate until later in life. “I’ve let you sleep in late enough, kiddo.”
He gave me another hearty shake. I sighed, slung my legs to the side and placed my feet on the floor.
“Let me get dressed,” I said, my eyes squinted against the room’s brightness. I grabbed my contacts container on the nightstand and popped the clear discs into my eyes. Now everything was in focus. Dad’s face, with his thin beard and thick glasses. His smile.
“That’s my girl,” Dad said, rustling my hair with his hand before standing.
It didn’t take me long to get ready in those days. I hadn’t been bitten by the beauty bug that infected my peers. I was thirteen but could have passed for younger. I opened my top drawer and selected a yellow one-piece bathing suit. I pulled it on and layered it with one of Dad’s oversized shirts. I braided my hair and brushed my teeth. Ta-da, I was ready for the day.
I slumped downstairs and found Dad sitting in the kitchen, his focus on the morning newspaper.
“You ready, Dell?” he asked when, after several seconds, he noticed I’d arrived.
“I guess.”
He stood and grabbed the car keys from the center fruit bowl.
“Why don’t we just walk?” I asked. “It’s like five minutes away.”
“Mom might have something we need to load or pick up.” He finished his coffee in one swig and placed it on the counter. “Say, why don’t you ever want to help with your mom’s events?”
“She’s just so…” I scanned the kitchen, as though written on the refrigerator or microwave would be a snarky word that would best describe my mother. “Intense.”
Dad laughed. “She can definitely be that.” He put his arm over my shoulder, and we walked toward the front door. “But she’s intense in the best kind of way.”
I rolled my eyes. Minutes later and only a few meters away, we pulled into an empty parking space. The pool area was already decorated. Each gatepost had a red, white or blue balloon attached. Through the metal slats, I could see Mom and Brian scurrying around the pool’s edge. When she heard the car door close, Mom jerked her head and looked.
“Thank God,” she said. “Honey, I need you to pick up food platters from the deli. Della, come on in here and help me.”
“Told you I needed the car,” Dad whispered, shrinking back into the vehicle. “Do what your mother says.”
“About time,” Brian said when he heard the pool gate slam.
“Shut it,” I said, walking to
ward Mom.
“What did you say to me?” Brian put down the roll of streamers he had in his hands and took a step closer.
“That’s enough,” Mom said, standing between us and using both hands to point. “People will be here within the hour. We don’t have time for bickering.”
“He started it,” I whined.
“Not now, Della.” Her voice was firm. “Besides, it is about time. What were you thinking sleeping in so late?”
“Mom, I—”
“Enough,” she said, stomping her foot on the concrete. “The tables are already set up. I just need you to add tablecloths.”
“Fine,” I said, biting my bottom lip and storming off.
Brian returned to manhandling the streamers, an aggravating smile on his face.
By noon, the entire pool area was packed. Everyone gravitated toward their usual neighborhood crowd. For Dad, that meant he stood alone by the barbecue hoping to go unnoticed. Mom floated from one cluster to the next, ensuring everyone was jovial and well fed. Brian was talking to his best friend in the neighborhood, Danny.
“The place looks great,” said Amber as she walked up. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head and she wore a striped cover-up. “Did you help?”
“Yeah,” I said, thumbing my braid. “It takes a village.”
Amber was the only girl in my grade who lived in the neighborhood, which made her my best friend. She lived five houses down on Danny’s side of the street. Their row of houses was the most expensive on the cul-de-sac. That’s why they’re only children, Mom would say in a bitter tone. She said Amber’s parents couldn’t handle more than one, and she referred to Danny as an Oops baby, since his mother was nearing forty when she had him.
“I can’t believe this is the last week of summer,” Amber said.
For Floridians, that wasn’t necessarily true. While Wilsonville certainly had cold spells, entertainment was always nearby. An hour’s drive in one direction took us to the beach. An hour’s drive in another direction landed us near all the major theme parks. Even the community pool stayed open year-round. The days would be unbearably hot for at least another two months.
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 3