Greg was not surprised to see Vicki Delcade lingering behind while the rest of Russian III filed out. Violating instructions to treat the Delcade children the same as always on their first day back, classmates brushed sympathetic hands across her shoulders instead, or whispered quiet, kindly words as they passed by, each small gesture a quiet twisting of the knife. Vicki’s eyes sparkled with tears, her usually porcelain-pale skin the lifeless white of Greek marble. Her notebook was clasped tightly across her chest, slim fingers marred by chips in her nail polish. Grief, however, had not deprived her of grace. She moved toward his desk with the sinuous agility of a cat.
‘What can I do for you?’ Greg asked. His voice, while not unkind, held no hint of condolence. Just a teacher making himself available to a student.
‘I need more time to finish my assignments, sir. You know. Because …’
Greg braced himself for the floods of tears. But something in his expression or, rather, lack of it, must have drained the water from Vicki’s eyes. She smiled weakly instead.
‘Mom’s funeral took up a lot of time. I’m behind on pretty much everything.’
‘Take as much time as you need, Vicki. Within reason, of course.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He turned to the Russian I assignments piled neatly on his desk. It took him longer than it should have to notice that Vicki Delcade was still standing there, shifting her weight gently from one foot to another.
‘Something else I can do for you, Vicki?’
Vicki stood there for a moment, tongue-tied. One hand played awkwardly with the blonde tips of her hair.
‘I … uh …’ Then the words came out all in a rush. ‘I wanted to apologize for my baby brother. He's an idiot but he’s not, you know, that kind of idiot and I don’t know what got into him but it was really, really wack and I’m like totally sorry for what he did. Like, totally.’
She paused to draw breath, her face flushed.
Greg was strangely touched. Here was a girl who had other – awful – things to think about, and yet she’d made the time to do … this. He scratched at an imaginary itch at the edge of his patch, if only to distract himself from the prickling sensation in his other, good eye.
‘You didn’t have to do that, Vicki.’ On impulse, he reached out and touched her wrist. ‘But I appreciate it. Truly.’
Vicki heaved a sigh of relief.
‘You’re welcome, sir.’ She made to go.
‘Vicki?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Why did your mom take a rideshare here last Monday? Why not drive?’
Vicki paused at the door, looking back at him.
‘She never drives Monday nights. It’s … it was … just a thing she did.’
‘Every Monday?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And did she always come to the school?’
Vicki was frowning.
‘Why would she do that? She just went out, is all.’
‘Of course.’ Greg looked at his watch. ‘And I’m sorry for keeping you. Tell whomever you have next that it was “like, totally” my fault.’
Vicki flashed him a quick grin and disappeared. The door swung silently shut behind her. Greg stared at it for a few moments more and then, reluctantly, turned back to the Russian I notebooks awaiting his attention.