“It’s coming on again!” my mother yelled. She turned the sound up on the TV.
“Sometimes the worst of times brings out the best in people,” the announcer said.
The picture changed. It was the video shot by Isaac. He’d shared the footage in a Zoom session with our class and then put it up online. At first it was just kids from our grade and their parents viewing it, then the whole school. And then it was picked up by a local TV station. It jumped from 450 views to over 20,000 in two days. Now they kept showing it on the news.
“And that’s Quinny and Reese’s Pieces.” Isaac’s voice could be heard as we walked toward the door. “The names sound like a couple of chocolate bars. Which makes sense, since they are two of the sweetest girls you’ll ever meet.”
I’d heard it a dozen times, but I still smiled. Thank goodness he’d gone with Quinny instead of Q-Ball or Q-Tip or one of the other half dozen names he had for me.
“Quinny had the idea to make the masks, and that older woman who just came out with the nurse, that’s Reese’s grandmother,” Isaac could be heard saying.
The screen showed us walking to a spot a safe distance from the entrance and Reese putting down the blue bin.
“Our whole class made masks to give to the staff and residents of Vista Village. Big shout-out to Miss Fernandez, our wonderful teacher, all the eighth-grade students of Switzerland Point Middle School—go, Panthers, go—and our principal, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“And now you see that the nurse is crying…and Reese is crying…and Quinny is crying.”
Isaac’s voice cracked over the last few words.
“I’m not crying—you’re crying,” Isaac said, even though it was obvious who was really crying.
The scene shifted back to the anchorwoman. Behind her was a picture of Reese, Isaac and me.
“I’ve seen this story half a dozen times, and it still makes me tear up,” the anchorwoman said. “And to add some background to the story, the young man who shot the footage on his phone and narrated is Isaac Peters. His mother is the police chief in Dansville. Reese Ellis’s parents are teachers at the local elementary and high schools. And the young girl behind the idea, Quinn Arseneau, her father is an emergency room doctor working the front lines. This makes it an even more heartwarming story — our entire community is pulling together to support one another. Please remember that even when we stand apart, we still stand together.”
My mother turned off the TV. She sniffed a bit and wiped away a couple of tears.
“I am so proud of you, Quinn.” She gave me a big hug, and I hugged her back.
“Now I better get to work. And don’t you have a Zoom session coming up?”
“In a few minutes.”
My mother went to her office, and I went to the kitchen and opened my computer. I clicked on the link. Some people had already joined the session. Miss Fernandez welcomed me in. She did that with everyone as they joined. She said it was her way of “greeting us at the door.” It felt nice.
I looked from square to square. I missed these people. It wasn’t like we hadn’t been in contact, because I’d touched base with almost everybody on the screen almost every day. I’d talked to my best friends, of course, but also to people I’d never really talked with much before. I had found out things about them I hadn’t known. We were an interesting, quirky and unusual group, and I was really looking forward to the time we could be together again.
Miss Fernandez called the class to order by muting all the microphones.
“Our efforts to help our community by making masks have certainly been well received,” she began.
We could see one another clapping and cheering, even if we couldn’t hear it.
“This is important to remember. Even though we’re isolated, we can still come together. So, well done, everyone.” She looked down at some papers in front of her. “I have an announcement to read to you. It’s being shared across our board and with the media later today.”
Uh-oh. This was either going to be really good or really bad. I felt nervous.
Miss Fernandez looked up from the papers. “Look, I’m not going to read the official release. I’m going to tell you what’s going on, and then you can ask questions.” She paused for a moment and then began to speak again. “Last night the trustees of the board of education held a virtual meeting. They decided that schools in the district will remain closed for the rest of the school year.”
I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach.
Miss Fernandez kept talking. I didn’t hear much. I was watching the reactions of my classmates. Some had their hands covering their faces, others looked like they were crying, and some had just walked away. I went from square to square, looking for Isaac. I knew he’d been in the session, but now I couldn’t find him. I didn’t want to be here either. I left my computer. I needed to tell my mother.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I could hear her talking. She was in the middle of a meeting, and from what I could tell, it wasn’t going well. I couldn’t interrupt.
I turned and went through the door to the garage. I hit the button to raise the big doors. The door creaked as it opened. I passed by the table full of quarantined groceries and thought for a second about getting on my bike and just going for a ride. Then I heard the pinging of a basketball.
Isaac was on his driveway. He stopped bouncing the ball when he saw me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I shrugged. “You?”
“When Miss Fernandez started talking, I really thought she was going to tell us we’d be going back to school. Maybe not right away, but in a few weeks or even a month. I didn’t expect it to be over.”
“We will still have our lessons and Zoom and—”
“And no getting together or lunches in the cafeteria or pickup games at recess or team sports or the end-of-the-year class trip or graduation or the dance.”
“I never thought the dance would be one of the things you’d miss.”
“Maybe not the way Jenna is going to miss it, but it’s one of the things we won’t get to do. Wait—did Miss Fernandez end the session?”
“No, I just didn’t want to hear any more.”
“I never thought I’d see the day when Quinny Arseneau walked out of class, even a virtual class. You should go back.”
“So should you,” I said.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“Do you want company? I mean, you know, physically distant company?”
He shook his head. “I think I need to be alone. I have some things to think about.”