Chapter 13
Rachel looked up as the last period of the day’s wave of ninth graders flooded in. Loud, restless, and buzzing from the end of the week almost at hand. At fourteen, they were all energy and noise and barely contained chaos.
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Rachel called, clapping her hands twice. “Find your seats.”
Robbie Thompson slid into his chair, already leaning over to whisper something to Ben that made Ben snort.
Mike followed close, backpack half unzipped, still chewing on something he definitely shouldn't have in class.
Carson walked in quietly, nodding toward Rachel as he took his seat near the window.
He was like that. Observant. Thoughtful.
A little quieter than the other boys his age, but sharp in ways that surprised people.
So much like his father. He might look like Jack had at that age, but he was more reserved than her fun-loving, teenage Jack had been.
Her Jack. It had been years since he’d been hers.
And that thought caused a sigh to slip out before she could hold it back.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Jack was coming home this week, but she caught herself.
If Jack wanted me to know when he was returning, he would have told me.
She pushed those thoughts down, turning her attention to smile at the students still entering.
The girls filtered in after them. Jules grabbed her usual spot in the front row, pulling out a worn notebook covered in doodles.
Caroline dropped into the seat beside her, immediately flipping through her phone before Rachel shot her a look, and she put her phone back into her purse.
Nicole settled in near the back, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear and pulling out a pen.
Rachel waited until the rest of the students settled, then leaned against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to get their attention.
“Okay,” she said. “Today we're going to talk about poetry.”
A collective groan rippled through the room. Ben made a dramatic face. “Poetry? Like the roses-are-red kind?” he asked, grinning.
“Not exactly.” Rachel smiled. “Although if you want to write me a poem about roses, I won't stop you, Ben.”
A few giggles scattered through the room. Rachel pushed off from her desk and moved to the front, her expression shifting to something more serious. More real.
“Here's the thing about poetry.” She dropped her voice slightly so the students had to lean in to hear. “It's often an extension of what the poet is feeling. Sometimes it's a celebration. Something joyful, something beautiful they wanted to capture and hold on to.”
She paused, letting that sink in.
“But sometimes… and this is the part I want you to really hear… sometimes poetry comes from something heavy. Something the poet is carrying deep inside that they don't feel like they can talk to anyone about.”
The room went quiet. Not the restless quiet of teenagers waiting for something interesting to happen, but a different kind of quiet.
Caroline looked up from where she'd been doodling in the margin of her notebook. Jules stopped fidgeting with her pen. Even Robbie sat a little straighter, his usual smirk replaced by something more thoughtful. Carson lifted his head, his gaze pinned on her.
“Poetry gives us a way to say things we can't say out loud,” Rachel continued. “It's like... a door. A way to let something out that's been locked up inside.”
She moved to a stack of identical white papers on her desk, picked them up, and held them out to the class.
“So here's what we're going to do today.” Rachel handed a sheet to each student as she walked between the rows.
“I want you to write something down. Something you're carrying inside right now. It could be something good… something that makes you happy, or you’re excited about. Or it could be something that weighs you down. A pain. A secret. A sadness.”
She stopped at the front of the room and faced them, her expression open and honest.
“It doesn't have to be a poem. It doesn't have to rhyme. It doesn't have to be long. It just has to be real. Whatever's in here”—she tapped her chest lightly—“put it on the paper.”
“Is anyone going to see it?” Nicole asked from the back, her voice cautious.
“I’ll read a few out loud,” Rachel said. “But I’ll be careful with the ones I choose.”
A murmur went through the room. Rachel watched as pens began to move across paper.
Some students wrote immediately, like the words had been waiting to come out.
Jules bent over her sheet, writing quickly, her pen moving in sharp, determined strokes.
Carson stared at his paper for a long moment before he started, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Others hesitated. Ben chewed the end of his pen, staring at the ceiling. Robbie shifted in his seat, glancing around at his classmates as if to see what everyone else was doing before committing to something himself.
Rachel gave them fifteen minutes. Enough time to think, to feel, to write.
Then she walked up and down each aisle and collected them carefully.
She walked back to the front and settled into her chair.
“Okay, let me read a few.” She unfolded the first paper and scanned it silently. A smile tugged at her lips.
“This one says, 'My dog learned a new trick this weekend, and it's the dumbest thing I've ever seen, but it made me laugh harder than I have in months.
My dad lost his job, so we thought we might have to give up the dog.
But he just found another one. Now we can keep him.
'” Rachel looked up, her heart full of both ache and joy.
“Can anyone relate to being happy and sad so close together? Maybe at the same time?”
Half the hands in the room raised, some slower than others.
Rachel smiled and unfolded the next one. “This one says, 'I got into the travel basketball team, and I want to tell everyone, but I'm scared if I say it out loud, it'll somehow stop being true.'“
Several kids looked over at one of the taller girls in the class, grinning, sure it came from her.
“That's kind of superstitious,” Ben offered, but his voice was gentle, not mocking.
“It's also very human,” Rachel said. “We do that… we hold tightly onto good things because we're afraid of losing them.” As the words left her mouth, she silently acknowledged she could have written a poem about that feeling over the years.
She read a few more. Some were lighthearted, and others were filled with angst. A confession about having a crush on someone in another class caused several students to blush. A note about missing a grandmother who'd passed away last year made the room go still and quiet.
Then Rachel unfolded another sheet of paper and began reading silently.
Her eyes moved across the words once. Then again to see if she was reading the note right.
I think I saw someone do something they shouldn’t. I don’t know what to do because I can’t be sure. But it made me feel like I should have done something about it.
Rachel read it a third time, her heart hammering against her ribs. The handwriting was shaky and uncertain. It looked like the writing of someone who was scared. Someone who'd been carrying this alone and didn't know where to put it.
She looked up at the class. Every eye was on her, waiting for her to read the next one out loud. Rachel folded the paper carefully and set it aside.
“This next one is a little more personal,” she said, keeping her voice perfectly steady. “So I'm going to skip it and move on.”
She unfolded another paper and continued reading, but the words blurred in front of her eyes. Her mind was stuck on the one she'd set aside.
The rest of the period passed in a haze.
Rachel guided the students through a brief discussion about how poetry could help them process emotions and how writing could be a form of healing.
She smiled and responded and asked questions at all the right moments.
But beneath the professional calm, her stomach churned.
The bell finally rang, and the students filed out, excitement for the upcoming weekend filling their conversations.
Ben argued with Mike about something while Jules and Caroline walked arm in arm into the hall.
Carson gave her a quiet wave, and Rachel stayed at her desk.
Robbie walked out, his gaze on her, giving a little shake, until he made it into the hall.
She picked up the paper and read it one more time. I think I saw someone do something they shouldn’t. I don’t know what to do because I can’t be sure. But it made me feel like I should have done something about it.
She read another one. My friend told me they think they saw someone do something bad. But I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.
She had a feeling the two notes were talking about the same situation. And after a few years of teaching, she also had a good idea that the notes were written by males.
Rachel sat in her classroom long after the last bell, the papers resting on her desk in front of her, and stared at them like they might give her answers.
The student hadn’t been sure of what they’d seen. It could be anything… just something that made them feel like it shouldn’t have happened. But their concern was real. The shaky handwriting wasn't the reaction of a kid who'd seen something normal.
If she brought this to the attention of the administration, it could be swept under the rug because there was nothing to go on.
Rachel shook her head. She couldn't let someone dismiss it. Not when a fourteen-year-old had been worried enough to write it down on a piece of paper knowing she would read it because they didn't know what else to do.
She needed to try to discover who’d written the notes. She needed to understand what they'd actually seen and who was involved.
Rachel folded the papers carefully and slipped them into her schoolbag along with the others. She picked up her bag, turned off the classroom light, and closed the door behind her.
At the end of the school day, Rachel walked down the hallway toward the gym. She'd promised to meet David before his wrestling practice, something they'd gotten into the habit of doing a few times a week. It was comfortable, like their relationship.
David stood near the gym entrance, a towel draped around his neck, his dark hair damp with sweat. When he saw her, his face lit up with an open, genuine smile.
She smiled with friendship, but her heart didn't melt. She waited for the flutter in her chest, the warmth that should spread through her when someone looked at her like that. But there was nothing. Just a pleasant fondness, the kind you'd feel for a good friend.
But then, was it supposed to melt? Maybe all the romantic nonsense was just that. Nonsense. Maybe what made women think they needed a man or needed to feel something was just societal conditioning. Maybe what she felt for David was exactly what a healthy, adult relationship should feel like.
Her thoughts twisted and tangled as she approached him.
“Hey,” David said, falling into step beside her. “How was your day?”
“Good. The juniors are finally starting to understand character development.” Rachel shifted her bag on her shoulder. “How was your day?”
“Great. Being able to practice all year has improved the team. I really want to make it to the state championship this year. The other coaches feel the same way. We were so close last year.” David's enthusiasm was infectious. “We’ve got a parent helping and another assistant coach from NSU.”
“When are you going to come back to my gym?”
At the question coming from the side, she turned to see Martin Bogdin walking out of the boys’ locker room. He ran the only fitness center in the area and was also a parent. Terrence Bogdin was one of her seniors, and she knew he was a wrestler. Smiling, she said, “Hi! What are you doing here?”
David interjected, “Martin is helping coach our wrestling team.”
“Good.” She nodded, then laughed. “And yes, I need to get back on the treadmill! Maybe this Saturday, I’ll make it.”
They waved goodbye to Martin, then walked through the parking lot together. When they reached Rachel's car, David placed a hand on her door, effectively blocking her from opening it. His soft expression was affectionate.
“Can I take you to dinner this weekend?” he asked. “That new Italian place in Cape Charles?”
“That sounds nice,” Rachel said, meaning it. It did sound nice. David was nice. Everything about this was nice. She was growing sick of the bland word.
David leaned in, and Rachel was surprised. Kids still milled around the parking lot as teachers headed to their cars, so she turned her head, and his lips landed on her cheek. He pulled away with a smile, and as he held her door open, Rachel wondered why he was pressing for a public kiss.
“I'll text you later,” David promised, squeezing her hand before stepping back.
She offered a simple nod, then drove home with her thoughts in turmoil. David's touch was already fading from memory while the ghost of Jack's kisses lingered like a brand on her skin, years after it had last been real.