The building at North Shore is mostly glass, so you can see into some smaller lectures. Sam peeks in and wonders what other people are studying, and if they like it, and if they want to be here.
Outside, you can hear the wind in the trees. Inside, she sits in one of those chairs with a desk that swings over your lap.
First up is stats. It’s analyzing data. You put in the numbers, but software will do a lot of the work. There will be a midterm and a final and weekly problem sets. The instructor, Gary Bowen, says, Please do not use computers in my class, so Sam takes out a notebook. As usual, she has the most school supplies of anyone. Her mom got her red, yellow, green, and black notebooks, and mechanical pencils and gel pens and highlighters and notecards. “Okay,” Bowen says, “let’s dive right in.”
The lecture is about data and how to display it in graphs and charts and other ways. Every once in a while, Bowen says something interesting and then he says, “Side note!” And Sam perks up. Side note, there is a really good book you can get called How to Lie with Statistics. Pretty much all numbers can be manipulated in the news and politics. That is the takeaway.
Other people are scribbling in blue ballpoint, in pencil, in black pen. The students are all ages. Some of them are bald or gray.
Accounting is taught by this happy older woman named Mary Witchy. She tells the class she is originally from Tennessee. Her hair is white-blond, her shoes are stiletto heels, which seems a little bit insane. Then again, Witchy is a tiny person. Maybe she needs them so you can see her at the board.
She is like a country music singer in love with equations. She sings out, “Assets equal liabilities plus owner’s equity. Say it with me!” She draws a great big T on the whiteboard and she says, “Now listen up, because this little critter is the basis of accounting.”
Sam does listen. She even chants the equation, and at the same time, she can’t wait to leave.
She drives straight from class to the Atomic Bean for her lunch shift, where she makes sandwiches and gets people coffee.
There are two art students from Montserrat College, drawing tiny cartoons of the people who walk in. They are working in ink precisely.
One table over, a dad sits with his little boy, who looks about four. They are eating donuts, and the boy nibbles his all the way around the hole.
The dad asks, “Does it taste better that way?”
“That will be seven twenty,” Sam tells her customer at the counter. She tosses salads with blue cheese, spinach, and dried cranberries. She serves BLTs and she remembers how she sat with Mitchell right here at the café and he said he was going to Portsmouth, but he would still see her all the time. She remembers the hot chocolate and how he made Portsmouth sound so pretty.
What were her dad’s assets? His magic? His stories? She knows his liabilities.
The dad and little boy clear away their plates. The café empties, until it’s only a few people coming in for coffee. Sam has to tell them there are no muffins left. There are never enough to last all day. In the glass case there is just one glazed donut sitting lonely.
Justin texts, how did it go, and she says, okay homework already. He writes, can I meet u? She says she has to help at home.
She makes dinner for Noah because Courtney is working late. Dinner is ravioli, and she talks to Justin on the phone while she is waiting for the water to boil. She tells him about Mary Witchy.
He says, “Is that really her name?”
She tells Justin about statistics. “The book is like twenty pounds.” She tells him how you can’t use your computer during lecture. And how the art students were drawing their tiny ink cartoons. She does not tell him about the little boy sitting with his dad. She can’t bring herself to mention that.
He says, “Do you want to come here after dinner? We’re having ice cream.”
She says, “No, that’s okay.”
She eats dinner with Noah, and he won’t do his homework. She heaves her stats textbook onto the table and says, “Look what I’ve got. You have it easy.”
He ignores her and she tries to read, as if she is actually more motivated than he is.
Evening light fills the apartment, and she rests her feet on the chair next to her. The pages of her open book look very white there on the table. It is almost eight and Courtney is still at Staples. As her dad used to say, Your mom is one hardworking lady.
She remembers a lot of things her dad would say.
She remembers Poems While U Wait. Her dad said words are tools and she thought of screwdrivers and hammers.
She remembers the white rabbit her dad would pull out of his hat. When Sam was small, she believed that trick, and when she was a little older, she half believed, because the rabbit could disappear and reappear for other people, but she knew his name was Benjamin and he was always visible to her. And then eventually, Sam understood her dad was just performing.
She remembers Topsfield. How her dad wrapped her in the blanket in the car and she was already thinking about next time. That’s how it is when you are little. You think you get to do good things forever.
Her mom knew better. Her mom always knew.
So, listen to her, Sam thinks now. Just read the chapter. But when she stares at the white pages, she does not read a single word.
She wakes with a start when her mom walks in.
“Hey, how was it?” Courtney asks.
“Okay.”
Her mom stands there with her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “The first day is the hardest.”
“She was sleeping,” Noah announces from the couch.
“He never did his homework,” Sam reports in turn.
“I’ll help him. You rest,” her mom tells her. “Just go lie down.” She practically drags Sam to her room.
As soon as Sam sees her bed, she falls into it face-first.