Chapter Nine A Piece of My Mother #3
I shift in my seat, shrugging. “I was just, um, admiring the trees,” I mumble, which gets me a few snickers from my classmates. “Looks peaceful out there.”
Mr. Morrison turns toward the window. He’s quiet for a moment.
Then he faces the class with a sudden smile.
“You know what? I think you’re right, Ryan.
It does look peaceful.” He claps his hands together.
“All right, gang, grab your things. We’re moving the discussion portion of today’s class outside. ”
“Fuck yeah!” a boy shouts, only to get reprimanded for his language.
Excitement ripples through the room as we gather our books and backpacks. Everyone is suddenly high on the promise of fresh air.
We file outside into the lush courtyard, where Mr. Morrison splits everyone into pairs and assigns us a theme to discuss. He gives us ten minutes to chat privately before we’re expected to share with the rest of the group.
I’m paired with Chase, I suspect as punishment for our daydreaming.
We settle under the shade of a tall oak tree. I awkwardly lean against the uneven trunk and stretch out my legs. Chase sits a few feet away, looking bored.
“So…” I sigh. “Guilt.”
Because of course Mr. Morrison assigned us the theme of guilt. The universe has a sick sense of humor and the uncanny ability to reach into your soul and pull out your darkest secrets.
Ever since I got to Starling, all I’ve felt is guilt.
“What about it?” Chase says.
“We’re supposed to talk about it.”
“So talk.”
Gritting my teeth, I open my dog-eared copy of Macbeth and flip through it. “I guess…I don’t know…the play shows how guilt has the ability to completely destroy a person, right? Mentally. Emotionally. Macbeth’s guilt eats at him and drives him to do worse and worse things.”
Chase shrugs.
“And Lady Macbeth can’t escape it either. She basically becomes a shell of her former self.”
“Never understood that,” he surprises me by saying. “I never feel guilty about anything.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. If I fuck up, I don’t carry that weight around. I own it and move on.”
I can’t stop the laugh that flies out.
Chase flicks up a brow. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking how funny that is. You’re over here never feeling guilt, meanwhile I feel guilty for things I haven’t even done. Like, on other people’s behalf.”
“Should probably stop doing that,” he drawls.
I wait for him to continue the discussion. He doesn’t. Awesome. We sit in silence until Mr. Morrison announces it’s time to share with the group, but before we can start, I catch sight of a familiar vehicle pulling up in the distance.
Maggie’s SUV.
“Mr. Morrison?” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, but, um, that’s my aunt over there.”
He follows my gaze to the long drive at the front of the main building. Sure enough, Aunt Maggie is hopping out of the driver’s side. Her presence triggers a rush of anxiety.
“Can I go find out why she’s here?” I ask the teacher.
He nods. “Yes, but if you need to leave, make sure she signs you out properly with the office…”
I’m already hurrying off, hiking my backpack over one shoulder.
“Maggie!” I call out as she’s approaching the entrance.
She turns, her mouth set in a severe straight line rather than her trademark bright real estate agent’s smile. “Oh, darlin’. I was just coming to get you.”
“Why?” I ask, even before I reach her.
The smile comes out then, but it’s forced. So forced, it looks like it wouldn’t take much to make it crack. “Let me just sign you out and then we can chat.”
She’s gone before I can object, ducking into the school. I don’t follow. I wait outside, my apprehension growing. Whatever this is, it must be urgent or she would’ve waited to speak with me when I got home later.
Unless it’s something she doesn’t want Jasmine and Connor to know…Yes. Probably that. It’s difficult to speak in private at home without raising their suspicions.
And if it’s something she doesn’t want her own children to know, there’s only one thing it can be about.
My father.
I swallow back the nausea forcing its way up my throat. Maggie reappears a minute later, taking my arm and leading me toward the SUV. Her smile is still present, though it’s quivering at the edges, and the second we get into the car it fades completely.
“We have to talk,” she says.
“About?”
She wraps both hands around the steering wheel but makes no motion to start the car. “After you left for school, I received a call from Aaron Berkley in Nashville.” The name rings a slight bell, but it doesn’t send shockwaves through me until she adds, “Your father’s attorney.”
My stomach drops. I can’t even begin to guess what he wants, but I know it’s not good.
My father hasn’t contacted me since he sent me that third and final letter when I was fourteen.
At least, I don’t think he has. After I tore up the letters, I told Gran that if he ever tried to contact me again, I wasn’t interested.
I guess it only makes sense that he’d make one last attempt before he left this world.
I’m about to say tell the lawyer to go shove it when Maggie continues in a low, flat voice.
“He wanted to know if you’d be there for the execution.”