Chapter 27
When I talked to him again, Gabe didn’t have much of an answer for me about Regina. He knew her uncle well, but he didn’t
have a phone number for her mother. She hadn’t been with us all week, which made it two weeks since I’d seen her. Her last
day had been before I went to New Orleans.
By Thursday, I asked the students, “Where is Regina?”
Kamesha propped a hand on her hip and pulled the lollipop she’d been slurping on out of her mouth. “I don’t know.”
“Do you know if her family went on a vacation?”
There was sarcastic laughter, and someone asked, “To where, Disney World?”
Flipping through a stack of papers, I’d asked the question absentmindedly, but now I gave them my full attention. “What’s
funny about Disney World?”
“It’s for rich people,” TJ replied.
“Was she in school today?”
Kamesha frowned. “She’s not in summer school. She gets A’s in everything.”
I knew that. Why had I asked? Because you’re distracted. Distracted in more ways than I needed to be. I was emotionally still on the phone with Mrs. Baker, losing faith in my mother,
and on the porch with Gabe, losing my heart and mind.
I shook off the thought and asked, “Does anyone live in her neighborhood?”
TJ held up his hand. “I know where she stays.”
I stood and walked to the table where TJ sat. “Have you seen her?”
“She’s around.”
“Do you have her phone number?” I’d checked the one in her file, and it wasn’t correct. I knew from my days as a teacher that
parents changed telephone numbers like they changed clothing.
No one replied, so I said, “TJ, would you tell her I’d like to hear from her?”
He nodded and asked, “When are we going to play the candy bar game again?”
“When I see some next-level effort on your poems, which, by the way, are in your folder with notes. Come to me if you have
questions.”
The kids dragged themselves to the bins that held their work folders, and I took a seat behind my desk.
Their collective laughter about the vacation question bothered me. I hadn’t been the one to mention Disney or some other expensive
trip. People who weren’t rich went on vacations. They visited family and went camping. They saved up for special things just
like everyone else. I looked at the kids. They were all well-dressed and clean. How was I supposed to know that I was out
of touch? Just because most of them were from Hollywood and Edisto Island didn’t mean they were all too poor to travel.
I remembered Gabe’s words, “These kids are mostly from low-income families.”
I shrugged mentally. Maybe I was out of touch.
I opened my laptop and tapped around until I found the file I needed. Three hundred and fifty-two words. Last night’s progress
was stifled by my inability to get a new appointment at the high school in Edisto, Gabe’s absence, and Dana’s latest email
requesting an update on the revision to the submission.
Pressure.
I picked up where I left off. My hero was trying to find my heroine on social media so he could follow her, or at least low-key
stalk her.
“Nobody wants to read that.”
Ready to escape on social media, I picked up my phone and opened the Instagram app.
After checking a few of my notifications and responding to them, I typed in Gabe’s handle. I was literally going back and
forth between him and my family situation, which confirmed what I thought earlier: This was why I hadn’t gotten much writing
done this week. Still, that didn’t stop me from staring at his yummy pictures.
“I’m doing research,” I told myself. My character is stalking. I’m doing what my character would be doing. I’m feeling my way through it so I can accurately write
about it.
Sure you are.
I clicked on picture after picture of him. Most were at book events with him sitting at the front of a room with a moderator
and a large crowd.
He talks with his hands, I thought, noticing that he did in many pics. A few caught him mid-laugh or smiling. The shape of his face, those eyes and
teeth . . . so real and warm and welcoming. Sooo kissable.
My phone vibrated, and Gabe’s face appeared on the screen. Startled, I dropped it. He was going to live forever. That was what my mother always said when you thought about someone and then they appeared.
I picked up the phone and swiped to read his message.
Gabe: How are things?
Me: Fine. I’m with the students.
Gabe: I know. ? I’m early for an interview, so I’m chillaxin’.
Chillaxin’? Who still says that? He’s such an old soul.
I paused before sending the next thing I typed out, which was: “I miss you.” Delete. I couldn’t send it.
Gabe: My people are here. Talk to you later.
The three little dots danced. I waited.
Gabe: I miss you.
He’d said it first. My heart was so full, my eyes misted over.
Me: I miss you too.
I turned the phone over.
Maybe I should write a book about a romance novelist who falls in love. I let the idea complete a revolution in my mind, then nixed it.
I will not.
But maybe I could come up with something in the same vein, since the passion for my current WIP had waned and wouldn’t unwane.
I opened a fresh Word doc on my laptop and typed:
New story ideas
A romance-loving book publicist falls in love with a book editor who dislikes romance books.
Did someone already do that? Someone big, I thought.
The new town librarian falls in love with the new mayor, but shortly after, she discovers that he plans to close the library
due to budgetary issues.
“I’ve seen that one too,” I grumbled.
And then I typed the story I wanted to see in real life.
A romance novelist finds herself falling for a bookstore manager.
After the students left, I locked the door and went back into the conference room. I opened my laptop. There was a brief,
ridiculous moment where I expected the screen to offer something kinder than the truth. The list of story ideas I’d never
write stared back at me, unblinking.
I reread the last one:
A romance novelist finds herself falling for a bookstore manager.
Smirking, I warmed up to it. It wasn’t a horrible idea. I had to let it swirl and see if I could get that real in my writing.
I opened a search window. I reached into the file cabinet next to me and pulled out Regina’s folder.
I searched for her on a few social media sites.
I didn’t find her. I knew a lot of the kids hid their identities with handles that weren’t their actual name.
Smart of them. Then I opened the file and googled her and then her parents’ names, including Edisto Island in the search criteria.
I didn’t find anything. Hopefully, TJ would come back with something on Monday.
That was what I hoped for, but TJ’s effort was no more productive than my writing time that weekend. I decided that tomorrow
I’d go to the high school to beg for a look at the yearbooks.
The next day I woke up early. I wanted to write, but I couldn’t. Edisto Island was on my mind and heart. I was concerned
about Regina, and I was tired of waiting to hear from the media specialist. The school was in Hollywood, just north of Edisto
Island. It was only open until noon each day, so I got on the road with plans to get there by ten. When I arrived, the building
was locked. The secretary opened the door and explained that she was the only one there, receiving registrations for the upcoming
year. This week the staff was away for training in Columbia. She could not allow me into the library. My heart was broken
but encouraged when she said, “They’ll all be back on Monday. I promise to get someone to get a key for you.”
Regina’s house was next. Hopefully I’d do better there.
Maybe I was being dramatic, but the second I drove over the bridge and onto the island, something shifted. Not in my head.
Lower. In my chest. I was connected to this place through DNA, and it remembered me.
Edisto took my breath, pulled it right out of my lungs.
Highway 174 wound through miles of live oaks and palmettos, their branches tangled together like fingers praying.
The farther I went, the narrower the road became, bordered by marsh and ditches the color of tea.
The air thickened with salt and pine sap.
I rolled the window down and let the Lowcountry seep into me—humid, wild, familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.
My navigation app woke up and gave me a series of directions that put me in front of a small shotgun-style house at the end
of a street. The pickup truck that usually dropped off and picked up Regina was parked in the yard. I caught sight of a woman
and girl hanging sheets on the clothesline on the side of the house. There was no real delineation between the street and
the yard. No sidewalks, only sparse gravel around the mailbox and the beginning of weedy grass separating the two. I parked
just beyond the mailbox and got out of my car.
Regina appeared at the front door, a laundry basket in her hand. She froze, confused to see me standing there. She put down
the basket and met me halfway up the driveway.
“Miss Alex, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve been missing you at the center. I thought I’d come and make sure you were okay.”
The woman and child came from around the rear of the house. I recognized the woman as Regina’s mother. They exchanged some
words before Regina took the hand of the younger child and went into the house. Her mother walked to me. She extended her
hand to mine and said, “Miss Chambers, I’m Mrs. Collins.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“What brings you here?” she asked.
“I’ve been missing Regina at the center. I didn’t have a good phone number, so I thought I’d come and check on her.”
“Did you, now?”
I was not welcome. I didn’t know what to say to that question. I spotted Regina peeking through the screen door. I cleared
my throat and said, “Regina is a talented writer.”
“Is she?”
“Yes, she is. I think her time at the center is well spent.”
“You are not Gullah. I was okay with her being there when Gabe was in charge.”
“I assure you, I’m more than qualified to work with the children. I’m a teacher, or I used to be, and now I’m a full-time
writer. I have—”
“Twenty-nine books. Yes, I’m aware. Regina has told me that.”
“We entered one of her essays in a state competition.”
“My daughter has dreams of being a writer. I need her to focus on her strengths, which are science and math.”
Science and math were not her strengths. Regina had been clear that she hated both and had to study hard to maintain her grades
in those subjects.
“What’s wrong with being a writer?”
“Nothing for you, but that young lady will be the first doctor in this family.”
I stepped toward her. She stepped back. I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Collins, her essay is very good. She could final in the
competition.”
“My decision is made. Besides, even if I wanted to send her, our car is broken. I don’t know when it’ll get fixed. I can’t
get her home.”
“Maybe we can work out a carpool situation with some of the other kids. They ride with each other.”
“I don’t let my daughter get in the car with just anyone.”
“They’re her classmates.”
“Miss Chambers, do you presume to tell me how to raise my daughter? How to protect her? The boundaries I set for her?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
“Then maybe you should leave, because I think we’re done.”
She turned and headed to the house.
I spoke to her back. “She’ll need strong writing and reading skills for college, no matter the subject.”
Mrs. Collins turned back to me. “I’m aware. But like I said, transportation is a problem. Not one likely to be resolved this summer.”
She picked up the basket Regina had set down and went back around the house to the clothesline, leaving me gutted inside.
I looked at the beat-up old truck and let my eyes sweep the house that needed painting, gutters that needed emptying, a yard
that needed tending in every way possible. So many things needed to be done here. Then I looked around at the neighboring
houses and saw the same thing. My question about Disney World came back to me, and now I understood why TJ laughed.