“Marge, why are you so convinced—”
“Because I believe the victim, Della,” she says, her voice shaking. “I believe the child.”
“I hate to even suggest something like this. But sometimes—”
“No, what you are doing is completely uncalled for. Making accusations. Tracking down her old teachers. Visiting her mother. This is a witch hunt.”
I’m hunting something else entirely. Someone who is savvy and capable, and now she even has Marge wrapped around her finger. “I think the mother is the victim here. I’m not making these accusations based on one event.”
She stands by my door, looking back at me. “I’m sorry, Della. You sound delusional.”
I gasp-laugh, still not understanding why no one sees events from my perspective. Marge is now the second friend of mine in the past week to dismiss my allegations and label me as insane. But the only emotion larger than my sadness is my fear. My worry for her. Because she’s put herself in a trap, and only I can see it.
“You might not believe me. But at least consider what I’m saying. She has a violent history. I think she’s assaulted one student, harassed others. She hurt her own mother.” Now standing by my classroom door, I open it to offer Marge an exit. “And now she’s living in your house. Be careful.”
“You can’t just go around making allegations, Della,” she says as she walks past me. “You’re the one who should be careful.”
To say I’m on edge would be an understatement. My desire to cry grows stronger when I’m alone. One of the worst feelings to have is the idea you might be crazy. It’s not self-imposed. It’s a marker given to you by others. And once you have it, no one ever really sees past it. One… two… three.
I’ve been here before. This exact place of trying to prove I’m not wrong, that a dangerous person is out there. No one listened to me fast enough last time, and I’m convinced the outcome will be just as catastrophic this time around. The thought of seeing Zoey in a few minutes makes me physically ill, and I feel as though I might get sick. Four… five… six. Oh, screw it.
With only minutes remaining before the morning bell rings, I grab my cell phone and dial the main office.
“Victory Hills High School,” says Heather, our school receptionist.
“It’s Della Mayfair. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I’m not feeling well. I’ve not had time to call a substitute—”
“Hey, Della,” she says, cutting me off. “We can find you one, if you need.”
“Would it be a problem?” I ask. I never take a day without making proper preparations first.
“Not at all. I’ll announce for your classes to report to the library until someone arrives.”
“Thank you,” I say. “There’s an emergency lesson plan in my filing cabinet.”
“Get some rest.” Heather is nowhere near as talkative as the secretary at Boone County Elementary School, but she’s equally effective. I grab my bag and rush to the parking lot. By the time first block commences, I’m already on my way home.
Twenty-Nine
Fall 2005
The summer after Dad died was different. I still felt his absence. An almost tangible sense of loss in everything I did. There were no more musical interruptions. There were no more morning chats. Now sixteen, I was able to drive. I drove Dad’s station wagon, which made me proud and sad. I worked my first job at the concessions stand at the local movie theater, scooping popcorn and drizzling butter over the kernels. Just as we settled into our new roles, everything changed again. Dad was gone, but Brian would soon be gone, too.
Brian welcomed college with open arms. He’d been a standout in Wilsonville for years, but that was getting old. He wanted to impress new people, exceed new expectations. He wasn’t going far. Sterling Cove University was only two hours away. Bordering the shoreline, the campus was known for both its scenic setting and party atmosphere. Still, the college had a rigorous program. While most Wilsonville students would drop out after freshman year, the ones that did graduate entered the workforce with impressive resumés. It’s why Danny was also attending SCU, hoping it would be an appropriate precursor for medical school.
On the morning he was due to leave, Mom woke up early to prepare breakfast. When I walked downstairs, Brian was already at the table. I wiped away sleep from my face with a knuckle. Mom and Brian appeared fully awake.
“I just can’t believe my baby boy is going to college,” Mom said, her tone fake but cheery. Her eyes danced from Brian to me. “Pancake or waffle?”
“Waffle,” I said, taking my seat at the table. I knew it was an important morning when she was offering both.
“I’ll take another pancake, Mom,” Brian said, snapping a strip of bacon with his teeth.
“Are you nervous?” I asked him.
“Excited more than anything,” he said. He was lying. I could tell. His nostrils flared, and his eyebrows arched slightly. Brian wanted to appear casual, but he had the butterflies of every other eighteen-year-old in his position.
“You’re going to love it,” Mom said. She took the top pancake off her stack and put it on Brian’s plate. “I’m telling you, when people say college was the best time of their life, they’re not lying.” She took a bite of food. “Until you have kids, of course.”
“Do you think you’re going to miss me?” Brian asked. He didn’t look at either of us directly. A person listening in would think the question was directed to Mom, but I sensed he was more interested in an answer from me.
“Of course, darling,” she said. She lifted the carafe and refilled his juice. Brian smiled, then looked in my direction.
“Sure,” I said, taking the last sip from my glass. It was a lie, but my response came off more convincing than Brian’s denials of nervousness. “Will
