Chapter 2
Two
Hallie
I weave through the maze of desks, my heart thrumming with a familiar blend of excitement and purpose. The air is alive with the sound of pencils scratching against paper and the faint hum of adolescent concentration. This is where I belong—among these eager minds, within these four walls I’d carefully adorned with colorful posters about Dickinson and Frost and Shakespeare.
“Remember, folks, 'To be or not to be' isn't just Hamlet's question. It's yours in every choice you make,” I say, tapping on the faded poster as I pass it.
A hand shoots up from the back row, and I can't help but smile at the earnestness etched on Jenny's face. “Ms. St. James, can you help me with this metaphor? I don't get what the raven has to do with grief.”
“Of course, Jenny.” My steps are quick but measured as I reach her side. I lean down, my fingers tracing the lines of Edgar Allan Poe's verse she's scribbled down.
“Think of the raven as an uninvited guest who reminds the narrator of his loss. It's persistent, like the memory of someone you can't forget.” I glance into her eyes, urging her to connect with the emotion behind the words.
Her brow furrows in concentration, and then the lightbulb moment flashes across her features. “So, it's like when my grandpa passed, and I kept finding his old fishing hat around the house?”
“Exactly,” I affirm, warmth spreading through me. “It's those reminders that keep the past tethered to us. Now, try writing that down in your own words.”
I stand upright, watching as she chews on her pen and begins to write once more, nodding to herself. The restlessness that often lingers in my chest stills for a moment, replaced by a sense of fulfillment that only teaching can bring.
“Thanks, Ms. St. James. You always know how to make it make sense,” Jenny says without looking up, her focus unwavering.
“Anytime, Jenny. That's what I'm here for,” I reply, and her small smile tells me she believes it as much as I do.
With each step back to the front of the classroom, the murmur of student voices rises again, the symphony of learning that fuels my days. I’m not naive to think that all of them care, that all of them want to think deeper about literature like I do. But if I can reach them in some way—leave a memory, an impact that their life is worth more than this city shows them—then it’s all worth it.
The final bell rings, its shrill echo signaling the end of another school day at Alcott City Middle School. Books snap shut, chairs scrape against the linoleum, and a tide of newly-minted teenagers flows toward the door.
“Remember, your essays on grief in literature are due Thursday!” I call out over the din, my voice barely cresting the wave of chatter. A chorus of groans meets my reminder, but it's tinged with good-natured ribbing.
“Will do, Ms. St. James!” someone shouts back, and a smile flickers across my face as I start to clean up my desk.
I’m flipping through a stack of quizzes to grade when my cell phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out but my hand hesitates as I eye the caller ID—unknown number. It's probably another sales call, but something nudges me to answer anyway.
“Ms. St. James speaking.”
“Ms. St. James, hi. This is Mariana Rivera, Ricardo's mother. You got a minute?” The voice is tense, each word taut like a wire pulled too tight, wrapped in a strong inner-city accent.
“Mrs. Rivera! Of course, how can I help you?” I reply, my tone softening instinctively as I settle into my chair, sensing her distress.
“It's about Ricardo . . . I'm worried. He's been coming home upset, and he won't talk to me about it. I’ve tried to get him to open up, but he just gets mad any time I bring it up.” She sniffed, and I felt the nerves through the phone. “He’s always talkin’ about you, how you’re his favorite teacher. I thought maybe . . . maybe he might’ve said something to you?”
I sigh. “Ricardo's a bright student, Mrs. Rivera, but I have noticed he's been . . . quieter lately.” I choose my words carefully, aware of the delicate balance between concern and overstepping boundaries.
The truth is, Ricardo doesn’t know how to come out to his friends and family. He’s terrified of how they’ll react, and while I always advocate for living one’s truth, I can’t say I blame him.
“Is he being bullied?” Her voice cracks, and I feel a pang in my chest for both Ricardo and his mother.
“I haven't seen anything, but I promise to keep a closer eye on him and talk with him tomorrow. We'll sort this out together,” I assure her, feeling that fire ignite within me—the one that refuses to let any of my students suffer in silence. I know he’s struggling internally, but I hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed yet.
It’s time to have a talk, see where his head’s at. If he wants to, that is.
“Thank you, Ms. St. James. I just don't know what to do anymore,” she whispers before we say our goodbyes.
The line clicks dead, and I sit there for a moment, the weight of responsibility settling over me. I glance around the empty classroom, the scattered papers like fallen leaves on the desks, and make a decision.
I stay.
As the shadows lengthen outside, I grade the quizzes and arrange my lesson plans into neat stacks, the light from my desk lamp casting a warm pool in the growing darkness of the room. My pen dances across the pages, notes and ideas taking shape under my guiding hand.
Papers shuffle, the sharp scent of ink fills the air, and I lose track of time as I pore over assignments, leaving comments in margins, offering praise and suggestions alike.
“Keep trying,” I scribble next to a half-formed conclusion in the essay section of a quiz.
“Excellent insight,” I write beneath a paragraph brimming with potential, even if the grammar needs work.
By the time I pack up my bag, the building is silent, save for the distant hum of a janitor's vacuum. I lock the classroom door behind me, the key cold and firm in my hand—a reminder of the trust placed upon me.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper to the empty halls. “We'll make it better, tomorrow.” It’s something I say to myself every evening, on good days and bad.
It can always get better.
I turn my key in the lock, and I step into the sanctuary of my apartment. The hustle of Alcott City falls away as I cross the threshold. My bag lands with a soft thud on the chair by the door, its weight released like the day's accumulated burdens.
I pause, absorbing the quiet calm that wraps around me like a comforting shawl. Light from the street lamps spills through the windows, touching everything with a golden warmth. I put on my classical playlist and let the instrumental music wash over me.
Moving to the kitchen, I fill a glass pitcher with water, the familiar ritual grounding me. I weave through the living room, my fingers brush against the leaves of a fern, its vibrant green a stark contrast to the muted tones of the cushions and walls. The plants are thirsty, their soil dry to the touch, and I oblige them with a careful pour, watching as the water seeps into the earth.
“Drink up,” I whisper to the fiddle-leaf fig, its broad leaves reaching for the light. I snip away a brown edge from an otherwise perfect leaf, the small act of pruning both necessary and therapeutic. In this moment, tending to the needs of these silent, living things, I am at peace.
The tendrils of a pothos have wandered too far, aspiring beyond the limits of their pot. I guide them back, weaving them into a more supportive shape. “Not too far now,” I murmur, my hands gentle but firm.
In the nurturing of these plants, I see my own reflection—a caregiver, a nurturer, someone who helps others find their way. Whether it's coaxing a reluctant vine or encouraging a hesitant student, the essence is the same: patience, care, and a belief in potential.
I lean into this side of myself because otherwise, I’d wallow. And I’m sick of wallowing.
The last stream of water trickles from the watering can, and my fingers linger on the rim. The soft buzz of my phone breaks the silence. I glance at the clock—it's late for a parent to call, but not unheard of.
“Hello?”
“Ms. St. James, this is Alex Mercer from the Daily Tribune,” says a voice, assertive yet smooth like polished stone. “I'm hoping to discuss Teddy Harrington with you.”
Teddy. A shiver runs through me, a breeze unsettling the calm waters of the past. My grip tightens on the phone. “Why?” I manage to choke out, my heart thudding against my ribcage.
In just a few seconds, one single sentence, it all comes rushing back.
“It's a sensitive matter,” Alex continues, his tone professional but probing. “We've uncovered some new information about your boyfriend's death.”
My mind reels, unbidden, to that morning six months ago. The sun had just started to peek through the blinds when the call came in—a call much like this one. A detective's somber voice had told me Teddy was gone, found lifeless in his apartment, an overdose.
Confusion had swamped me then, as it does now. Teddy, with his quick smile and quicker wit—how could he have been using? We'd shared dinners, movies, walks through Alcott City's restless streets, but never once did I see the shadow of addiction behind his eyes. No signs of even casual drug use. His death was a shock, but the manner of it had thrown me for a loop.
Guilt gnaws at me, sharp-toothed and insistent. I hadn’t been in love with him; ours was a connection of convenience, two people keeping loneliness at bay. Maybe in time I could have been. But he was kind and charming and made me smile.
We spent months together. Shouldn't I have known? Shouldn't I have seen the signs?
“Ms. St. James? Are you still there?” Alex asks, his voice bringing me back to the present.
“Yes, I'm here.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “I don't understand what you mean by new information.”
“Perhaps we could meet? Discuss it in person?” There's a push in his tone, a reporter's eagerness for the story lurking beneath the surface.
“I don’t understand why a reporter is interested in an overdose that happened six months ago.”
Alex doesn’t speak for a moment, but I hear him shuffling around. “I think there’s more to the story.”
My heart drops out, the adrenaline of anxiety flooding my veins.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t talk about it over the phone. Agree to meet with me, and I’ll tell you more.”
This is strange. I’m a teacher. I don’t get calls from reporters requesting clandestine meetings. Even if Teddy’s death was a shock, it wasn’t steeped in intrigue. He shot up with too much heroine and died. End of story. What could possibly change that, and interest a reporter, no less?
My curiosity gets the best of me, but I don’t want to commit.
“I'll . . . think about it,” I say, hedging. My hand shakes slightly as I end the call, leaving the room filled with a hushed stillness once more.
My pulse races like a trapped bird against my ribs. The reporter's request hangs in the air, heavy and buzzing with implications I'm not ready to unpack. I should dismiss it, let it fade into the background noise of city life that hums outside my window. But curiosity is a persistent whisper, urging me forward.
A minute ago my apartment was a sanctuary; now it feels too small, charged with the electricity of the unknown. I pace, each step a silent conversation with myself. There's the pull of an old wound reopening, the sting of betrayal by a man I thought I knew.
My fingers graze the spines of books on the shelf, seeking solace in their familiarity. Each title is a world I can control, unlike the spiraling questions surrounding Teddy's death. Can I face this head-on? Or is it safer to remain cocooned in ignorance? Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Nothing ventured,” I whisper to the empty room. But the end of the adage remains unspoken—nothing gained, nothing lost. I'm teetering on the edge of a decision, and the fall could be endless.
The chime of a text message startles me. I glance at my phone and see the notification before it disappears. It’s the same number, sending details of where and when to meet. I don't open it; instead, I tuck the phone away like a talisman against rash decisions. I'll think about it, truly weigh my options. Because I’m finally doing better, finally out of the strong grip of grief. And some stones, once turned, reveal truths that can't be buried again.
“Tomorrow,” I say aloud, granting myself the grace of a night's sleep before choosing my path. “I'll decide tomorrow.” And with that, I draw the curtains closed, shutting out the city's glow, wrapping myself in the dark comfort of indecision for just a little longer.