was exhausted. The night before seemed like a cruel extension of the summer, which I’d spent fitfully tossing on scratchy blankets and flipping my pillows, searching in vain for an inch of cool fabric against my sweaty face while Paris thrummed through the open windows and the baby cried in the next room and Mr. Easton tried in hushed tones to talk his wife out of throwing herself into the Seine. Sometimes in the afternoons, I’d wheel the baby’s stroller over to the Jardin du Luxembourg and park her in the sun while I stretched out along a bench or on the grass to steal a few quick minutes of precious sleep. Those afternoons were the best part of my summer, until the day one of Mrs. Easton’s expat friends, an obnoxious woman from Dallas who despite her best efforts would never pass for Parisian, found me dozing next to the peaceful baby and went into histrionics about how easy it would have been to steal the baby. I’d had an ankle hooked around the stroller, I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. There wasn’t much point in trying to convince her that Mrs. Easton would have been happier if the baby had disappeared.
Lacey didn’t get to class until a minute after the bell rang, but Mr. Silva just looked at her cane and waved her in. She used the cane to shove people’s backpacks aside, clearing a path for herself as she shuffled to her seat in front of mine. “Hey,” I whispered, leaning forward. “Where were you this morning? Geneva was being all —”
She didn’t turn around. “Class is about to start.”
I fell back in my chair, heat flooding my cheeks as if I’d been slapped. A moment later, Mr. Silva cleared his throat and said, “June 25, 1950. Anyone? Did anyone do the reading?” I spent the rest of the period fighting to stay awake, and Lacey kept her back to me the whole time.
At lunch, Lacey was her usual bubbly self, chattering with the junior girls about homecoming plans and fundraisers and dates to the dance. I kept trying to catch her eye to ask her what was going on, why she’d been late this morning, what was the drama Jake had hinted at last night, but Lacey didn’t allow a single break in the conversation until halfway through the period, when she abruptly grabbed her cane, said something about student council, and limped away. Jake was trading insults with Randy and Chris, and Nikki was nowhere to be found, so I spent the rest of the period sitting quietly in the middle of the chaos, utterly alone in the crowd.
When I walked into creative writing later that day, the principal was standing at the dais. “Good afternoon, Paige,” he said. “Don’t you look pretty today.”
“Thanks, Dr. Coulter.”
As more people trickled in, I noticed that he greeted Jake’s friends by name, but didn’t seem to know the names of the other students. “Hello there, Sandy,” he said blithely to Shanti as she walked in. Hurrying past him, she made a face in Ethan’s direction. When the bell rang, Dr. Coulter rubbed his hands together. “Students, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that Mrs. Mueller is . . . ill.”
“Does she have a brain tumor?” someone called.
Dr. Coulter ignored the comment. “She will likely be out for the rest of the semester.”
Low voices rumbled through the room at this, giddy and wondering. The whole semester? Not only would we not have to hear Mrs. Mueller’s screechy voice until Christmas, but also we’d get a sub, thereby guaranteeing that we’d be doing no work for the rest of the term. Yes and yes.
Dr. Coulter cleared his throat. “The good news is that we have already found a substitute teacher to take her place. Students, I’d like to introduce you to your new teacher, Mr. Tremont. We’re very lucky to have him here, as he is a part of the Writers’ Workshop at the university. He will be filling in for Mrs. Mueller for the rest of the semester, until she gets back on her feet.”
The room filled with whispers as this
Lacey didn’t get to class until a minute after the bell rang, but Mr. Silva just looked at her cane and waved her in. She used the cane to shove people’s backpacks aside, clearing a path for herself as she shuffled to her seat in front of mine. “Hey,” I whispered, leaning forward. “Where were you this morning? Geneva was being all —”
She didn’t turn around. “Class is about to start.”
I fell back in my chair, heat flooding my cheeks as if I’d been slapped. A moment later, Mr. Silva cleared his throat and said, “June 25, 1950. Anyone? Did anyone do the reading?” I spent the rest of the period fighting to stay awake, and Lacey kept her back to me the whole time.
At lunch, Lacey was her usual bubbly self, chattering with the junior girls about homecoming plans and fundraisers and dates to the dance. I kept trying to catch her eye to ask her what was going on, why she’d been late this morning, what was the drama Jake had hinted at last night, but Lacey didn’t allow a single break in the conversation until halfway through the period, when she abruptly grabbed her cane, said something about student council, and limped away. Jake was trading insults with Randy and Chris, and Nikki was nowhere to be found, so I spent the rest of the period sitting quietly in the middle of the chaos, utterly alone in the crowd.
When I walked into creative writing later that day, the principal was standing at the dais. “Good afternoon, Paige,” he said. “Don’t you look pretty today.”
“Thanks, Dr. Coulter.”
As more people trickled in, I noticed that he greeted Jake’s friends by name, but didn’t seem to know the names of the other students. “Hello there, Sandy,” he said blithely to Shanti as she walked in. Hurrying past him, she made a face in Ethan’s direction. When the bell rang, Dr. Coulter rubbed his hands together. “Students, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that Mrs. Mueller is . . . ill.”
“Does she have a brain tumor?” someone called.
Dr. Coulter ignored the comment. “She will likely be out for the rest of the semester.”
Low voices rumbled through the room at this, giddy and wondering. The whole semester? Not only would we not have to hear Mrs. Mueller’s screechy voice until Christmas, but also we’d get a sub, thereby guaranteeing that we’d be doing no work for the rest of the term. Yes and yes.
Dr. Coulter cleared his throat. “The good news is that we have already found a substitute teacher to take her place. Students, I’d like to introduce you to your new teacher, Mr. Tremont. We’re very lucky to have him here, as he is a part of the Writers’ Workshop at the university. He will be filling in for Mrs. Mueller for the rest of the semester, until she gets back on her feet.”
The room filled with whispers as this
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