daydreaming, Molly, and get to work!”
We walked slowly toward the main room. Lauren whispered, “It seems strange to see her without a piece of chalk in her hand.”
“Really. She’s barely changed in seventeen years. Except for now being dead, that is.”
Lauren elbowed me, and we both fought off a fit of nervous giggles. The pews were crowded, and it soon became obvious that Mrs. Kravett had touched many lives. Denise and her cone-headed husband were there, as was Jack Vance. In his tweed jacket he looked professorial. As opposed to principalial, I suppose. Tommy, in uniform, was seated in the back, and feigned indifference as we entered.
Stephanie, dressed in black but wearing model-like makeup, was seated in the second row. She spotted us as we took our seats near Tommy, smiled, and mouthed a big “Hi,” accompanied by a happy wiggly-finger wave that seemed more than a tad inappropriate, given the setting.
Jack Vance gave a touching eulogy. At least I assumed it was touching, because frankly, I was trying so hard not to make any noise while crying, I barely listened. My regrets and guilt about Mrs. Kravett had hit me full force.
Just after graduation, my parents purchased their condo in Florida. It had been more fun to visit them there than in New York. I’d been so cavalier about the passing of time. As an indirect result, Mrs. Kravett died not only before I could apologize for my poem, but thinking I was a homicidal maniac out to avenge her strict teaching methods. Someone, probably sitting in that same church, had set me up. No one, aside from Lauren knew me well enough to realize how bad I’d felt about that poem.
At one point mid proceedings, Lauren reached over, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “She was a teacher. She understood teenagers. She forgave you. Let it go.”
That made me cry all the harder. Lauren could well be right about Mrs. Kravett’s forgiveness. Yet a hateful threat that may as well have had my name on it was likely the last thing she ever read.
Though I stared through my blurred vision at each former classmate, I still had no clue. My emotional state made me all the more determined to eventually confront whoever had done this to me.
After the service, Stephanie, her handsome husband in tow, sashayed in our general direction. She was probably going to use the opportunity to RSVP about my dinner party. Overcome by anger and remorse, I blurted out, “Why did you do it, Stephanie? Why did you publish my poem in the school paper without my permission?”
Her jaw dropped. Before she could collect herself and respond, Lauren grabbed my arm. “Molly,” Lauren said sternly, “this isn’t the time or the place. Let’s go.”
She was right. I allowed her to lead me away. In the parking lot, I glanced back. Stephanie had attracted quite a crowd, several of them nodding as they listened to her. She gestured at me as she spoke, no doubt identifying me as the villain in her damsel-in-distress routine.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked, once we’d reached the privacy of her car.
I nodded, but felt unable to master the lump in my throat. “I know I’m just looking for a scapegoat. But I’m still angry at Stephanie for printing that poem in the paper. She’d asked me if she could publish it, and I told her no. Remember?”
Lauren looked at me sympathetically, but said nothing as we pulled out of the lot.
I glanced at Lauren in profile. She was chewing on her lip. The last time she was doing that, there was palpable friction between her and her husband. At length, I asked, “Is everything okay between you and Steve?”
“Um, sure. Sort of. Actually, let’s talk about that some other time, okay?”
Uh-oh. We drove home in silence, reclaimed our children, and went inside our respective houses. Though I could relate to Carolee’s cleaning inadequacies, I set about taking my frustrations out by scrubbing. The odor from the bathroom almost brought tears to my eyes. Nathan
We walked slowly toward the main room. Lauren whispered, “It seems strange to see her without a piece of chalk in her hand.”
“Really. She’s barely changed in seventeen years. Except for now being dead, that is.”
Lauren elbowed me, and we both fought off a fit of nervous giggles. The pews were crowded, and it soon became obvious that Mrs. Kravett had touched many lives. Denise and her cone-headed husband were there, as was Jack Vance. In his tweed jacket he looked professorial. As opposed to principalial, I suppose. Tommy, in uniform, was seated in the back, and feigned indifference as we entered.
Stephanie, dressed in black but wearing model-like makeup, was seated in the second row. She spotted us as we took our seats near Tommy, smiled, and mouthed a big “Hi,” accompanied by a happy wiggly-finger wave that seemed more than a tad inappropriate, given the setting.
Jack Vance gave a touching eulogy. At least I assumed it was touching, because frankly, I was trying so hard not to make any noise while crying, I barely listened. My regrets and guilt about Mrs. Kravett had hit me full force.
Just after graduation, my parents purchased their condo in Florida. It had been more fun to visit them there than in New York. I’d been so cavalier about the passing of time. As an indirect result, Mrs. Kravett died not only before I could apologize for my poem, but thinking I was a homicidal maniac out to avenge her strict teaching methods. Someone, probably sitting in that same church, had set me up. No one, aside from Lauren knew me well enough to realize how bad I’d felt about that poem.
At one point mid proceedings, Lauren reached over, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “She was a teacher. She understood teenagers. She forgave you. Let it go.”
That made me cry all the harder. Lauren could well be right about Mrs. Kravett’s forgiveness. Yet a hateful threat that may as well have had my name on it was likely the last thing she ever read.
Though I stared through my blurred vision at each former classmate, I still had no clue. My emotional state made me all the more determined to eventually confront whoever had done this to me.
After the service, Stephanie, her handsome husband in tow, sashayed in our general direction. She was probably going to use the opportunity to RSVP about my dinner party. Overcome by anger and remorse, I blurted out, “Why did you do it, Stephanie? Why did you publish my poem in the school paper without my permission?”
Her jaw dropped. Before she could collect herself and respond, Lauren grabbed my arm. “Molly,” Lauren said sternly, “this isn’t the time or the place. Let’s go.”
She was right. I allowed her to lead me away. In the parking lot, I glanced back. Stephanie had attracted quite a crowd, several of them nodding as they listened to her. She gestured at me as she spoke, no doubt identifying me as the villain in her damsel-in-distress routine.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked, once we’d reached the privacy of her car.
I nodded, but felt unable to master the lump in my throat. “I know I’m just looking for a scapegoat. But I’m still angry at Stephanie for printing that poem in the paper. She’d asked me if she could publish it, and I told her no. Remember?”
Lauren looked at me sympathetically, but said nothing as we pulled out of the lot.
I glanced at Lauren in profile. She was chewing on her lip. The last time she was doing that, there was palpable friction between her and her husband. At length, I asked, “Is everything okay between you and Steve?”
“Um, sure. Sort of. Actually, let’s talk about that some other time, okay?”
Uh-oh. We drove home in silence, reclaimed our children, and went inside our respective houses. Though I could relate to Carolee’s cleaning inadequacies, I set about taking my frustrations out by scrubbing. The odor from the bathroom almost brought tears to my eyes. Nathan
Similar Books
