Twelve
Now
On Wednesday, Adam returns to class. He takes his familiar seat in the back. The seat next to him—Darcy’s seat—remains ominously empty. I’m dreading her return to school, but Adam’s presence gives me and the rest of the class an idea of what to expect. No one openly stares at him, but every so often a head turns in his direction.
I redirect their curious minds to our work. “We’re going to continue reading The Crucible today,” I say. “Would you rather read independently again, or work in small groups?”
“Groups,” a zoo of voices echoes back.
“All right.” I open my book and tell them where to turn. They move to their seats, and I take their willingness to work together as a sign we’re moving forward. We’ll have to, especially when Darcy returns to class.
The only one who doesn’t move is Adam. He remains seated, the textbook in front of him closed. Without attracting the attention of the other students, I walk back to his desk.
“Would you rather read alone?” I ask him, my voice low. Truthfully, I don’t care if he reads today; I know he has more serious topics on his mind. But Adam also must realize he can’t dwell on what’s happened. Sometimes the most insignificant events can take a person back to a neutral place, even completing his or her first block reading assignment.
“Yes, I would.” He clears his throat and opens his book. It’s almost like he was in some type of trance and my comment ended it. Adam’s phone buzzes against the desk, grabbing both of our attentions. Without reading the message, he takes the phone and places it in his pocket. He looks across the room at Zoey, and I do the same.
Zoey has her phone out, her fingers tapping quickly across the screen. Is she messaging Adam? All of his other classmates are actively avoiding him. Zoey barely knows Adam. She turns, her eyes beady, and catches us both staring at her.
“Phones away,” I say. I address the entire class, although the announcement has a clear target. By the time I walk by her desk, her phone is out of sight.
The next day, Adam is more angry than unengaged. He sits in the back of the room, resembling a volcano on the verge of erupting. He’s got all the characteristics: tight mouth, clenched fists, tremoring leg. Every few seconds, he takes a deep breath and stares at the floor. I’m not sure who is setting him off, but I notice his eyes consistently flit toward Zoey. Was she messaging him yesterday, after all?
“Is everything all right?” I hiss when I pass Adam’s desk. Half of my other students are plugged into their earbuds, silently reading Act Four while their music blares. Adam’s ears are bare. When I speak, his head turns, although he doesn’t look at me.
“I’m fine,” he responds through gritted teeth.
As he says the words, his eyes dart, again, in Zoey’s direction. Like the others, Zoey now has two strings hanging from her ears, her fingers tapping on the book as she reads. I wonder whether she’s listening to music at all. Maybe she hears me checking on Adam. I’m not sure why I think that, but I do.
Adam opens his book and starts flipping pages. I can tell something is bothering him, something more than just Darcy. Something specific. Perhaps, someone.
When the lunch bell rings, I open my miniature refrigerator and find it’s empty. My mind has been so scattered lately, I forgot to pack lunch. I open my wallet, which thankfully has cash in it. I suppose I’ll be scoring a tray from the cafeteria today. I’m usually good about packing lunch, and I always try to cook double of whatever Danny and I eat for dinner so that I can have leftovers. However, I haven’t been cooking as often as I did before break. I’ve been so exhausted by the time I return home.
I enter the crowded cafeteria and bypass the student line. I’m about to drop a slimy mound of green beans on my tray when I hear a shout. Toward the doors, I see Adam, Zoey and a posse of other students. They’re standing in that territorial circle which only forms when something bad is about to happen. I rush to the doors, throwing my tray in the trash as I go. As I approach the group, I see Adam take a step closer to Zoey. His clamped jaw and narrowed eyes worry me.
“That’s enough,” I say, standing in between Zoey and Adam. “Everyone, sit down.”
“Yeah, take a seat, Adam,” Zoey says, but she’s not reinforcing my commands. She’s taunting him. Ever since Darcy’s attack, Zoey seems to be at the center of drama. Devon, standing beside her, laughs.
“Adam.” I pull him out of the cafeteria and into the hallway. I see the huddle of students standing by the door and turn my attention toward them. “Go eat lunch,” I shout. “Now.”
When the cafeteria door shuts, the lunchroom noise instantly eases. Now I’m staring at this six-foot-two athlete leaning defeatedly against a row of lockers, caving into himself.
“Adam,” I begin again. “What is going on?”
He huffs for a few seconds, regaining the composure he’d lost. As earlier, I suspect he is going to respond with Nothing. But that would be pointless, and we both know it. Starting the conversation with a student is usually the hardest part. Once they start talking, they want to say more and more. Completely get their feelings off their chests. A catharsis.
“You know about what happened to Darcy,” he says. When he looks up at me, I see tears in his eyes. The volcano from earlier has finally erupted: anger, followed by tears. This tall, agile boy shows emotion shamelessly. “Well, some people at school think I’m the one who hurt her. That new girl keeps making comments about it.”
That new girl. Zoey. I know I must
