the city and working as a docent at the Museum of Natural History. Every few months, her parents would call and ask when she was coming home. The thought of returning to Kansas City—of Saturday afternoons quilting with Mom, and Sunday church suppers, of babysitting her brother’s twins and a job at Daddy’s bank (“We’ll start you in the trust department at twenty-eight thousand a year. Buy you a little Ford to get around town. How’s that sound, sugarplum?”)—was too much. She did not want a life that had already been decided for her, with rites and rituals carved in stone, obligatory friendships, and prescribed duties. She was through with Hardee’s, the Chiefs, and
A Prairie Home Companion
. The only things she liked about home were crisp green apples sprinkled with salt, and pork tenderloin sandwiches with a dollop of mustard and a slice of raw onion on top.
She earned her teaching credential from Columbia a year later.
Her first job was at St. Agnes, a parochial school in Greenwich Village. In those days, she’d still been a good Catholic, and the small classes and promise of order appealed to her. But a twenty-three-year-old with a zest for life didn’t last long at St. Agnes. The sisters did not approve of Jenny’s fast lifestyle—“fast” being defined as missing Friday-morning mass, drinking margaritas after work, repelling Father Bernadin’s all too frequent passes.
She was not asked back for a second year.
With no savings, no recommendation, and no thought of returning to Mom and Dad in Kansas City, Jenny took the first job she could find. She’d been at the Kraft School ever since.
Officially, the job called for Jenny to provide instruction in math, science, and the arts. Given her students’ variance in schooling and abilities, that was impossible. Jenny saw it as her job simply to show the kids that following the rules wasn’t such a bad thing. That if you just gave the system a chance, it might work for you. That meant showing up on time, dressing appropriately, and looking someone in the eye when you shook their hand.
One day in five, bedlam ruled in the classroom. Students argued with one another. Rulers were thrown like boomerangs. A bong had been reported seen, and yes, marijuana had been smoked on the premises. It wasn’t exactly the high school from
Fame
. But on those days when the classroom grew quiet, and the eyes that weren’t too red actually focused on Miss Dance, Jenny felt as if she was getting through. Making a difference even. Corny, maybe, but it felt good.
“Miss Dance,” came an authoritative voice.
“Yes.” Jenny stepped forward, her heart catching a beat. She craned her neck, hoping it might be news of Thomas. A nurse stood at the entrance to room 315, waving a clipboard high in the air. “We’re ready for you, hon.”
She was out three minutes later with a Band-Aid and a stick of licorice to cheer her up. The elevator arrived. Jenny got in and pressed the button for one.
What kind of mugger leaves a purse?
The question refused to go away. If he could use a knife to snatch a watch, why not take an extra second and grab the purse, too? And that question begged another. Why wasn’t Thomas at the hospital? Why hadn’t he, at least, found a phone to call? It had been two hours, for Pete’s sake!
She remembered the look in Thomas’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. It was something beyond anger. A bloodlust. She rubbed at her own aching eyes.
Don’t be hurt, Thomas,
she prayed silently. There was so much she didn’t know about him. So much he refused to tell her.
They had been introduced at a Y-League basketball game, and afterward had gone to dinner with a whole crew of friends—some his, some hers—at a Mexican cantina uptown. All of them had sidled up to the bar and ordered margaritas—except for Thomas, who ordered a shot of tequila and a Budweiser. Half the group were attorneys. Fearing a barrage of lawyer talk, Jenny changed her order to the
A Prairie Home Companion
. The only things she liked about home were crisp green apples sprinkled with salt, and pork tenderloin sandwiches with a dollop of mustard and a slice of raw onion on top.
She earned her teaching credential from Columbia a year later.
Her first job was at St. Agnes, a parochial school in Greenwich Village. In those days, she’d still been a good Catholic, and the small classes and promise of order appealed to her. But a twenty-three-year-old with a zest for life didn’t last long at St. Agnes. The sisters did not approve of Jenny’s fast lifestyle—“fast” being defined as missing Friday-morning mass, drinking margaritas after work, repelling Father Bernadin’s all too frequent passes.
She was not asked back for a second year.
With no savings, no recommendation, and no thought of returning to Mom and Dad in Kansas City, Jenny took the first job she could find. She’d been at the Kraft School ever since.
Officially, the job called for Jenny to provide instruction in math, science, and the arts. Given her students’ variance in schooling and abilities, that was impossible. Jenny saw it as her job simply to show the kids that following the rules wasn’t such a bad thing. That if you just gave the system a chance, it might work for you. That meant showing up on time, dressing appropriately, and looking someone in the eye when you shook their hand.
One day in five, bedlam ruled in the classroom. Students argued with one another. Rulers were thrown like boomerangs. A bong had been reported seen, and yes, marijuana had been smoked on the premises. It wasn’t exactly the high school from
Fame
. But on those days when the classroom grew quiet, and the eyes that weren’t too red actually focused on Miss Dance, Jenny felt as if she was getting through. Making a difference even. Corny, maybe, but it felt good.
“Miss Dance,” came an authoritative voice.
“Yes.” Jenny stepped forward, her heart catching a beat. She craned her neck, hoping it might be news of Thomas. A nurse stood at the entrance to room 315, waving a clipboard high in the air. “We’re ready for you, hon.”
She was out three minutes later with a Band-Aid and a stick of licorice to cheer her up. The elevator arrived. Jenny got in and pressed the button for one.
What kind of mugger leaves a purse?
The question refused to go away. If he could use a knife to snatch a watch, why not take an extra second and grab the purse, too? And that question begged another. Why wasn’t Thomas at the hospital? Why hadn’t he, at least, found a phone to call? It had been two hours, for Pete’s sake!
She remembered the look in Thomas’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. It was something beyond anger. A bloodlust. She rubbed at her own aching eyes.
Don’t be hurt, Thomas,
she prayed silently. There was so much she didn’t know about him. So much he refused to tell her.
They had been introduced at a Y-League basketball game, and afterward had gone to dinner with a whole crew of friends—some his, some hers—at a Mexican cantina uptown. All of them had sidled up to the bar and ordered margaritas—except for Thomas, who ordered a shot of tequila and a Budweiser. Half the group were attorneys. Fearing a barrage of lawyer talk, Jenny changed her order to the
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