9. Hairline Fracture
CHAPTER NINE
HAIRLINE FRACTURE
Ethan
“Hello?”
“Ethan? It’s Brooke.”
“Hey, this is a welcome surprise. Is everything okay?”
There’s a brief pause before she answers. “Yes, Ellie’s okay. I was hoping we could schedule a time to talk in person.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s about her grades.”
I glance at my calendar. The dates are a grid of black lines and numbers. I run a hand through my hair and answer. “Sure.”
We settle on an afternoon a few days from now, and the call ends with the click of the receiver.
The brief conversation occupies far more space in my mind than it should. By the evening, I’ve convinced myself Ellie is skipping assignments, or hiding some catastrophe she doesn’t want us to know about.
As few days later, I walk into the conference room braced for the worst, the scent of floor wax sharp in the air.
Brooke slides a progress report across the polished table, but my focus snags on her—the deep purple of her silk blouse, the way it’s tucked into high-waisted slacks.
She’s talking, something about engagement, but the words blur.
My gaze drifts before snapping back to her face.
She’s stops speaking, an expectant look in her eyes, and I realize I have no idea what she just asked me.
I try to clear my throat. “I… I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“Ellie’s grades have been slipping,” she says, gesturing to the progress report.
I look down at the paper, expecting disaster. I find a handful of grades that have dipped from where they normally are. A few A’s have become B’s, and a couple of high B’s have drifted lower than usual.
I glance back up, a slight frown creasing my brow. “This is slipping?”
She tips her head to one side, her expression softening with empathy. “For most students, no, but for Ellie, yes.”
I look at the colorful graphs on the report again. I can’t argue with that assessment. Ellie has always been the kid who reminds teachers they forgot to collect homework. She color-codes folders, creates study guides for fun, and treats deadlines like binding contracts.
“She’s still taking part in class and turning in assignments. She just seems less engaged than usual.”
I already know what she’s hinting at, or at least I think I do.
“Has anything changed at home?” she asks.
I hesitate; explaining the situation without escalating it presents a challenge.
“My wife has had a tough few months at work. She’s been so busy lately that I think it’s starting to affect Ellie.”
Understanding flickers across her face. “Sometimes when kids are struggling, they don’t know how to ask for help. It puts a lot of pressure on everyone.”
I let out a slow breath. “That sounds suspiciously like teacher code.”
A laugh escapes her. “It is teacher code.”
“To be honest, I think a lot of her issues started when my wife went back to work full time.” I stop, a flicker of guilt twisting in my gut. It feels like a betrayal to talk about Claire this way, even if it’s true.
“What I mean is… ” I rub the back of my neck. “Ellie’s been struggling with the transition. That’s all. The adjustment period.”
“That sounds like a lot. And this is typically something we find out when kids act out.”
We continue to discuss study habits and the typical stressors of middle school.
Once we exhaust the topic of grades and classroom performance, the conversation naturally shifts.
“So,” she says, “how is your Shakespeare career progressing?”
I grunt. “I’m still recovering from the trauma.”
“I thought you did very well.”
“That’s because you’re grading on a curve.”
“The assignment wasn’t graded, so there is no curve.”
The discussion turns to books, and we debate whether students should still be required to read classic literature.
I learn she moved to Juniper Ridge after teaching in Sacramento, missing the restaurants but not the traffic.
“No one misses traffic,” I tease.
“No one misses Sacramento traffic, but you can miss anything if you’re lonely enough,” she replies. The comment is surprisingly candid.
Throughout our conversation I catch myself laughing at things I wouldn’t normally find funny, and then laughing again at the fact that I’m laughing.
The topics flow from teaching to the small towns in Italy we’ve both, impossibly, visited. It’s just… easy. When I glance at the clock on the wall, ninety minutes have passed since we finished discussing Ellie.
She follows my gaze. “Wow.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” I stand and collect my things, surprised by how quickly the afternoon disappeared.
“It was nice chatting with you, and I’m here if you or Ellie need anything,” she says as she squeezes my hand before opening the door.
Her comment about being lonely echoes in my head on the drive back to the office. I pull into my parking spot and sit for a long moment, the stack of plans waiting for me to review completely forgotten.
At my desk, I look up to find Reid waving a folder toward me.
“How’d the parent-teacher thing go?”
I toss Ellie’s progress report onto the desk. “Apparently, my daughter is slipping academically.”
He picks up the report and snorts. “You’re kidding.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Those grades would’ve gotten me grounded for being an overachiever.” The leather chair across from me creaks as he takes a seat. “Let’s go over this client file, if you’ve got a few minutes,” he says, changing the subject.