Nineteen
Now
Twenty minutes later, I’m driving past the library, edging closer to nothingness. The buildings grow shorter and farther apart as I move toward blue sky and grassy fields. Less than a minute before I’m supposed to reach my destination, I see a lone house surrounded by trees. I think this can’t be the right location, but it’s the only one within sight. As I pass the mailbox, my phone dings to let me know I’ve arrived.
I drive down the gravel driveway and watch as the white farmhouse grows before my eyes. This can’t be the place where poor Zoey lives. With her unstable mother who is constantly moving her from one school to the next. This seems like the type of home people would aspire to have. It might be a bit outdated, but the bones are good. Even Danny and I talked about one day renovating an old farmhouse like this.
I park my car beside the only other one in the driveway, a rusty minivan. I turn off the engine, pull out the keys and freeze. I realize I have no idea what I’m doing here. This is the type of thing Marge would do, inserting herself into the lives of her students in hopes of making a change. Or even Pam, abandoning her weekend for a student in need. But I’ve never done this type of thing, and what would I even say? Hi, Ms. Peterson. I’ve known your daughter for three weeks and think she attacked her classmate. What was I thinking coming here without a plan?
I push the keys back into the ignition, hoping I can pull back onto the main road without being seen. But I’m too late. When I look up, there’s a woman standing on the front porch, staring at me.
I smile at her and sigh at myself. I’m in over my head and I know it, but I can at least speak with the woman. Ask her about her daughter without necessarily sharing my concerns.
I step out of the car, press away the wrinkles on my skirt and walk toward the porch. “Hello,” I say as I approach. “Are you Ms. Peterson?”
She has a slim torso and straight dark hair, like Zoey. As I move closer, I see her beauty is corroding. Wrinkles branch out from her mouth and eyes, which are rimmed with dark circles. Easy, Dell, I tell myself. She’s thirty-seven. This is you in six years. And yet, I don’t think that’s true. She appears to have lived hard.
“Yeah,” the woman says, one hand on her hip, the other on the railing. “Who are you?”
“I’m Della Mayfair. I’m Zoey’s English teacher,” I say, offering a smile.
The stern look Ms. Peterson wears doesn’t completely drop, but she seems more at ease. As though she was expecting someone worse than myself. “What are you doing here?”
I’m asking myself the same thing, as I mount a rickety porch step.
“I was hoping to speak with you about Zoey,” I say, clutching my purse like a badge. “I apologize for not calling first.”
She looks down and gently taps the railing with her feet. “Phone’s messed up right now. Wouldn’t matter if you had.”
“Okay,” I say, standing awkwardly on the porch. Still smiling.
“Would you like a drink or something?” she asks. “I just brewed sweet tea.”
“That would be lovely.”
She walks across the long porch and scoots a chair toward me, the legs scraping against the wood. “Wait here,” she says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I take a seat as Ms. Peterson walks inside. I scan my surroundings, immediately taken aback by how quiet it is. I’ve lived all my life surrounded by neighbors. First, the Wilsonville suburbs. Then cheap apartments and college dorms. Even now, Danny and I could throw a rock and hit homes on either side. Here, there is nothing. If I squint, I can see a small house in the distance, which could be a mansion up close for all I know.
An afternoon gust whooshes, grabbing the tall patches of grass in the yard and shaking them. There aren’t many flowers around, and I imagine if I lived in a place like this, landscaping would become my newest hobby. I’d do something about that gravel driveway, too. I imagine how beautiful the place could be with a little bit of work.
Ms. Peterson comes out carrying a round serving tray. There’s a pitcher and two tall glasses on it, along with a miniature bowl of cut lemons.
“You want lemon with your tea?”
“Please,” I say, straightening and placing my bag on the porch.
The ice cubes tinkle against the glass as she pours.
“You said your name is Mrs. Mayfair?”
“Yes,” I say. “Zoey is in my first block.”
“I think she told me about you. Are you the one reading about witches?”
“Yes, that’s my class,” I say, taking a sip of the tea. I’m surprised Zoey would tell her about me, or any of her other teachers. Brian never talked about school, unless he was ranting about how intellectually superior he was to everyone there. Perhaps that’s how my name came up in conversation.
“Yeah, she’s mentioned you,” she says, taking a sip and looking over her empty yard. “She’s a smart one, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Zoey is extremely smart. I know she’s doing well in other classes, too. You must be very proud.”
Ms. Peterson doesn’t say anything. She keeps staring at the fields.
“I was wondering,” I say after several seconds of silence, “if you could tell me a little bit about her educational background.”
“We’ve moved around a lot,” she says, at last. She holds her glass with two hands and looks down in her lap. “When my parents died, I figured it was time to finally move back home. Give this place a try.”
“You’re from Victory Hills?”
“Born and raised. I left when I met Zoey’s father, but that didn’t last. When she was a baby, I moved us around hoping to find a better place. Didn’t want to be the stereotype who ends
