“I’ve fostered before, you know. Never anything long-term, and usually the children are younger. But what can I say? I like the kid. It’s bad enough she came here so late in the year. I thought, if she stays with me, at least she can remain at school with a sense of normalcy.”
“That’s very admirable, Marge,” I say, wanting her to understand I appreciate her kindness. “But there’s something you should know.”
Like a phantom, Zoey appears at my side holding a roll of duct tape and cutting scissors. “Happy Almost-Friday, Mrs. Mayfair.”
“Zoey,” I say, hesitantly. I look at her but cannot reciprocate her smile. I don’t even have the spirit to fake it.
“Hold on, guys,” Marge says, staring across the lawn as a car pulls up. An older man exits the vehicle holding an aluminum platter. “Looks like we have another food delivery.”
She skirts across the lawn, leaving us alone. Zoey stares at me for a beat, scissors in her hands, then places them on the grass. She hauls a foldable table off the ground and into the truck bed.
“What brings you here?” she asks.
“Ms. Helton and I are friends, Zoey.”
“Do you often hang out after school?” she asks, still focusing on the task in front of her.
“Sometimes,” I say, irritated by her questions. Across the lawn, I see Marge is busy talking with the visitor. “I’d rather know why you are here?”
“You didn’t hear about what happened with my mom? I thought you might know, considering how close you two are.” She stops pushing the table and looks at me with those empty eyes.
“What’s that mean, Zoey?” I ask, careful not to give her more information.
“She told me about your visit last week,” she says. “She said you seemed like a very concerned teacher.”
“I visited her, and we talked about your progress at school.”
“Well, everyone at school seems to think I’m progressing just fine. Except for you. I wonder why that is?”
There are so many things I want to say to her right now. So many accusations I want to throw her way. But I can’t. She probably wants me to act hysterical, react in a way that will make me seem unbelievable should anyone start listening to what I have to say.
“Your mother thinks you’re adjusting, too,” I say, instead. “She said you had a great time at Spring Fling. And the party.”
I hold her eye contact, letting her know, as discreetly as possible, I’m onto her. I’m onto her lies, and it won’t take me long to uncover more.
“Maybe I just told my mom I was at the party. Isn’t that what teenagers do? Tell their parents they went one place, so they can really go somewhere else.”
“I’ve not been a teenager for a while,” I say. Then, whispering, “Is that what you two fought about over the weekend?”
She flinches, letting me know I’m right. Ms. Peterson did ask Zoey about the party, and the exchange which unfolded led to violence. She recovers quickly, smiling.
“I’d rather not talk about what happened.” Her eyes turn from cold to pitiful. “It wasn’t a good night.”
“Must have been traumatic,” I say. “For both of you.”
I know what I’m saying is wildly inappropriate, especially considering Zoey has recently been labeled a victim of violence. But I don’t believe her. And I want her to understand my accusations, even if I can’t voice them.
She lets out a quiet laugh.
“You would know about that, right?” she asks. “Overcoming trauma?” She smirks, placing a box inside the car without taking her eyes off me.
I breathe shallowly, because now I’m not the only one making allegations. One… two… three. I feel, for the first time in a long time, someone is looking at me not as Della Mayfair, but as Brian’s sister. She knows.
“Don’t stop working now,” Marge says to Zoey, standing between us.
“Sorry, Ms. Helton. I was just telling Mrs. Mayfair how appreciative I am you agreed to take me in.”
“Don’t get all soft on me,” she says, squeezing Zoey’s shoulder. “And you should call me Marge. At least when we’re not in chemistry class.”
My entire body feels hot, and there’s a thin line of sweat between my palm and the strap of my purse. Four… five… six. “Marge, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head home,” I say.
“You all right, Dell?” she asks. “You look pasty. Come sit on the sofa. I’ll make you a drink.”
“No, no. I’m fine. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I say, stumbling toward my car. Seven… eight… nine. “Thanks for the brownie.”
“Be careful, Dell,” she warns me, uneasy. I can tell she’s concerned, but she has no way of knowing why I’m suddenly on edge. Or that I’m not the one who needs to be careful.
I get to my car, but before I open the door, I stop and turn. “Marge?” I yell across the narrow street.
“Yeah?” she hollers back.
“You don’t have a cat, do you?”
“Nope,” she says. “I’m allergic.”
Zoey keeps her back to me as she wrestles another table. She doesn’t respond to the question I ask, acts as though she didn’t even hear. She has a much better poker face than I do. But I hope she did hear, and I hope she’s wondering what else I know. Wondering how much of her past and present I’m starting to piece together.
“Good,” I say to Marge, getting inside my car and slamming the door.
Twenty-Eight
Now
On Friday morning, I go straight to the employee lounge. As expected, Marge is inside preparing her morning coffee.
“You feel better?” she asks, stirring her cup with a spoon.
“Yeah,” I say, remembering my sudden departure yesterday. I spent most of
