“Everything’s great.”
“How are your students? Any concerns?”
“None as far as I can tell.”
Condrey takes me in. I have to stand there and let her look. I never know how to handle myself when she does this, which is more often than one might imagine. I simply submit to her silent inspection. “Richard, I’ve been watching you lately…I know you’ve noticed.”
Watching me?
“You’ve been great with the kids. They love you, that’s clear. You bring such a…wonderful energy to Danvers.”
“…Thank you.”
“We really have high hopes for you here, Richard. We want you to consider Danvers home. You and Tamara. The two of you can be a part of our family for a long time.” There’s something slithering underneath her words. I can feel it.
“That’s great.”
Condrey beams. “Good luck tonight.” Then just like that, she leaves.
Do I want to be a part of this? This family? With a matriarch like Condrey?
Any parent can wander into my classroom and see what their child has been working on. I’ll go through the same rigmarole all the teachers do—talking about the student’s behavior, do they follow directions, do they turn their work in on time, do they work well with others, do they respect their classmates and adults, do they have a positive can-do attitude.
Nobody comes in. I could take a nap and no one would notice. I sit behind my desk and settle into the silence, marinating among the doodles and finger paintings. The macaroni portraits. All the squiggly lines like wriggling worms.
Penny for your thoughts, Tamara would say in a moment like this. I’ll throw in a nickel.
Believe me, I’d say back, brushing it off, you don’t even wanna know…
Believe me.
Watching you, Condrey said. Why is Condrey always watching me? Energy, she said. Wonderful energy. She has high hopes for me. What does she want from me?
I pulled out our most recent projects for parents to pore over, ready to point out any artistic flourishes I might find. Moms and dads love to tell admission counselors their children have that magic touch. Susie Q’s art teacher sensed her talent from the get-go. Just look at her finger paintings. See the signs of Van Gogh? Even in sleepy Danvers, parents are looking for that Ivy League angle as early as elementary school.
My adopted parents were retired alpha types. They’d already gone through it with their own kids by the time they scooped me up. I was Tim and Nancy’s victory lap. Something they could brag about at their tennis socials. If there was an after-school club for artistic kids, they signed me up. Every minute of my life was accounted for. I never had a free moment to get lost in my thoughts. Which was the point. If I didn’t stop to think back, maybe I’d forget who I was.
Forget Sean.
Tim and Nancy were in their fifties when I entered their lives. Tim was too old to play catch without feeling the creak in his shoulders. They were around but they weren’t there for me. They didn’t spin stories and surprise me with milkshakes and tell me I could always talk to them. Tim had a heart attack when I was in high school. Nancy’s death was more drawn out. She suffered from dementia for the last few months of her life before passing away. I would visit her on holiday breaks from art school, but she would always look at me as if I were a stranger.
Who are you? she’d ask. I didn’t blame her. Who had I been to her, really? I never felt like her son—more like someone passing through a witness protection program. It seems strange how adamant they had been about keeping me occupied, as if they meant to distract me. I should be thankful, how they bent over backward to provide me every opportunity to find myself, a new version of me, but it felt like they were burying me in extracurricular activities.
I snap back to my classroom. Someone is standing in the doorway.
Sandy’s mother patiently waits for me to notice. “Mrs. Levin!” I hop up from my desk and greet her at the door, shaking her hand. She hasn’t stepped inside. “Thanks for coming.”
“Miss.”
“Sorry. Miss Levin. Hi—I’m Richard. Richard Bellamy. Sandy’s art teacher.”
She winces at the sound of my name.
“Please. Have a seat. Sorry the desks are so little.” I offer her the entirety of the classroom and all of its masterworks with a sweep of my hand. She takes in the room before entering, as if to search for a trap. She sits at one of the tiny desks, her eyes never settling.
“Is Sandy feeling at home?” I ask. “I know a big move can disrupt a kid’s equilibrium.”
“Yes,” she says, though it doesn’t sound like Miss Levin is answering in the affirmative.
“I was hoping you’d stop by,” I say, “to say thanks again. For the other night.”
“It’s fine,” she says, brushing it off. “I’m just glad your son is okay. Nothing bad happened?”
“Eli? No—he’s already forgotten all about it.” I pull out a few paintings of Sandy’s and bring them to the desk. “Let’s talk about Sandy! I don’t say this lightly: she’s one of my most talented students. Here are some watercolors we did this week. She’s really got an eye for landscapes. I don’t know if you’re interested, but there are some summer programs that…”
Miss Levin isn’t looking at her daughter’s paintings. She’s staring at me.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Sandy showed me.”
“Showed you…what?” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Her piñata project?”
“The bruises.”
Hold on.
Wait.
I hold out my hands in the gentlest, most placating gesture I can manage. This just went from zero to sixty—and way beyond my pay grade. How the hell am I supposed to handle this?
“On her legs. Her…upper thighs.”
Jesus, this is too much.
“Okay. Wow. I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you think someone is hurting her?” I glance over Miss Levin’s shoulder, toward the door, just to make sure it’s open. Wide
