―No. This isn‘t a democracy, Danielle. This is my decision.‖
I didn‘t need to hear this. There was way more going on here than I knew. ―I should get going.‖ Without waiting for permission, I gathered up my things and made a beeline out of there.
Mr. Anderson caught up with me at the classroom door. The halls were filling with other kids. ―She‘s upset,‖ he said, and then sighed. ―I wasn‘t thinking; I should have told her first.‖
I didn‘t think I was going to say anything, but I surprised myself. ―Why didn‘t you pick her?‖
―Honestly?‖ Mr. Anderson looked me in the eye. ―Because she thinks that keeping herself distracted will make everything else just go away.‖
I didn‘t know what any of that meant, so I said nothing.
―Here.‖ Mr. Anderson handed me the covered plate. ―You need to eat. Don‘t worry about Danielle. See you after school, okay?‖
―Oh, sure,‖ I said.
d
In the girls‘ bathroom, I peeked under the napkin: scrambled eggs, hash browns, a carton of orange juice.
He‘d bought breakfast for me. A sweet and thoughtful gesture. Something Matt would‘ve done.
I dumped the food in the trash.
e
After school, I went straight to the library. I kept expecting Mr. Anderson to come find me, but he didn‘t. Or maybe he did, but I‘d made sure not to sit in my usual spot. More than likely, though, he‘d gotten the message when I hadn‘t stayed after class. Because I couldn‘t see outside, I don‘t know if he went running or biking or coaching cross-country, or kept busy sticking Danielle together with superglue. I didn‘t want to know. It was none of my business. Live with a psychotic father long enough, watch enough psych techs do enough takedowns while nurses come scuttling down the halls with syringes and needles out to here. You get a pretty good idea of when someone‘s this close to the edge, and Danielle was right there. Her kind of trouble I just didn‘t need.
Mom came on time. Oh. Yay. When we left, Mr. Anderson‘s truck was still in the lot. I didn‘t look up at his windows. If my brain had been a hard drive, I would‘ve hit , or crashed it, or whatever.
―So?‖ Mom chirped. ―How did your teacher like the book?‖
―He liked it,‖ I lied. ―He said to thank you.‖
―He seems like such a wonderful man,‖ Mom gushed. ―I envy his wife. I like the way he‘s taking an interest in you. You need someone like him.‖
―Uh-huh.‖ I did a quick mental calculation: only seven hundred and eighty days left until graduation.
Seven hundred and eighty days of Mr. Anderson: in class, in the halls, at lunch . . .
Bursting from the woods in a blaze of early morning sun.
Lucky me.
17: a
Dad was home for once, having pawned his on-call off to Dr. Kirby, his partner. We had a civil meal and no one screamed. After dinner, Dad retreated to his study to do dictations. Mom asked me to do the dishes because she had to work, and then she sat down with a pot of jasmine tea and her spreadsheets. While I was scraping dishes, I noticed the empty Stoli bottle in the trash.
Staring at that Stoli was when I started feeling bad. What was I doing? Mr.
Anderson really had put himself out for me. He did that for everybody, as far as I could tell.
Look at the slack he cut Danielle. And how many teachers would not only drive a kid home but bring her breakfast? Convince her mom to lighten up, act more responsibly? My mom had dumped that vodka because of Mr. Anderson. She‘d been on time because of Mr.
Anderson, and I knew she and Dad must‘ve talked last night because they were behaving—because of Mr. Anderson. My family was semi-normal, for that night at least, and I owed all that to Mr. Anderson, and here I‘d treated him like he had the plague.
I thought about him, all alone in his house. He probably was standing over the sink, eating a yogurt or something. Or maybe not eating anything. His house would be clean and smell like lemons or, maybe, roses but there would be silence when he walked in. So he would put on music because the silence was a blanket that could suffocate a man if he didn‘t kick it off. What would he pick? Something soft and soothing. Not Bach. Bach was for the morning; Bach was marching orders and mathematics and setting the world just so.
Not Mozart either (too happy). I couldn‘t think of any other composers except Wagner and Beethoven. Jazz, then, or blues. But there would be music because that was the kind of man Mr. Anderson was. If there was silence, it would be because he‘d chosen that, not had it forced on him.
Then I wondered. Maybe he took care of other people because no one was taking care of him. His wife was away. He must be lonely. Maybe he gathered, well, strays to feel better.
After the dishes, I told Mom I was going upstairs to do some work and then get ready for bed. She kissed my cheek. Her lips were warm from the tea, and she smelled like a flower.
I knew which floorboards squeaked, and I‘d read somewhere that the squeakiest place on steps or in any hallway is right in the middle because that‘s where everyone walks.
I walked normally to my room, flipped on the light, closed the door from the outside. Then I tiptoed out, hugging the wall all the way to the spare room.
The hinges cried but so softly only I heard. Matt had never lived in this house, so there was nothing of his here at all: not his trundle bed or baseball glove or football helmet or books. Still, if Matt were to come back, somehow, this is where he would sleep. I quietly pulled the door shut, heard the slight tick of the catch, and stood a moment. I knew the layout well: bed to the left, a bureau straight on, a desk against the right wall between two windows—and a telephone.
Mr. Anderson said he lived twenty miles west and south, give or take, and I thought I remembered the town from when he‘d pointed out his exit the night before. The operator found him right away—―On J?‖ A county road; that‘s the thing about Wisconsin, a bunch of roads don‘t have names but numbers and letters because they‘re all just threading through farmland. I said yes and then no, thanks, I‘d dial it myself. When I did, I made sure to block caller ID, just in case . . . Well, just in case.
I listened as the numbers bleeped and blooped, and then the phone rang. Once, twice, three times . . . On the fifth ring, someone picked up. ―Hello?‖
A woman‘s voice. Or a girl? Someone young but not younger than me. Everything I‘d been about to say—what had that been anyway?—turned to dust on my tongue.
―Hello?‖ She sounded tired and a little mad and about to get madder. In the space behind her pause, I heard music: disjointed notes from a piano whose melodic line I couldn‘t follow because then she was back, angrier now: ―Hello? Is there anyone there?‖