“I thought I’d cook since you’re working late for a change,” he says, lighting the long candle at the table’s center. He smiles, then a shadow of uncertainty covers his face. “It’s probably too late to eat.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and balance on my toes to kiss his lips. “This is perfect.”
Eight
Now
Monday comes too fast. When I arrive at school, I can tell within minutes something is off. An identifiable sense that something has happened, even though I’ve yet to speak with a soul. It’s the way students murmur as they pass, buzzing from one cluster of people to the next, their voices low. The way colleagues, standing in their familiar positions, stare forward without speaking, their predictable morning chatter gone.
I unlock my classroom and deposit my belongings, hoping I have time to stop by the employee lounge before the first bell rings. I know Marge will be in there, and if something is going on, she’ll have all the details.
As suspected, she’s just finished pouring her morning coffee when I walk into the room. Thankfully, we’re the only two.
“How was your weekend?” I ask. She looks at me like she still wants to be alone. She’s shaken, her usual positivity quenched. Something has definitely happened. And it’s bad.
“You didn’t hear about what happened after Spring Fling, did you?” she asks.
I shake my head, not wanting to waste time by responding. I stare at her and wait to be filled in.
“Gah, Della. You’re going to have to get on social media if you want to stay in the loop,” she says, putting down her coffee cup. I can tell she’s partially joking with me, as she often does in the morning, but her tone is serious. “Darcy Moore was attacked.”
“Attacked?” The syllables linger between us. I lower my voice in case someone opens the door. “Attacked how?”
“We don’t have all the details,” she says, eyeing the door, equally wary someone might walk in. “I’m not sure what happened, but I know her leg was sliced open.”
I gasp audibly, and cover my chest with my hand, as if my sorrow will better the situation. My stomach drops, as my mind conjures up past scenarios and images I’d rather not consider. One… two… three. Darcy Moore from first block. Darcy Moore, who I’d seen frolicking around the school on Saturday night. She’d been attacked hours later. Four… five… six. It doesn’t seem possible.
“What do we know?” I ask.
“My feed was full of #PrayforDarcy posts and whatnot, but obviously students didn’t mention anything about the attack.” She moves closer, further lowering her voice. “I know Pam has been with the Moores since yesterday. And I heard Bowles is planning a meeting with all of Darcy’s current teachers. You have her, right?”
“Yeah,” I stutter. “First block.”
“I have her third,” Marge says, taking a sip of coffee. “I guess we’ll find out more then. Keep your ears open.”
On cue, the first bell rings and another co-worker opens the lounge door. We both leave, separating at the end of the hall to head in the direction of our respective classrooms.
I already know how to act during a situation like this. We all do, if you’ve been teaching long enough. Everyone at school has their confidants. Mine are Marge and Pam. When you gossip at school, you must do so strategically. Otherwise, you might as well deliver whatever news you have over the intercom for the entire staff and student body to hear. Asking students what happened is another big no-no. No one wants to be accused of harassing students. Besides, you’re more likely to hear the truth via eavesdropping.
Much to my surprise, first block is even quieter than I am. They don’t say a word upon entering the classroom: not about their weekend, not about the assignment I’ve given them, not about Spring Fling. And nothing about Darcy Moore. Everyone is present today expect for Darcy and Adam; I suppose your girlfriend being attacked is a good enough reason to skip class.
“Grab your textbooks,” I say after several silent minutes. The room obeys without so much as a grunt. I clear my throat before continuing. “We’re starting The Crucible this week. Go ahead and read Act One to yourselves.”
Normally, I assign parts and we read plays aloud. But that feels too much to ask on a day like this. Even if no one mentions Darcy, they must be thinking about her. I’d rather not sit in silence with my thoughts, but I also don’t want to push my students too far out of their comfort zones. I lean back in my chair and watch as my students flip pages and stuff earbuds in their ears.
Ninety minutes is a long time to sit in silence, though. By the end of class, students are restless. I invite them to share their responses to today’s reading. Most students make random comments about characters or setting, but some of the smarter ones, like Melanie, approach theme.
“It’s like everyone is afraid of something,” she says, twirling her pen.
Now standing, I lean against my podium. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”
“It’s, like, every character so far is either afraid of God or the devil or each other. I think that’s why they start accusing people.”
“Fear is a huge motivator for future events in the play.” I clear my throat. “That’s something you should think about as you continue reading. What are the dangers of allowing fear to influence our decisions?”
“It pushes others to make accusations without evidence,” Ben says, quietly.
“Good,” I say. “Any other ideas you’d like to discuss?”
“Behaviors repeat themselves,” Zoey says. Her words are sharp and quick. I don’t know if I’d have caught them had her classmates been speaking at their normal volume.
“I don’t know if I heard you exactly,” I say, straightening. “Can you elaborate?”
“Well, these events took place hundreds of
