My brother was thirteen the first time he tried to kill me. Before that, there was only violence in an explainable sense. A smack when I stole a fry. A kick when I took away his ball. I never thought much of it, nor did my parents. He wasn’t trying to harm me, I thought. Only retaliate.
He’d broken one of Dad’s guitar strings, and even though he threatened me with his stern, squeaky voice not to tell, I did. Mom and Dad unplugged his Nintendo 64 and sent him to bed.
Hours later, I woke up to a strange smell. Between the darkness and my vision impairment, I couldn’t decipher anything but lights and blurs. When I put my glasses on and focused, I saw the flames climbing the floor-length curtains of my bedroom window. I sat motionless, too scared to move, breathing in the smoke.
Mom and Dad ran into my room seconds later. Mom scooped me up as Dad got a bowl of water and effortlessly extinguished the flames. Perhaps it was scarier to me than it was to them, but I still remember the staccato thumping of Mom’s heart as she held me close.
“No more candles, Della,” Dad howled, out of breath from his speedy rush with the water bowl.
“We’ve told you to blow them out before bed,” Mom said, slightly less angry. Her fingers slid under my frames and wiped the tears off my cheeks.
Perhaps allowing an eleven-year-old to burn candles wasn’t the best parenting decision Mom and Dad made, but it would also prove to be far from their worst.
“I blew them out,” I said. I took a deep breath and clutched the ragged edge of my blanket. “I always blow them out.”
“Obviously you didn’t,” Dad said, shaking the charred fabric.
“I did,” I cried. I knew, knew, knew I did, and even if I didn’t, the three candles I’d bought with my allowance on our last family vacation sat on my dresser, nowhere near the window. One had been moved, away from its mates and near the scorched remains of my curtains.
“You’re lucky Brian came and got us,” Mom said, pressing her cool palms against my cheeks.
And that’s when I saw him, standing in the doorway. His eyes looked through me and everyone else, as always. The sides of his lips flicked upward. My ninety seconds of horror would provide him entertainment for the next month.
“He did this!” I lifted my arm. My fingers, still clutching the blanket, shook the entire cloth as I pointed. “I know he did.”
“Oh, ridiculous,” Mom said.
“He did this because you took his stupid Nintendo,” I cried.
My parents always told Brian to stay away from Dad’s instruments. He never listened. I’d felt a flicker of pride when I discovered one of the strings was broken. Younger siblings are constantly searching for the upper hand, even though I felt guilty when he yelled at Mom and slammed his bedroom door. I knew he’d find a way to get even, but I didn’t expect this.
“I had to potty and smelled something weird,” Brian said. I hadn’t heard him use potty in forever. Usually it was pee or piss, and when he felt particularly dangerous, shit.
“He’s lying,” I screamed, my fear twisting into anger. I attempted to wriggle out of Mom’s lap, but she held tight.
“Enough,” Mom said.
Dad said nothing. Not that night and not the following morning.
Brian went back to his room. Mom and Dad did, too. I cradled myself in bed, unable to sleep. The smell of smoke lingered. I knew what Brian had done and dreaded what he was capable of, perhaps, doing again. No one believed me then, or in the years that followed. No one believed me until it was too late.
Five weeks until summer break. Students think they’re the only ones counting down the days until school is out. Even at the high school level, they don’t recognize their teachers as actual people. They’re lost in the throes of solipsism; I think half the student body believes we teachers only exist within the boundaries of block scheduling.
“Someone’s looking tan,” Marge says as she stands behind me in the employee lounge. When I turn, I see she’s added chunky caramel streaks to her dark, shoulder-length hair since I last saw her. The highlights make her look hip and different, two descriptions Marge is always trying to fit.
“Thanks,” I say, moving so Marge can pour coffee. “Danny and I spent spring break in Hilton Head.”
“Fancy,” she says, pulling back the tab of a miniature creamer and adding the contents to her cup.
“Not really,” I say, flipping hair off my shoulder. I’m constantly finding the balance between telling my co-workers what’s going on in my life and not sounding like a braggart. “We went last minute and only stayed four days.”
That’s the beauty of being working professionals without kids. Danny and I have both the time and money to afford nice things. But instead of buying luxuries, we travel. We crave new places like most people do caffeine.
Marge teaches A.P. Chemistry. She’s single and doesn’t have children either. She might make digs about fancy last-minute trips (I’m married to a doctor, after all), but she enjoys wandering as much as I do. She’ll probably leave Tennessee at the end of May and not return until August.
“How was your break?” I ask. I can tell Marge has spent time shopping, too. Her purple blouse and dark pants look new, although paired with a familiar, dusty pair of shoes.
“I took a train to D.C. for a few days,” she says. She stirs her coffee and tilts her head to the side.
“Nice,” I say, unable to remember the last time I went. “I love it there.”
“Me too. I never get to enjoy it when I chaperone trips, but I sure do miss the mountain air.”
Marge, like most of my other co-workers, has never lived outside of Tennessee. She has an attachment to home I’ve never felt. I could change locations tomorrow, and my outlook on life wouldn’t change.
“I’d chat longer, but I’ve got copies to make,” I say, gathering my papers and balancing the coffee mug in my hand. “I didn’t do near enough prep before break.”
She nods. “This close to summer, the admins ought to be thankful we even show up.”
“It’s not like the students do,” I say, walking out the door.
After making copies in the workroom, I enter my classroom and begin setting out the day’s materials. This is my fifth year at Victory Hills, which means I’m finally eligible for tenure. I teach American literature to 11th graders. We read Poe and Steinbeck and Hemingway until my students are blue in the face, and yet it never gets old to me. I expect a sliver of optimism from my classes this week, knowing we’ve all enjoyed a needed break. I know the closer we get to summer, the further away they’ll get from me, their minds already fixed on sunny days by the pool and later curfews.
The morning bell rings. A whoosh of voices and feet transform the quiet hallways into a mob. I’m at my desk before the first student arrives. They drip in, one by one, each consumed by their own distracted daze. Some are sunburnt, others are not fully awake.
“Welcome back,” I say after the last bell rings. “Let the countdown to summer begin.”
Darcy, who always sits in the back, lets out a woo and everyone laughs. Adam, her boyfriend, leans in and squeezes her shoulder. So, they are alive.
Melanie on the front row raises her hand. “Are we starting The Crucible this week?” she asks. She’s memorized the syllabus and knows that’s the final text we’ll study this semester.
“No, we’ll start that next week,” I say.
“What are we doing?” asks Ben, probably still blazed from his pre-school joint. He’s a smart kid, one of the ones that doesn’t really want to show it because he thinks it will cramp his style. But he always nods along and hardly needs any revision after a second draft.
“We have some short stories to read,” I say. “Grab the blue books in the back and turn to page three hundred and sixty.”
They groan, but reluctantly obey. We read Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily”. I wait patiently for that chilling last paragraph to thoroughly disgust and entertain them. It’s one of the simple pleasures of being a teacher, watching each year as new minds devour the twisted stories that shaped our world.
When we finish, I give them a few minutes to vent and ask questions. I’m standing at my podium in the center of the room when I hear a knock. I walk to the front and open the door, which always remains locked.
“Good morning, Della.” It’s Principal Bowles, a name I’ve always considered unfortunate for a disciplinarian. The only hair on his head or face rests about four inches wide above his top lip. He’s standing beside a girl I’ve never seen. “We’ve got a new student for you. This is Zoey Peterson and she’s in your first block.”
“All right,” I say, masking the annoyance that I’ll have to redeliver all my introductory class materials with so little time left in the semester. Not the kid’s fault. I smile. “Zoey, I’m Mrs. Mayfair.”
“Nice to meet you.” Zoey stares at me, taking me in. She’s short and slim. Her dark hair falls halfway down her back, her bangs partially covering her wide-set eyes. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a pastel cardigan, which screams not from around here. Her hand extends to shake mine. Another clue she’s not necessarily the type of student I’m used to encountering at Victory Hills. Usually I get a shrug until I’ve really proven myself.
“Class is about halfway over. Go ahead and grab a seat,” I tell her.
Zoey walks into the classroom and sits down confidently. She puts her notebook and pen on the shelf under her chair and straightens her posture. Half of my current students stopped bringing writing tools back in February.
I step into the hallway to make sure the other students can’t hear.
“Military?” I ask Principal Bowles. There’re only two reasons why a kid shows up this late in the year. A traveling military family is one of them.
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “Just trouble.” He walks away.
Families rooted in stability wouldn’t dream of transferring their child this late into the year. Just about anything can wait five weeks. Getting a new student now means her folks either don’t care at all or there’s a reason she left where she was.
“Oh, boy,” I say, before walking back in the classroom.
The students’ voices have turned from murmurs to yelps. Each cluster is carrying on a different conversation. Any brief distraction beckons them to socialize.
“Let’s get back to the story,” I say, after pausing until the room is silent. “Part of the reason the ending is so gripping is because of the story’s disjointed structure. Faulkner creates ambiguity by steering away from a linear timeline.”
The students, except for Melanie, barely listen. Ben nods. Devon, in the third row, is obviously doing something with her phone under her desk. Darcy and Adam, first block’s designated lovebirds, angle their bodies toward one another. I walk behind their desks and clear my throat, prompting them to sit properly and listen.
“I want you to get in your learning groups and create a timeline. I’ll give you specific events from the story, and you will place them in chronological order,” I say.
“So, like, beginning to end?” asks Devon, chomping a wad of gum.
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I say.
“Mrs. Mayfair,” says Zoey, raising her hand. “Is there a particular group you want me to join?”
“I’m sorry, Zoey.” I’d forgotten there was a new student, even though we’d only met minutes ago. My mind is still back at the beach with Danny. “Grab a book and get caught up on the story. It’s called ‘A Rose for Emily’. Page three hundred and sixty.”
“I figured that out from what you said earlier,” she says, bending to the side and retrieving her notebook from under her desk. “I’ve read it before.”
“Great. I’ll place you with a group in a minute,” I say, looking at the student roster on my clipboard. I don’t know anything about Zoey’s academic performance, but her familiarity with the story is a good sign.
“It’s bizarre, don’t you think?” Zoey asks, interrupting my focus. “Reading a story about necrophilia in a high school English class.”
The other students snap their heads and stare. People don’t typically speak in that tone here. We’re a placid school, with even the unruly students understanding they should take advantage of the knowledge being preached so they’ll be prepared for college. I notice some students tapping their phones, I’m sure googling what necrophilia means. I pray to God they don’t click on images.
I clear my throat. “The story is not about that, Zoey.”
“Sure it is,” she says. “The lady held onto her fiancé’s corpse for, like, thirty years. She slept with the body.”
“It could be interpreted that way, sure. But there is nothing in the story which explicitly states she was intimate with the corpse.”
Most students in my class are seventeen. Some of the stories in our state-mandated curriculum cover intense themes, but we usually try to glide over the sex and violence stuff. It’s there, and students can see it if they look closely enough. Most never take the time. Zoey, clearly, has.
“Most great literature relies on inference,” she says. She straightens her posture and leans back, waiting for my response. This entire confrontation feels familiar. The way Zoey is trying to challenge my authority. The way she’s dissecting the story and extracting the goriest parts. And the way she seems to enjoy causing a scene. It’s reminds me of something Brian would do. For a moment, it’s like he’s sitting in the back of the classroom watching me squirm.
I can tell from the blank stares of the other students that their thoughts are swirling. They’re trying to keep up with what Zoey is saying while simultaneously attempting to understand her intentions. Her vocabulary is clearly advanced, but her tone is harsh.
“That’s right, Zoey. A lot can be inferred from this story,” I say, giving her credit where it’s due. “The dead body creates a good twist, but that’s not necessarily what the story is about.”
“No one reads this story and recalls Miss Emily’s objectification by the town, or the subtle racism shown via the character Tobe,” Zoey says. If I were grading essays, I’d assume she pulled that line straight from SparkNotes. But there isn’t a phone in her hands, and she hasn’t been in the room long enough to conduct research. She pushes a fallen strand away from her face. “People remember the dead fucking body.”
The curse word drops like a bomb followed by utter silence. If I flicked a rubber band at Melanie on the front row, I think she’d crack. I wait a beat before speaking.
“Go ahead and get in your learning groups,” I repeat to the class. The students move immediately, grateful for instruction on how to act. They’re a laidback bunch, first period. It’s too early for power plays in the morning. Zoey remains seated as I skate toward her desk.
“Zoey, I really appreciate your interest in this story. And, as you’ll see, a lot of learning in my classroom is discussion based,” I begin. “But you cannot use that language. It’s offensive and distracting.”
It might be her first day, but it’s not mine. Classroom management is a duel of wills. I ignore the majority of inappropriate language I hear throughout the day; they are teenagers. But when someone blurts out something so blatant in front of the class, it’s a test on both ends.
“This is a warning,” I continue.
Zoey stares back, her expression unchanging. It’s the same stare she gave me when we met, the same stare Brian gave me half of my childhood. Like she’s trying to figure me out. Decide if I’m what she expected. She knows it’s her turn to draw a weapon, and she’s choosing which one it should be. Then, finally, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayfair. I’ll watch what I say in your class.”
“Thank you,” I say. She’s clearly smart, albeit a brat. Those are the students who secretly search for common ground. They want to connect but don’t know how. I smile. “So, where are you from? Tell me about your last school.”
“I’m from Florida,” she says.
Saliva stalls in my throat. There’s not a big gap between Florida and Tennessee, but Victory Hills is so small, I don’t encounter people from the area often. And when I do, I always experience the familiar pang of anxiety. Like Brian is closer than I think.
She continues, “But I’ve been all over. Most recently, Virginia.”
“You move around a lot?” I ask, wanting to know more.
“My mom isn’t really one to stay in one place, you know?”
“I see,” I say, hesitantly. “That can be exciting, I guess. I’m sure you’ve been exposed to a lot of different cultures.”
“Trust me, my mom’s not moving around for my benefit. But I did luck out this time around. My last school was really shitty.” She stops, holds up her hands. My eyes take in her chipped purple polish. “Excuse me, crummy. My last school was really crummy. I’ll work on the language, Mrs. Mayfair.”
She waits for my reaction. She has dark, blank eyes and a subtle smile. I wonder how to address her second slur within five minutes. None of the other students heard, so I let it slide.
“Clearly you’re well read,” I say. “Your last school couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Oh, I didn’t read ‘A Rose for Emily’ at my last school,” she says, strumming her fingers over her notebook. “I read it for fun.”
“I see.” It’s hard to picture this teenager with her tight jeans and potty-mouth reading Faulkner for pleasure in between moves. “Go ahead and join the group in the back.”
She stands and picks a seat next to Ben. She shakes his hand. She nods at Adam and Darcy, her other group members, like she already knows them. Within minutes, she blends in. But I still find her peculiar.
I usually get home by four o’clock. Danny’s clinic stays open later, so it’s closer to six before he arrives. By the time he walks in the door, dinner is nearly ready. Tonight’s menu consists of steak and asparagus covered in a Parmesan cream sauce. I enjoy cooking and get extra practice during the summer months.
He walks in the kitchen, takes off his coat and hugs me from behind while I tend the stove.
“Smells great,” he says, digging his chin into my neck. I pull back, and stare at him. Even though he’s worked over twelve hours, his gray eyes are still kind. His dark hair is combed neatly to the side, and you’d never guess by looking at his starched clothes he’s spent the day poking and prodding all types of sick people. We kiss.
“Thank you,” I say, turning my attention back to the stove. “How was work?”
“Busy. People are starting to travel and picking up all sorts of nasty viruses.” He sits on a barstool and slumps forward, the first sign that he’s tired.
“Yuck.” Between his job and my constant exposure to germy teenagers, it’s a wonder we’re not forever sick. Danny is a general practitioner at a family practice. Womb to tomb, they say. He sees patients of all ages for a variety of causes. Occasionally, he rotates on-call hours at the local hospital.
Everyone looks at Danny and thinks he’s a catch because he’s a doctor, and he is. But that’s not what I love about him. Danny and I grew up together. He knew me before, and he knew me after, and he knew Brian in between. We reconnected when Danny was in medical school. There was an immediate comfort in knowing I wouldn’t have to explain what happened. He already knew.
We discuss our individual days over dinner. Nothing heavy, just enjoyable conversation. We share a bottle of wine, which leads to him carrying me upstairs. We slowly and predictably ease into sex. He strips my blouse and slacks, lays me gently on the bed. He glides into me, methodically pushing into my core. When he finishes, we kiss a bit more, until the wine in our blood makes us giggle.
“Do you know what weeks you’ll have off for summer?” I ask, mentally Pinteresting all the activities I’d like to accomplish.
“I should by the end of the month,” he says, rubbing his finger across my thigh.
“I want to go somewhere big this year,” I tell him, hoping he’ll agree.
“Europe, big?”
“Why not?”
We toured Italy and France for our honeymoon. Since then, we’ve mostly stayed stateside, making a commitment to put more money toward his medical school loans than stamping our passports.
“Well, you are receiving tenure this year. This can be our way to celebrate. Start planning,” he says. “When I have dates, we’ll book.”
Danny knows me so well. Strategizing an itinerary is half the fun of traveling. He also knows I need to keep moving. I need to keep experiencing. I need to replace the bad memories with good ones.
“Knock, knock,” I say, leaning my head inside the doorway of the guidance wing.
Pam spins around in her chair and flaps her hand for me to come inside.
“Hey, Dell,” she says. Her navy suit is professional, but she’s already kicked off her shoes for the day. Her bare feet dangle above the ground. “I’ve not seen you since before break.”
“Is this a good time?” I ask.
She smiles, her fuchsia lips popping in contrast to her dark skin. Her braids are neatly pinned to the top of her head. “Fourth block is always a good time.”
I love having fourth block planning. I’m able to teach my classes with limited interruption. By 2 p.m., I’m done for the day. I use that time to grade papers so by the time I exit the school building, I don’t have to think about this place.
“I do love having afternoon planning. It would be nice to keep it in the fall,” I say, smiling. Pam has many tasks at school, and one of them includes creating the schedule.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says, twirling a pen in her hand. “But I’m sure that’s not why you stopped by.”
“No,” I say, filling one of the empty seats that line the far wall in her office. “I wanted to ask you about a new student.”
“Zoey Peterson?”
“Have others talked to you about her?”
“No, but she’s the only enrollee we’ve had since February. Is she giving you trouble?”
“Not really. She’s only been in class two days.” There’s no use in revisiting the exchange I had with Zoey yesterday. It was annoying, but not concerning. Today, she arrived on time and spent most of the period talking with her classmates. I was surprised by how quickly she seemed to be making friends. “I was just wondering what her story is given how late in the year it is for a transfer.”
“Gotcha.” She spins to her right and starts clacking her computer keyboard. “Let’s see. Her last school was in Virginia. She’d been there since the beginning of her junior year.”
“Where was she before that?” I ask, surprised.
“She was enrolled at a Kentucky high school as a freshman and sophomore. Looking at her transcript, there’s a lot of moving going around.”
“Yeah, that’s what she said,” I say, trying to conjure an image of what her home situation might be like. “Did you meet the parents?”
“Yes,” Pam says, tensing her lips into a straight line. “Only the mother is in the picture. She looks a little bit rough.”
It’s impossible to not make assumptions about people, even in our profession. Victory Hills High School is a public school, although our prominent location makes it feel private. Most of our parents are the wealthy, PTA type. They want to be involved and want everyone to notice their involvement. Few students have troubled home lives. Of course, I know more than most that looks can be deceiving. My parents had nice jobs and lived in an upscale neighborhood, but they still raised a psychopath.
“Well, Zoey is very smart,” I say. I don’t want to appear as though I’m bashing the girl already.
“Her test scores are high. She could have been in an Honors group, but she insisted on being in a standard English class.” She turns away from the computer and tilts her head. “Maybe she likes being the smartest kid in the room?”
“I definitely sense that,” I say, rolling my eyes. As a guidance counselor, Pam deals with all sorts of situations. She has a better understanding of the student body than I do. She knows the attitudes students can display, especially on their first day after an inconvenient move.
“It’s a shame she moves around so much,” she says. “Imagine what a mind like that could do with stability.”
“How old was she when the family left Florida?”
“Florida.” She turns back to her computer and strokes the mouse. “I’m seeing Kentucky and Virginia. Florida isn’t on the list.”
“Maybe I misunderstood,” I say. But I know I didn’t. When someone mentions Florida, it stings. Her comment seemed intentional, like she wanted to upset me. “I thought she said she was from there.”
Pam shrugs and shakes her head. “It’s sad, really, what some of these kids go through. No sense of a normal childhood.”
We chat a bit longer, but certain words from the conversation stick out in my mind. Normal and childhood and Florida. Pam, like everyone else I’ve met in my five years of working here, cannot possibly understand how normal means absolutely nothing. The most abnormal person could be living under their noses and they’d never know it.
I placed some stew in the slow cooker before I left for school this morning. It’s ready by the time I arrive home, so I toast bread in the oven and the meal is set.
“Everything all right with you?” Danny asks.
“Yeah. Why?” I’m sitting at the table, swirli. . .
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