He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to defend herself or her mother, not to him. Not ever.
Not about you, he repeated to himself.Not about you.
“We didn’t have health insurance, which meant every time I got sick, every time I had to go to the doctor or Mom had to miss work to take care of me, the TV fund would go back to zero. So I’d tell her I was fine. I didn’t need the doctor. She could go to work.” Her voice grew distant as she sifted through her memories. “When I was little, to stop myself from crying I’d pretend she was there, just out of sight. Around the corner. In the kitchen, getting me ginger ale.”
A half-rueful, half-bitter smile curved her mouth. “I hallucinated her once, when I had a high fever. Talked to her for hours. When Mom got home, she had to take me to the hospital, and the TV fund was gone. Again.”
His heart. Oh, Jesus, his heart.
But the frozen dam had melted at long last, and there was no stopping the violent, churning flood of water and ice as it hurtled downstream. He didn’t even try.
She’d survived a long winter. She deserved spring, even if the turn of seasons tossed some boulders and snapped a few trees in half.
Without warning, she shook her head so hard, her braid whipped against her cheek. “But that’s not my point. Your AP World History kids are great. Smart, funny, generally hardworking. But very few of them need us, Martin. They’d be fine whoever their teacher was, because most of them have money. Most of them have parents with enough time and energy to ensure their kids’ success.”
He couldn’t say she was entirely wrong, although he suspected more AP kids needed a teacher like her than she realized. He’d been one of those kids himself, desperate for affirmation and understanding and gentleness from any adult in his life.
She sprawled back in her chair without any attempt at grace. “I wasn’t like them. I was a good student in school. Not great. Mom thought I could do better, but I knew I wasn’t AP or college material. By the time I started ninth grade, I was already washing dishes at restaurants and getting paid under the table, so I could help contribute to our savings. I didn’t have time for homework, and I wasn’t smart enough for anything past high school.”
Not smart enough? He would laugh, if he weren’t so close to shouting or tears.
“I loved writing, though. Read anything I could find for free.” She pushed away her plate restlessly. “At the end of freshman year, Ms. Jenkins met with me one day after class and said I could do more. Be more. She wanted me to skip normal tenth grade English and take her AP English Lit class that next year.Hemingway doesn’t deserve you, she said.But you deserve Hemingway.”
Rose’s face had lit like a lantern at the first mention of her former teacher, and the beauty of it held him immobile in his chair.
“I thought she was joking at first. It required special permission from my mom, and from the school. But she wasn’t joking, and I…” Her exhalation shook, just a little. “I respected her. I trusted her, when I didn’t trust anyone but my mom. And somehow, after I got an A in her class and a five on the exam, I started taking other AP courses. I started applying for scholarships. I started applying for student loans. I went to college. I went to graduate school. Me, of all people. Brandi Rose Owens.”
For all the pain of his childhood, he’d never doubted he’d go to college. Not once.
“Mom didn’t see me graduate. Neither did Ms. Jenkins.” She was shredding her napkin, tearing and tearing it again as she spoke. “I’m not a religious person, but I hope they saw. I hope they knew. I wanted them—”
She stopped. Swallowed back a raw, rough sound. “I wanted them to be proud.”
Against all his instincts, he didn’t try to touch her. Didn’t fold her into his arms and rock her like the mother she’d lost so long ago.
She didn’t need his comfort right now. She needed him to listen.
Her head ducked down, and she gathered all those shreds into a little pile. Tidied them. “With AP U.S. History, I get to use my academic background. I get to explore our history in so much more depth than when I teach regular or honors classes, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything. With Honors World History, though, more of the students are like me as a teenager. Smart but poor kids who may not expect too much of themselves, and who may not have anyone else expect too much of them, either. But they have time to change all that before graduation. They have time to raise their GPA and make a good case for college admission, if that’s something they want.”
He’d like to think that was still possible for juniors and seniors too, but in reality, he didn’t know. One or two years of newfound academic success might not sway college admissions committees. Again, he’d never had to worry about such matters for his own sake, or even for Bea’s.
Jesus, his thoughts seemed fuzzy. Weird.
Her eyes blazed with emotion when they met his. “For me, the best moment in the entire school year is always, always, when I see next year’s AP U.S. History roster. When I get to watch some of my honors kids reach for more, like I did. Some of them won’t succeed in such a high-intensity class, and I understand that. But others will, and that success can change their lives for the better. Forever. I know that for a fact, Martin.”
Conviction firmed her jaw, but tears roughened her voice as she finished her story.
“And on the most selfish level, I’m so proud those kids trust me enough to take a chance. To take on hours of extra homework each week, hours they could be sleeping or working for their families, all to keep me as a teacher. All because I helped them believe they could do more. Be more.” Her throat worked. “It’s the greatest accomplishment of my life. By far.”
She angrily knuckled away the wetness shining on her cheeks. “When Dale took that away, it fucking gutted me. I found out literally minutes before I met you the first time, Martin. I know I was a cold bitch to you, and I’m sorry. None of it was your fault, but I was so angry and hurt I could barely stop myself from crying.” She choked out a laugh. “Like I am now.”
He waited, but she’d finished. Was staring down at her plate with livid stripes of color on her cheeks as she sniffed back more tears.
Which meant he could finally speak. Finally hold her.
“Rose…” He started up from his chair, eager to provide whatever solace and understanding she’d allow. But as the room swirled and his legs turned to Chef Boyardee spaghetti beneath him, he sat right back down. “Fuck.”
After one last sniff, she looked over at him, emotional devastation gradually replaced by wry amusement. “The pills started kicking in, huh?”
