Chapter 2

Chapter Two

2011

T he sun was blinding as it crept in through a crack in my blackout bedroom curtains, a feeling that was matched only by the blaring of my alarm clock as I struggled to hit the snooze button for the fourth time. I knew that I needed to get up and get ready for the day. Not because I didn’t want to be late for school but because I knew that Mom would have my hide if I continued to let the alarm go off.

Despite my best efforts, I had never really grown used to being quiet in the morning. Sure, Mom had started working nights when I had been barely old enough to sit up on my own, but that had never stopped me from wanting to sleep in late. I didn’t really have an excuse for always wanting to sleep. I just, you know, didn’t want to really do anything else.

Mom had always called me lazy, and that was rich coming from her. I mean, yeah, she worked nights and had for as long as I could remember, but she never really did anything else. She was sleeping whenever I woke up to go to school and whenever I came home. If she wasn’t doing that, she was out on the back porch having a cigarette or downtown with her friends.

I knew I shouldn’t let it bother me and that she was probably right. I didn’t have many friends, and I didn’t ever really feel like doing anything, but she didn’t have to talk to me the way she did.

I knew that this morning was no time to think about it, so I unplugged the alarm clock (just in case it decided to go off again) and slid out of bed and into a pair of my mom’s old slippers. The house was always cold at this time of day. Something to do with the air coming from the Sound, I don’t know. It didn’t really matter. Any noise I made on my way downstairs, though, most certainly would.

It was the daily journey and one that I had grown accustomed to long ago. The slippers helped. Mom’s room was down the hall from mine, and the staircase heading to the main floor was about halfway between the two. There were a few especially creaky floorboards that I instinctively knew to avoid evenly spaced out across the hall. The house wasn’t that old, I didn’t think. It was just drafty and beginning to look and feel a little rundown.

The main floor wasn’t much better, but at least I could feel a little less conscious about any noises I made. It was funny. When I was really young, I used to picture Mom as this sleeping monster, hiding away in her cave. If you made too much noise, you’d bring about her wrath. Usually, just a short shout from the confines of her room. God forbid she actually had to get up and punish you. It was one of the few things I was thankful for. I had learned that lesson once.

It had been enough.

A quick jump in the shower was always followed by whatever cereal we had lying around. I knew I should have been thinking about eating healthier, but it was a comfort in the morning, even after how awful I’d feel looking in the mirror before bathing. I knew I wasn’t obese or anything like that. I was just, you know, unhappy. With myself, with what I looked like .

Maybe a bit of everything .

Even though there was absolutely no evidence of his ever being here, my mind often wandered to my father in the morning. Maybe it was because of how I felt about Mom, or maybe it was just that the morning brought out whatever curious spirit I had. I don’t know. All I know was that I had never even seen a photo of him, and Mom rarely spoke his name.

Jamie .

Mom always told me that he had been the blessing in her life and that she had lost everything when he left. Everything, it would seem, except for me. I don’t fully understand why he left, but he must have had his reasons, right? It must take a lot for someone to walk out on their family. Or maybe it doesn’t take much of anything. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was gone, off to who knows where, and I was here with Mom. The two of us needed to stick together. Through thick and thin! Together, we could thrive. That’s what she’d tell me some nights when I was little. She hadn’t said it in a while, but I knew that work was keeping her busier and busier. So what if she slept most of the time I was up? Who cares if she wanted to sit out back and smoke? It didn’t matter to me .

The one good thing about being one of the only juniors on my bus was that I got one of the seats near the back all to myself. Most of the kids on my route to the school were just that, kids. I know, I know, I was one of those awful freshmen only two years ago, but these kids were just the worst. Smelly, loud, and obnoxious. I was content sitting near the back by myself. The ride wasn’t long, but I remember the awful feeling of having to keep conversation going when I used to sit up front. I even tried to sit right behind the bus driver the first couple of times I rode the bus, just so I could talk to him instead of the other kids.

No, things are much better now.

We were only a few weeks into school, and already, I was feeling overwhelmed. Mom told me it was because of my laziness, but honestly, I thought for a bit that there was something wrong with me. I just wasn’t overly interested in anything, you know? The school and my teachers had all done a good job of trying to encourage me, but it all kind of just landed on deaf ears.

“Have you thought, BethAni, about acting? I feel like that would be something that is right up your alley.”

My guidance counselor, Mrs. Wilhelm, was a good woman from what I could tell, and I knew she had my best interests at heart. I also knew that she pushed every student down the acting or music path. It was sort of a joke with all the kids.

“You know, one of our very own alumni from Everett High became a famous actress. Nancy Coleman! Have you ever seen any of her movies?”

“No, Mrs. Wilhelm. I haven’t.” It had been hard to stifle my laughter. After hearing about this same speech so many times, it was hard for me to believe that I was actually experiencing it. I could almost predict what she would say next.

Kenny Loggins.

“You should look them up. Anyway, what about music? Have you thought about joining the music class? You know, one of Everett’s most famous individuals is none other than—”

I was glad that the lunch bell sounded before Mrs. Wilhelm could finish. I knew of so many students who had been down this road with her, but I also knew that she made me feel better. I didn’t know if what she was telling me was helping or if I was in a place to fully understand what it was that she was usually telling me, but I knew I felt better after our chats. I had been meeting with her since the end of last year during part of my lunch, and I was happier for it. I mean, I wasn’t really doing anything else during that time, and I especially wasn’t with other people.

I was happy knowing that I only had two periods left in the day. Something about today had rubbed me the wrong way, but I couldn’t place it. I was feeling as though I was all over the place but couldn’t pinpoint why. In fact, everything about today had been completely normal. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Math would undoubtedly be the same. It always was. English, at least, could be interesting. I was happy with a poem I had written last week and was interested in what Mr. Milton would say about it.

To tell you the truth, I had been pretty anxious about the poem since I had handed it in on Friday. I had struggled with it for the better part of a week and it had been difficult to hand it over, even to the kind face of Mr. Milton. Deep down, I knew that he wouldn’t judge me for it or anything like that, but it just felt a little awkward, handing in something so personal. I had a feeling, too, that I had spent the most time on mine. I recognized many of the other students in my class and knew that they would not have been as keen as I was to write something, as Mr. Milton put it, ‘heartfelt’ .

I was surprised by how quickly math went by. For the last three Mondays, Ms. Hewitt had given us a pop quiz at the start of class to see if we had learned anything from our homework. She called it ‘retention theory’, but I thought that was bullshit. Today, however, she decided to give us an actual lesson. Something about integers and positive and negative numbers. I’ll confess that I wasn’t paying too much attention, but it was an unusual shakeup to the routine, and that made the time pass by quickly. She must have noticed my daydreaming at one point, though, because she called on me, and as usual, I didn’t have the answer she was looking for.

“I hope your homework reflects your understanding a bit better, Miss Gray.”

Whatever.

As the final period’s bell rang, I nearly jumped for joy. Even though I had never told anyone, even Mrs. Wilhelm, English was far and away my favorite subject at school. I was even thinking about pursuing it after high school. I had always heard great things about Seattle, and if I could keep my marks up, maybe I’d have a chance of going there.

It was an easy thing to get excited about. Leaving Everett would be difficult, but the more I thought about it, the more I was sure. I had worn out my welcome here. If I stuck around after school, I would just keep on the same path I had been on for as long as I could remember. I mean, sure, maybe I could land a job with Boeing , but if I were being realistic, I’d end up just like Mom.

And that is definitely not where I want to be headed.

“You know the rules! If they aren’t here in fifteen minutes, we can legally leave!”

The sudden laughter caused me to snap out of my most recent daydream. I had been looking out the window of the second-story classroom where my English class with Mr. Milton was held. I hadn’t realized that he wasn’t here. In the three years I’d had him as a teacher, I could think of maybe once where he arrived only thirty seconds late to class. Something was clearly not right.

The other students didn’t seem to mind, and I felt my blood rising as they joked about how he could be sick or maybe he got lost. Mr. Milton’s overly thick glasses were always the low hanging fruit of the kids’ jokes, and while I’d admit that they weren’t the most fashionable choice for the middle-aged man to wear, I didn’t think it was appropriate to be joking so openly about the man. I wanted to stand up and say something, but I couldn’t. It was a feeling I’d had far too many times to count and one that I had made my peace with.

I looked out the window again and began to think of all the terrible things that could have befallen Mr. Milton. The man had inspired a sense of creativity in me, and now I was using that same creativity to visualize awful ways in which he had died. It was terrible to think about, but as the clock slowly started to tick by, my mind raced more and more. It was ridiculous and selfish of me to be thinking the way I was, but I couldn’t help it.

What about my poem?

Do you know what it’s like to fall in love? I didn’t until that very moment. The chaos of the classroom as students laughed and yelled at one another was broken by the sound of the door opening. We all turned, me included, expecting to see the telltale shine of Mr. Milton’s bald head as he ducked into the room. Instead, a hush fell over everyone as a man none of us had ever seen before strolled into the room.

He must have been in his late thirties, with silver specks peppering his dark hair. His eyes almost matched those telltale signs of age with fierce brightness that was at once incredibly comforting. He wore a well-fitted suit that wasn’t overly fancy for where he was and came in carrying a briefcase. What struck me the most, however, was his smile. It was perfect in every way. There was nothing fake about it. Everything about the man oozed a sense of kindness and empathy. I was enthralled.

“Good afternoon, class. I’m sorry I’m a bit late. Mr. Milton has had an accident, and unfortunately, he won’t be returning to the school for the rest of the year. Please keep him in your prayers.”

And he’s a Christian!

“In the meantime, it’s my absolute pleasure to be your instructor for the next several months. My name is Mr. Irving.”

He didn’t say much about his personal life, opting instead to go into detail about how much of a roller coaster his career had been. He had worked for many years at the factory in town but had decided to give it all up and pursue teaching after training new recruits awoke a love for the profession in him. He was clear with us that English had always been one of his favorite subjects and that he had spent a long time brushing up on the literature he had missed out on when he had been so busy working at the factory.

I could tell that I wasn’t the only student who was completely enraptured by Mr. Irving. A quick look around the room confirmed my thoughts (as well as some of my fears). Almost all the girls were looking at him with the same googly eyes that I knew I was showcasing. Even the guys seemed to be caught up in the charm that he seemed to effortlessly exude. I could feel myself growing jealous at the attention all the other students were giving our new teacher, but I tried my best to put those negative thoughts behind me and focus on the positive.

I know it was silly of me, I really did, but I just couldn’t help it. There was something—no, everything—about Mr. Irving that just spoke to me on an internal level. Every time he spoke, I felt my heart flutter. Every time his eyes passed over the room, I prayed that they’d linger on me for just a fraction of a moment longer. It was a feeling I had never experienced before and one that I didn’t know what to do with. I mean, I didn’t know anything about this man other than what he was telling us, nor did I have any chance in hell of making anything come of it. How could I?

Focusing is going to be difficult this year!

Mr. Irving told us that he had taken a very quick look at a number of our poems that we had handed in for Mr. Milton. He was adamant that he was going to do his best to teach the class as closely as he could to Mr. Milton’s original curriculum to make the transition as easy for us as he could. It was something that I knew I should have been thankful for, but I was slightly disappointed because it meant that we wouldn’t, technically, be getting the full Mr. Irving. That disappointment was short-lived, however, when I began to think about what he had said.

My heart started to skip as he continued to mention the poems. I felt my face flush with embarrassment as I thought about my poem and how a stranger, let alone a handsome one, had seen into my personal thoughts. It had been hard enough handing it in to Mr. Milton, but to think that this man, Mr. Irving , had potentially seen it was almost too much for me. I felt my stomach start to swirl and my palms grow sweaty. I was immediately back to my self-conscious self, a feeling I was surprised I hadn’t had over the last few minutes.

I pictured Mr. Irving pulling my poem out from his desk and reading it aloud to the class. I thought of the laughter and jeers from my classmates as the words sank in. I could see that friendly look on Mr. Irving’s face slide away into one of cruelty and malice. Those perfect white teeth shining out from a nasty grin and his gray eyes hardening as he would watch me sink deeper and deeper into my chair. I heard my mother’s voice echoing in my head as the tears would start pouring down my face. I braced myself as I waited for the moment to happen, for all of my fears to come piling down on me at once.

But it didn’t happen.

Instead, Mr. Irving talked a little bit more about his professional life and then asked that we all introduce ourselves. I was glad that he prefaced that we didn’t need to say much, just our name and something that we liked to do, but I was incredibly nervous for what I was going to say. I knew that my classmates would have no problem saying anything, and that knowledge alone made me even more nervous. They probably wouldn’t even think twice about what they were going to say. They couldn’t possibly understand what I was feeling, even if many of them seemed to be having the same reaction to Mr. Irving.

No. There was no one else in the room who could have understood what I was going through. No one else who could possibly have been experiencing the same influx of emotions.

Before I knew it, he called on me. I had hoped that Mr. Irving would have gone through the rows of students in front of me, but he chose to just go alphabetically through the list. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know what to say. I could feel my face flush as he called my name and immediately felt my hands clam up as I realized that he must be able to notice my flushed face. I gulped hard, a sound that I was sure everyone close to me could hear, and tried my best to smile back at him.

“Hi, I’m BethAni. I guess I like poetry.”

The hottest man I’ve ever seen, and I’ve already ruined everything.

I couldn’t believe it. Why would I say that? If he hadn’t read my poem already, he was sure as shit going to read it now. I don’t know why I did it. The words just came pouring from my mouth before I could stop them.

At least I didn’t say that I liked him .

I immediately turned and looked out the window, feeling my face flush more and more as my mind spiraled through all the different judgments that Mr. Irving and everyone else must have been having. I tried to make my mind go anywhere else. To the car driving down the street. To my mom. It didn’t matter. I just wanted to get out of there.

“I knew as soon as I read your poem that you must have a love for the craft, BethAni. Absolutely beautiful. You should be proud. ”

Did he... ? Did he really just say what I think he said?

I turned back to face him and immediately felt my fears disappear. Where I expected a hard stare and a menacing grin, I saw only kindness and empathy. There was that genuine humanity that I had seen as soon as I laid eyes on him. I did my best to say thank you, feeling the words stumble out awkwardly, but I didn’t care. This man, this beautiful man, had said exactly what I had wanted him to say. As far as I was concerned, he might as well have said that he loved me right there on the spot. It was all I needed to hear.

I love you too, Mr. Irving.