Chapter 5
AVA
Teachers are a fucking godsend.
Especially middle school teachers—they are out here doing work that I would only expect to be done in the nine circles of Hell.
I can’t say I’ve thought much about what it would be like to be in a seventh-grade classroom for a Valentine’s Day party, and I could have gone my whole life without knowing.
The amount of hormones and awkwardness that has been circling in the air since I walked Georgie to her reading class has me regretting my call to her teacher asking if I could tag along to the party and chat with her after school.
I was actually surprised that Ms. Mullins said yes; I can’t imagine that any teacher wants to stay after school to talk to a student’s caregiver on a Friday, but maybe Georgie’s mentioned something to her—something that might help me figure out where things went so wrong.
“I can’t believe you deal with this. Every day,” I whisper to Ms. Mullins—Callie.
She’s about my age with dark brown hair twisted back in a claw clip, an oversized white sweater with red hearts hanging on her petite body.
It’s a few minutes before the last bell is going to ring, and the two of us are standing by her desk, watching the truly horrifying scene in front of us.
Looking past the pods of girls whispering and laughing while subtly pointing at a group of boys pretending not to notice them, I spot Georgie on the outskirts of the rest of the class with two of her friends as they look at something on one of the girls’ phones.
The room is loud and animated, the voice cracks and high-pitched shouting even louder than when I got here, all the candy and sugar from their party finally taking effect.
“Me either,” Callie replies with a huff of laughter. One that perfectly depicts her own disbelief at what she does all day. She glances at the clock above the door. “Did you want Georgie here for our conversation?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather not. She’s dealt with enough in the last twenty-four hours,” I answer.
The bell rings, and Callie announces to the class to have a good weekend and not to forget to do their assignment as the kids file out. Georgie waves to her friends as they follow the crowd out before coming up to me.
“Hey, kiddo.” I brush a piece of her dirty blonde hair behind her ear, noticing how much the sleep she got this morning helped that glow return to her face, some of the shine coming back to the smile she gives me. “I’m going to chat with Ms. Mullins. I’ll meet you up front, by the carpool line?”
Georgie nods, looking at her teacher. “Bye, Ms. M. See you Monday.”
“See you Monday, sweetheart,” Callie answers as she bends down to pick up a paper plate that just missed the garbage near her desk.
Georgie is the last to leave the classroom, and it isn’t until it’s just her teacher and me that I realize the complete mess the classroom is.
It’s like a bomb went off, leaving candy wrappers and discarded napkins everywhere.
There are crumbs on the carpet, and the neat pods of desks I saw when I got here are completely askew.
“So,” Callie starts. “What is it you wanted to discuss?”
I hear her question, but it doesn‘t register. I’m too distracted by the mess around us, and the skin on my palms begins to itch. I open and close my hands, counting.
The thought of how insane I must look right now crosses my mind, but it’s not as important as getting to seventeen.
“Ava?” I hear from next to me, but I can’t answer right now.
I didn’t get to seventeen.
“Ava,” Callie says, but this time it’s with a note of concern,
Sixteen
Seventeen
Immediately, enough of my anxiety lightens for me to inhale. “Sorry, what did you say?” My eyes scan the room, the urge for order heavy on my mind, but I have to get a hold of myself.
This meeting is for Georgie.
I need to get a handle on this.
I’m not going to be like my mom—too concerned with myself and my own problems to take care of the people around me.
“I asked what you wanted to talk about.” Callie sits down at her desk, and I manage to turn my body from the mess of the classroom, focusing on her. “Is everything okay with Georgie?”
Callie motions to the chair next to her desk—I didn’t even realize she pulled it up for me. It definitely wasn’t there a minute ago.
The urge to start my counting again is like a weight pressing down on my chest, but I sit on my hands, hoping the compulsion subsides—I know it won’t, so I pause, giving myself a minute before I get back to it.
Counting how many times I close my fist won’t help Georgie.
Talking to her teacher will.
“Right,” I say, my eyes finally meeting Callie’s. I’m expecting to see some sort of annoyance or confusion from her—I can’t imagine what she must think of me—but there’s nothing. She has her hands interlaced in front of her, resting on her desk, patiently waiting for me to go on.
No wonder Georgie likes her so much.
“Does this have something to do with Georgie’s mom?” Callie asks, and it catches me off guard for a moment before I remember what happened thirteen months ago.
This is Georgie’s second year having Callie as a teacher, since Callie moved from sixth-grade writing to seventh-grade reading, so we’ve met before today.
Callie was the one who called me last year when my mom forgot to get Georgie from school.
When I got the call, my first reaction was panic—that not only had something happened to Georgie, but to my mom, too. I became Georgie’s secondary contact after her dad died two years ago, but I never got a call from school before.
They were asking if someone was on their way to pick up Georgie—she’d been waiting outside the school for over an hour, and all the other kids were gone. Callie was on her way to her car when she spotted Georgie pacing in the parking lot, as her calls to my mom went unanswered.
Because she was so drunk that she didn’t know what day it was—let alone that it was time to pick up Georgie from school.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Callie adds when I don’t respond right away, pulling me back to the present.
“It’s just—” she shakes her head, her eyes going to her hands–“Georgie has become very withdrawn these last couple of months. She’s nothing like the student I had last year—always engaged, well-liked by her peers, on top of her school work. ”
She reaches toward a basket of papers on her desk, pulling one from the bottom and sliding it over to me,
“She recently turned in this as her reading assignment.” My eyes scan the paper as Callie continues, “I’m reading a chapter book to the kids right now, about a boy from outer space who is struggling to feel like he can relate to the kids at his new school on Earth.
” Georgie’s handwriting is almost illegible, and I’m tempted to ask Callie if her fancy teacher superpowers can help me decipher this.
“Students were asked to infer how the protagonist is feeling in the first few chapters,” she explains, “and if they can relate to him as a character.”
It takes me a second to make out the few sentences Georgie scribbled onto the paper, but when I do, my heart drops.
I think Cosmo is sad and frustrated about being at his new school. I relate to Cosmo because he feels alone and like he can’t talk to anyone after his mom left him on Earth. I know what it feels like to have no one.
“When did she write this?” My voice is just above a whisper, the guilt and shame heavy in the words—knowing Georgie was feeling like this, and I had no idea. It’s like someone is pressing their foot down on my throat, cutting off my ability to breathe.
“It was the first assignment students completed when we returned from Winter Break.”
“She turned this in over a month ago?” I snap, the tone sharp. Here I am thinking Georgie was keeping everything to herself, but this is a clear cry for help, and her teacher didn’t do anything?
“I can understand your frustration, Ava, but I reached out to your mom a few times in the last few weeks. I haven’t heard anything back.
” Callie reaches for Georgie’s assignment, putting it back on the bottom of the basket, under all the other papers.
“Georgie has also been meeting with our school’s guidance counselor, but she hasn’t opened up about what she meant in this assignment.
Given that you’re not a point of contact for a situation such as this, I have to admit I was relieved when I found out you were coming by today.
I was hoping you could offer me some insight as to how I can best support her. ”
Callie’s calm demeanor has me regretting snapping at her. I’m not mad at her; she’s done nothing wrong. If anything, she’s done more than enough—trying to reach out to Mom.
My mother is who I’m mad at, who I should be yelling at, demanding answers from.
With last night being the first time I heard of her drinking again, I assumed it was an isolated incident. Like the one last year.
But maybe not.
I inhale shakily before blowing the air out of my mouth. “Our mom is an alcoholic.”
Saying the words out loud is a painful catharsis.
It hurts to say them, and I truly don’t know if I’ve ever said them to anyone before—my sisters and I have always talked around it, avoiding the label because that would make it real.
Same with my therapist. The word itself has been this elephant in the room for as long as I can remember.
Until now.
But there’s also an ounce of relief, like when I allow myself to fall into a compulsion. There’s a moment where the tension releases—like a breath of fresh air, like a night wrapped up in the sheets of someone who knows exactly how to get me out of my head—before the tension wrings taut again.
Callie nods her head, not saying anything, so I continue. “She’s been sober for all of Georgie’s life, and I thought her relapse last year was a one-time thing, since Georgie’s dad had just died.”
“Yes, I was so sorry to hear about her dad’s accident. That couldn’t have been easy for any of you,” Callie says, reaching to place a hand on my forearm.
The sympathy in her voice washes over me, and I realize that I can’t remember the last time I grieved my own stepfather, or if I ever have.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, suddenly uncomfortable with the way she looks at me and the concern she’s showing me.
We should be focusing on my sister. “I got a call from Georgie last night that our mom was drunk. I thought it was another one-off thing, but after seeing that assignment of Georgie’s, I’m not so sure. ”
But I’m going to do everything in my power to find out.
“Have you talked to your mom?” Callie asks.
I shake my head. “I left her a note to call me before I left with Georgie last night, but I haven’t heard from her.” That alone should have been my first clue that this wasn’t just a tiny relapse. If she hasn’t noticed Georgie’s gone yet, there’s no way she’s in her right mind.
Probably hasn’t been in a while.
I continue, “So, Georgie will be staying with me for a few days while we figure this out.”
“What about long-term?”
I open my mouth to answer her question, but nothing comes out.
How the fuck do I tell her that I haven’t slowed down since leaving Anderson’s house last night? That I haven’t let myself?
Because if I do, I have to come up with an answer to that question.
“Ava,” Callie starts, but I stand abruptly, cutting her off and surprising both of us.
“Georgie’s waiting for me. I'd better go. I just wanted to make sure you knew what was going on with her.” I start toward the door, but Callie’s voice stops me.
“Ava, I’m going to have to report this.”
I turn, and a misplaced feeling of betrayal hits me right in the stomach. Logically, I know it’s her job, but I can’t fight the way my brain tells me that I shouldn’t have trusted her with this.
“Report this to who?”
“Child Protective Services.”