I called her, she says. Every Sunday.
I’m sure she loved that, I say.
She nods. She said she did.
I have unthinkingly, shamefacedly, invited Kayla for dinner. She has mentioned that she’s home alone and even though I know she’ll come from far away, that she’ll have to take the train home late at night, I want to have her at our house.
She texts to say, Is it okay if I bring my brother?
Sure, I say. I don’t tell my husband, until right before they get there and our girls are about to go to bed.
She’s bringing her brother, I say.
How old is he? says my husband.
Five, I say.
It’s a school night, he says.
This was all a terrible idea—presumptuous boundary crossing—but now I can’t take it back.
Kayla wears more makeup than she does at school. Her dress is short and her hair is done in long, tight braids. Her brother holds on tight to her and doesn’t look at me as I let them into the building and lead them up to our apartment. He still wears his uniform from school, is round-faced, stocky. His shoes are Velcro like our girls’.
The girls are brimming, anxious; Who’s here, who’s here, they say, wet haired, teeth brushed, bed ready.
Mommy’s friend, my husband says.
My student, I correct him.
They look at Kayla’s brother first, about their size. He keeps his face turned toward Kayla’s leg as she grins and leans down to hug each of the girls.
How was the train? asks my husband.
Kayla laughs and I’m relieved to hear her laugh and the girls look at her. Long, she says.
My husband laughs as well.
Our girls lead them into the small room off the kitchen where we all just barely fit. A small couch that sits two or three, two grown-up chairs around the kitchen table, two small, old IKEA chairs for kids.
I have to pee, says Kayla’s brother.
I’ll take you, says the four-year-old and grabs hold of him.
He starts at her but lets her hold his hand.
He’s adorable, I say to Kayla when they’ve walked toward the bathroom.
So are they, she says.
My husband gets the dinner from the stove and the table’s already been set and I get all of us a glass of water and Kayla answers questions from the two-year-old about her shoes and dress.
How’s school? asks my husband, perhaps because he doesn’t listen when I tell him what the school’s like, perhaps because he’s not sure what else to ask a teenager.
It’s fine, Kayla says.
I try to remember what we talk about at school, but we’re not at school.
She teach you anything? my husband asks.
I’m not her teacher, I say.
She’s taught me things, Kayla says, and I feel my face turn red.
The four-year-old and Kayla’s brother come back, their hands wet from the sink, and sit on the couch playing with the magnet tiles the girls have brought out from their room.
You hungry? I say to the boy.
He shakes his head.
He doesn’t talk much if he doesn’t know you, Kayla says.
He talks to me, the four-year-old says.
Kayla laughs. That’s good, she says.
It’s late and I can feel my husband getting anxious. If the girls don’t get to bed soon, they’ll begin to disassemble. The four-year-old will pass tiredness and start spinning, scaling the furniture, impossible to calm down. The two-year-old will start to cry and not stop.
You want to take him to go play? I say to the four-year-old.
She takes the boy’s hand and they both run down the hall into her and her sister’s bedroom.
The two-year-old watches briefly, her eyes bleary. Can I sit on your lap? she says. I think that she means me, but just as I say yes, I watch as Kayla lifts her.
You’re good with kids, my husband says.
Kayla nods. Some of them, she says.
Yeah, he says. Some aren’t great.
She smiles.
The two-year-old has hold of one of her braids and runs it back and forth through each of her fingers.
Baby, I start to say, reaching for her. But Kayla shakes her head and tells me that it’s fine.
What grade are you in? asks my husband.
Tenth, says Kayla.
You know what you want to do?
I realize that I’ve never asked her.
Psychology, she says.
Makes sense, my husband says.
I wonder if she thinks I told him about her slipping out of class, her leaving. I haven’t, though I’m not sure why.
I want to understand why people do the things they do, she says.
You’d be good at it, I say.
We hear a scream from the kids’ room. I get up and go to them and Kayla follows.
Kayla’s brother sits on the floor in tears and the four-year-old stands holding three stuffed animals.
What happened? I say.
They’re special to me, she says.
You have to share, I say. We have a guest and you need to share.
I watch as her lip trembles. Kayla has hold of her brother and he’s slowly calming down.
Which one do you want to play with? I say to him. He nods toward a purple octopus our four-year-old is clutching fiercely.
Kiddo, I say, give it to him.
She shakes her head more surely, her teeth grabbing hold of her lip.
Hey, says Kayla, looking toward her from her brother. Her voice sounds different, sweeter, softer. I have an idea, she says, to the four-year-old, come here.
The four-year-old looks back and forth between us, toys still clutched to her, teeth still clamped overtop her lip.
Come here, Kayla says again.
She walks to her slowly, eyes on her little brother. Kayla pulls her closer still and whispers to her. I watch her let her lip loose. I watch the corners of her mouth turn up.
The four-year-old nods as Kayla finishes talking. The four-year-old hands Kayla’s brother two of the toys and smiles at him.
Sorry, she says.
He mumbles back to her and grabs hold of the two toys and they go back to playing.
You’re so good, I say.
Kayla laughs. I know, she says.
We’ve finished dinner and the two-year-old nurses on my lap. My husband gives Kayla and her brother a couple of the cookies that he
