CHAPTER 16

I WENT TO SCHOOL the next morning determined to block out the drama of the previous few weeks. I had no choice, because it was early November and my class was becoming a handful. They may have been excited about the approaching holidays, or maybe relaxing after the initial transition to kindergarten. Whatever was going on, some days I felt like all I did was remind children to sit down or put them in the calm-down chair. The leader of the shenanigans was a boy named Oscar.

Oscar had wide blue eyes and bright blond hair that seemed to always stick up a little in the back. When we had story time and I told the children to sit crisscross applesauce, he knelt so that I would correct him. When we practiced coloring shapes, he went outside of the lines on purpose and gave me a sneaky smile to see if I’d noticed. All of the misbehavior—the talking out of turn, the failure to follow directions, the sometimes mean remarks to other children—I could have chalked up to his being a five-year-old boy. It was a special age in so many ways. But I’d made notes in Oscar’s file. He’d come to school unusually tired, or he wouldn’t eat his lunch for days at a time. The day after Eric and I agreed to start over was the day I’d asked the children to share a hand-drawn picture of their family. When I saw Oscar’s, I was deeply troubled.

Once Max brought my class to phys ed, I took Oscar’s picture and headed straight for the administrative wing where the school psychologist worked. Budget cuts being what they were, Noah Webster Elementary didn’t have a school psychologist of its own. We shared one with the other elementary school and the middle school, so we only had her on Monday mornings and Fridays. It was Thursday, so I thought that if I left her a note—

“She’s not in today.”

I didn’t need to turn to know that it was Eric’s voice, but I did anyway. He was dressed more casually than usual, in gray slacks and a light green shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar. No tie. My traitorous body took very careful notice of his long fingers pressed to his waist. I had sworn off Eric Clayman. Would be nice if you’d get on board, Lady Bits. I thought I’d sent the memo.

We were starting over, and that was a relief, I told myself. And yet I didn’t feel relieved when he smiled at me with that knee-weakening kindness in his eyes. I felt like I should’ve just gone ahead and let him pound me on the desk. Everything about him made me nervous and set my skin on fire. I had to look back down at the drawing in my hand in order to appear that I was playing it cool.

“I know she’s not in today,” I said, “but I—I have an issue. Here. Look at this.” I held out the drawing and watched him as he unfolded it for examination. “I asked the kids in my class to draw pictures of their family, and one child brought this in.”

The picture was drawn entirely in dark colors: black, purple, and blue. There was a mother and a boy, each of them drawn without a mouth. Each of them dwarfed by a looming figure scribbled over in black. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said.

Eric frowned as he took in the images. “Who drew this?”

“Oscar Dellacourt.”

“Does he have behavioral problems?”

“Mild. I always thought they were pretty normal for the age. But there have been other issues. I’ve sent him to the nurse to take a nap a few times because he comes in so tired.”

One of the electives I’d taken for my master’s was in child psychology. In it, I’d learned that drawings of children around this age are frequently used to obtain a glimpse into the child’s psyche. “I can excuse the colors he chose. He was at home and maybe those were the only crayons he had. But the drawing? Children who are being abused draw things like that. Blacked-out, threatening figures.”

Eric ticked his index finger, motioning for me to follow him. We headed into his office, and this time he closed the door behind us. “Did something prompt the assignment?”

I shook my head. “It was a basic draw-your-family assignment. We’re doing a unit on community.”

We were standing in the middle of his office, which, now that I looked at it, was pretty sparsely decorated. There was the standard-issue administrator desk, cheap pine stained to look more expensive. A bookcase in the corner was filled with textbooks and handbooks containing the various rules Eric would need to refer to when he had to enforce someone else’s bidding. A photograph of a covered bridge in autumn hung on the wall, and his framed degrees were stacked in the corner. Everything about that office looked like he was reluctant to move in. An ache pricked in my chest at the thought of him leaving.

“I’ll talk to Moira in the morning, first thing,” he said. He held up the paper. “Mind if I keep this, or do you need it back?”

“You can keep it.” I reached out to touch the nearly bare surface of his desk. “Are you leaving?”

He must have heard the note of interest in my voice because he smiled and said, “I thought my office looked moved in?”

“Not so much.”

He’d never been one for decorating. His home was a perpetual bachelor pad, with dishes piled in the sink and laundry haphazardly stuffed into drawers or resting on the tops of dressers. There was a loneliness in that. It needed a woman’s touch. And so did he.

He sat back on his desk. “It was made clear to me from the beginning that this was a very temporary assignment—more so now that we know what’s really going on with Marlene.”

I’d been following the story in the paper. The latest development was that Marlene had not only used school resources and her professional time to campaign for the senator, but she’d submitted falsified receipts to obtain reimbursements for expenses she’d never actually incurred. The theory was that she’d used this money to hire the hit on her husband. Fortunately for her husband, the would-be hit man went to the police. Needless to say, things were not looking good for Marlene.

“Is the board looking to hire a permanent replacement?”

“They’re soliciting applications. It’s early in the process, but someone may be hired as early as spring semester.”

“And then you’ll be . . . where?”

“Back at the middle school. Assuming they let me return.”

That charming grin. I looked away, unable to handle the sudden sadness of it all. I liked Eric. I liked having him around to balance out Brunhilda. And lately, I liked the way I saw myself reflected back when he looked at me. If he returned to the middle school, he was gone. We could talk about making lunch plans and following each other on social media, but it wouldn’t happen. He’d be gone, and I’d miss him. I looked down at the scuffed surface of my brown leather boots. “You could apply for this job—”

“I like the middle school. I miss my colleagues there.”

“Oh, I’m sure. And Brunhilda’s no peach.”

He tilted his head. “Brunhilda?”

I clapped my hand across my big fat mouth as my cheeks began to burn. “Forget it. Nothing.”

“Who’s Brunhilda?” He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and gently tugged my hand down. “Who’s Brunhilda?” I shook my head at him, keeping my lips sealed tightly, but then the realization crossed his face and his eyes widened. “Are you talking about Gretchen?”

“How could you think that?” I said in mock horror. It didn’t matter. He was laughing so hard he was nearly convulsing. I reached up to feel my scorching face. “Are you going to write me up for that?”

He shook his head, still laughing. “No. It’s actually a good fit for her. But you can’t repeat what I just said.”

I made an X above my heart. “Promise.”

They had reached an understanding as they stood there in the office—the very office he’d offered to bang her in. He congratulated himself on being so nearly professional around her. Maybe he’d approach her later, after hours. Tell her he’d like to enter into that contract after all.

I glanced back at the clock on the wall. “I have to get back to my class. Max is going to be pissed if I’m not there.”

Maybe it was my imagination, but Eric’s posture stiffened ever so slightly. Was it the mention of Max? “I should come with you,” he said, and set Oscar’s picture on his desk. “I’d like to meet Oscar. Maybe I can talk to him.”

I wasn’t going to argue with him. If Eric was talking with Oscar, that meant Oscar would be distracted enough to probably behave himself. I considered that a win.

MAX WAS coming down the hall with my line of chickadees as Eric and I approached the classroom from the opposite direction. I noticed that he and Eric exchanged a manly head nod, and I waited for some chest-thumping to follow. “How were they?”

“Energetic. I made them run laps around the gym.” Max stood against the wall as the children filed into the classroom. “They should listen better now.”

“They always do after phys ed.” I patted Max on the upper arm. “Thanks.”

Again, I may have been projecting things, but I thought I noticed a flash of jealousy on Eric’s face. I elected to ignore it and head into the classroom. “All right, everyone. We’re going to have some circle time and then we’ll do stations. Mr. Clayman is going to be helping us out for a little while.”

Eric stood to one side while I got them into a circle on the rug. We sang a song about listening and then I introduced the station activities. The first time I’d had an administrator in my classroom, I was terrified. I froze and second-guessed my every footstep. After going through it for so many years, however, I’d gained confidence. After a few minutes, I forgot that Eric was even there.

“Station one is coloring. I’ve put out a box of crayons and some paper. What is the first thing we do when we have a piece of paper and crayons? Yes, Holly?”

Holly smiled sweetly and said, “Write our name.”

“That’s right. We write our name on the back first so that our artwork doesn’t get lost. Since we’re talking about community, I want you to draw someone in your community who’s a helper. Can you think of someone in your community who’s a helper?”

At that moment, the emergency alarm system sounded. My heart stopped. It wasn’t the fire alarm. It was the school’s new intruder alarm. None of us could bring ourselves to call it what it really was: An “active-shooter alarm.” My eyes sought out Eric. I must’ve looked terrified. “It’s only a drill,” he assured me calmly.

Still. I could barely breathe. When had school violence become such a real threat that we had to actually engage in active-shooter drills with five-year-olds? The children were becoming frightened as the sound continued, and it was my job to keep them calm. I forced myself to smile, but my hands were clammy and my heart was jumping around. “All right, let’s play a game,” I said softly. “Everyone go to the coat closet.” I pressed my finger against my lips. “Shh. As quietly as you can.”

Eric went to the classroom door and locked it. There was a small pane of glass, but I’d covered it with paper so that no one could see in when the door was shut. As I ushered the children back to the closet, he turned off the lights. “It’s just a game,” I whispered to Dominick, whose lower lip was trembling. “You’re safe.”

I set my hand on their backs and gently coaxed them into the closet. It spanned half the classroom, and children had cubbies and coat hooks on both sides. Most important, it had a door that locked. It was our designated safe spot.

I shut the door behind us and locked it. “All right, we’re going to sit on the floor and be very quiet.”

It was impossible, which is why I had a secret stash of lollipops on top of the cubbies. I reached up to pull down the plastic bag, but I fumbled them and they fell on the floor. “Darn it.” I was falling apart.

Eric’s hands surrounded mine, strong and warm. Reassuring. I looked up into his beautiful green eyes. “Your hands are shaking,” he whispered.

I was thinking terrible thoughts. These drills brought my nightmares into clear focus, and as I looked around at all of those sweet faces watching me for cues as to whether they should be afraid, too, I knew I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough. I looked helplessly at Eric and bit down on my lower lip. “I can’t—”

“Then let me. You sit with them. Tell them it’s okay.”

I nodded silently and took my place with the children as he gathered the lollipops. A few children climbed into my lap, and others pressed themselves against my back. “Shh,” I said. “You’re safe. It’s only a game.”

But Oscar sat over to the side, his legs pulled against his chest, his head down. If I could have reached out, I would have, but I was boxed in by the other children. Eric handed each child a lollipop, and we both reminded them that this meant they should eat their candy and be quiet. I knew that out in the hallway, Gretchen would be going down the hallway with a police officer, rattling the door handles and making sure that we’d all followed protocol.

We were safe. I told myself that. But I barely believed it. This was only today, and what about tomorrow? What if something actually happened? I drew a shaky breath, and Eric handed me a lollipop with a half smile. It was lemon. Thanks, I mouthed. He nodded.

I sat and ate my lollipop. My mind wandered to that moment I’d found Blaise on the back steps of Bar Harbor with a lollipop, and how I thought he was trying a cigarette. Talk about putting my trust issues on full display. Someone shows my nephew kindness, and I assume he’s teaching Blaise how to smoke. My lips puckered at the slightly sour taste of the candy. I’d panicked, but Blaise had been fine. All of the danger had been in my own head.

Like right at this moment. There was no danger. We were having a drill.

I scooted back against the wall and a few children shuffled with me. I wrapped my arms around them and pressed a cheek against their sweet-smelling heads to whisper “Shh” softly, the way their mothers probably did. They relaxed against me, exhaling and softening their muscles. It was so quiet in that closet that all I could hear was the sound of my own heart and, every now and then, a child’s breathing.

I loved those children. I loved that they shared their lives so openly with me. They told me what they wanted for their birthday, they innocently overshared personal information, and they lived with their whole hearts, open and fearless. As I wondered when I’d become so afraid to live and love, Eric’s hand wrapped around mine and gave a little squeeze. It’s like he could read my mind.

The drill was over after about ten minutes, and Brunhilda’s voice came over the intercom to tell us that we were safe to go. Eric opened the door and the children nearly ran out, they were so happy to be free. All but one, who remained in the corner, his head on his knees.

Oscar.

“Hey, Oscar?” I whispered, and bent down to set my hand on his back. “It’s all done. Time to go back to class.” He was shaking. Crying. “Oh, sweetie. What happened? Were you scared?”

He looked at me with watery eyes and fat tears rolling down his face. “Was it my dad?” he whispered. “Was he coming to get me?”

I sat back on my haunches, stunned. What do you say to that? What do you even say?