30. Thirty
It’s the first day of school, and I have no choice but to pull myself together. Gathering my books into my large purse on the kitchen table, I take inventory.
My fully annotated copy of The Other Us.
My thin file folder of Weekly Guides.
And The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton. Jack’s advice recycles in my head—if I get lost, I’ll talk about my origins with reading and books I’ve loved.
Damn it, Jack.I take a breath. My sadness dulls my first-day jitters like an all-natural anxiety medication. I no longer have the energy to be nervous or the will to be excited.
Mom’s arm circles my shoulders. “What can I do to help?”
“Do something fun today. I hate the idea of you sitting here, waiting for us to get home.”
“I’m hitting the beach. I’ll be fine.”
I turn to her suddenly. “But you’ll be here this morning for Jane and the sign, right? She wants new pictures featuring all the work I’ve done.”
Mom slumps. “Yes, I’ll be here. But I wish you’d wait. You’re in no shape to make a big decision like this.”
“Actually, for the first time in months, I know exactly what I want. It’s nice having a problem I can solve. The sooner it’s on the market, the sooner I can move. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Wait until the weekend, at least. Give yourself a chance to—”
“Mom, I’ve decided.” I force a smile before planting a kiss on her cheek. “I know what I’m doing.”
Sara rushes into the kitchen. “Ready, Rowan?”
Walking into my classroom twenty minutes later has an instant calming effect. I love my classroom.
Large windows feature the gangly pines and thick-leaved magnolias outside in the courtyard—evergreen all year. Over the years, I’ve gathered cozy thrift store finds to create an eclectic and colorful vibe—a patchwork of mismatched rugs, a reading corner with plush chairs, pillows, and bean bags. The desks face each other, a wonky round table that centers attention on them, not me. In the center, a large wingback chair, black with red and orange daisies, will serve as our sharing chair as we jump into reading.
But the room’s most unique feature was created by the students themselves. A comic-book-style mural covers the cinderblock walls—artistic odes to the literature we’ve read. Frankenstein’s monster peeks over the whiteboard next to an imagined Pecola with distorted blue eyes and withered marigolds from Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye. Dark moors stretch across the tops of the windows and feature a glowing hound and a brooding Heathcliff. A long ocean scene along the back wall shows The Old Man and the Sea, Moby Dick, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and The Odyssey. A nearly translucent Invisible Man hovers in an underground room covered in lights. Harry Potter, a black cat for Edgar Allan Poe (my idea), Percy Jackson, Katniss Everdeen, The Ranger’s Apprentice, The Hate U Give, and Howl’s Moving Castle—whatever literature the class loves finds a place.
It’s the ideal setting to launch the project, I decide as the bell rings.
Seniors filter into the room with the casual ease and confidence of students ready for graduation. We launch into a round of how-was-your-summer as they settle, oddly taking the same seats they had the year before, as if no real time has passed.
“How’s Mr. Maddix? Any wedding plans yet?” Ashley Morrow asks, looking coy.
My head tilts to my notes. “He’s fine… I think.” They exchange looks but, thankfully, don’t press for more information.
A shy-looking redhead named Benny whispers to Eddie Speck—the star of the play last year—and Eddie laughs and raises his hand, much to Benny’s dismay. “Ms. Mackey?”
“Yes, Eddie.”
“Benny wants to hear your mac-n-cheese story,” he reveals with a devious look, hazing the new kid, though it’s clear they already know each other.
I glance at the wall clock and lean against my desk. “Only three minutes into class… It might be a new record.”
But for the first time in nine school years, my pre-planned explanation doesn’t spill out like usual. If you don’t share your stories, what’s the point of having them? Jack’s words cause an unexpected swell to my typically calm mental seas. Thinking about Dean does, too. I don’t feel ready for this.
Julio says, “You don’t have to tell us again, Ms. Mackey. We all know you got too excited making mac-n-cheese.”
“Right. Yes. Um, I was fifteen and hungry after school. So, I went for my favorite—boxed mac-n-cheese. I got the water boiling in a pot that was too small…”
Usually, I joke about hungry teenagers or how my cheesy noodle addiction led to destructive behavior. But the story falls flat when I can’t deliver a soft transition. Instead, my brow pinches as the memory replays. I pop up, holding my notes, The Other Us, and reaching for The Little House from my desk, knocking into my travel mug of coffee. It plops over, hits the desk’s edge, and dumps onto the floor.
“Shit!” My expletive makes the students laugh. Julio retrieves paper towels from the freshly stocked classroom pantry while Ashley grabs the trashcan.
“You okay, Ms. Mackey?” Julio asks while we clean up the mess.
“Fine, thanks. Just reliving my teenage clumsiness, I guess.”
But turning to their expectant faces, regret crashes over me. I feel like a hypocrite for my anger over Dean’s lies when I do the same thing and a fraud for making them believe it was my fault. What happened to me wasn’t my fault. Just like it wasn’t Mom’s fault. Or anyone else’s except his. Lying and shouldering the blame isn’t fair to anyone, especially not me.
I hug my materials to my chest and lean against my desk again. “Actually, that’s not the real story.”
The room goes silent. I forego my usual all-is-well smile and take a long breath. “It’s been a strange summer. I’ve been reminded that teenagers can handle anything,” I say, thinking of Sara, my fifteen-year-old self, and the faces before me, “and that our stories are meant to be shared… when we’re ready to share them. I’m not there yet. But I can’t go another minute perpetuating a lie I never should’ve started. My injuries weren’t sustained in a kitchen accident but during an assault by an angry, disturbed person, and nothing about it was my fault.”
Their stunned, gaping faces cue me to move on quickly—this isn’t how I want our year to begin. Even so, my back straightens, and my shoulders align like something heavy that I didn’t realize I carried has been lifted. A genuine smile emerges, moving out behind my fake ones like the sun from behind clouds. “It feels good to say that out loud. I hope you’ll forgive me, and we can put Mac-n-Cheese Mackey behind us, huh?”
“I never liked that nickname anyway,” Julio says. “And there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Oh, my God, Ms. Mackey. You truth-bombed us,” Ashley says, green eyes wide. “I, for one, love your honesty.”
“It’s like you’re coming out of the closet,” Eddie says with a wink. “There’s no shame in that.”
“Thanks for making it easy on me.” I take my notes and picture book to the winged chair. “Now that we’ve established that things will be different this year, let’s talk about our Inspiration Project. I’m ditching my lesson plans, and we’re reading for pleasure.”
After explaining the plan and how they’ll be graded, I tap the armrest of the wingback chair. “Every day, in this chair, someone will share something that speaks to them. Weekly writing assignments will allow you to elaborate on your reading experience and our classroom discussions. I encourage you to make bold, personal choices that challenge and excite you.”
“Does it have to be published?” Julio asks.
The question surprises me. “Um, no. If you want to read the work of an ‘inglorious Milton,’ then so be it.” No one gets my joke. “But you may need to provide me with a copy.”
“Can it be a comic book?” Benny smirks deviously.
“Sure, if you can talk and write about it. Whatever you choose to read, you must share the journey it takes you on. I’m reading The Other Us by Jack Graham. So, this week, your assignment is to choose your first read and explain why you picked it. Leading up to your decisions, we’ll talk about books that have meant something to us in the past.”
I hold up the blue and white picture book in my lap. “This is one of my favorite books from childhood. I was an army brat to a single mother. We moved a lot. This story gave me comfort and a dream for the future when I’d have my own little house.”
One I won’t have much longer, I think sadly, clearing my throat.
I read the story aloud, showing the pictures on each page. I thought this might be a dumb idea—seventeen and eighteen-year-olds aren’t toddlers, and reading them a picture book might be insultingly simple.
But they’re transfixed. They even applaud at the end.
“It’s because they moved the house, right?” Julio asks. “That’s why you loved it?”
“Yes, I wanted a house that moved with us, to have something that was always the same.”
“I like the part where the house felt out of place and neglected in the city,” Eddie says thoughtfully. “I think people feel like that—alone in a crowded place.”
“It’s also about finding the place you truly belong.” Mia Danvers pushes her glasses up on her nose. “The house didn’t belong in the city. It wasn’t right for her.”
“Or perhaps it was right for her, but her environment changed beyond her control,” I say. “Themes matter, even in picture books, and it can be unique to the person reading it, too. A sense of belonging for Mia, alone in a crowd for Eddie, and the value of a comfortable, reliable home for me.”
“Wow… that’s actually… deep,” Ashley says with her valley girl twang. “Can we bring in our favorite picture books to share this week while we’re deciding?”
Twenty hopeful and engaged faces lock on mine, forcing me to smile. “Absolutely.”
At the day’s end, Sara meets me for a ride home. I share what I told my students earlier in the day—she’s already heard—and she’s just as understanding. It’s weird—I expected the day to be full of questions about my revised story. But that didn’t happen. Telling one group sufficed for telling everyone, and the rest respected my privacy.
“They’re more interested in what’s going on with Mr. Maddix,” Sara reveals. “Avoiding the question makes everyone talk.”
Our phones chime in unison. A Daisy Chain text alert begins with a series of shocked, heartbroken, and mind-blown emojis preceding a close-up picture of a For Sale sign perched on a lawn (presumably mine) with a second sign behind it.
A groaning sigh escapes me. “What’s he doing?”
Sara chuckles. “The same thing you are.”