WELCOME TOROOM 15!MS.BLYis written across my whiteboard in swirls of purple and green. As 8:00 approaches and the evening winds down, the halls outside my door bustle with grown-up strangers shuffling out of their children’s classrooms—mine included. Nearly every parent showed, watching me spend an hour clicking through a PowerPoint of the year’s curriculum, complete with anAbout Meslide. A few stragglers linger at their children’s desks, finishing theTell Me About Your Childworksheet I handed out. Its prompts includeWhat is your child’s favorite subject?andHow can I better support your child’s success?On the first day of school, I’d given the kids a similar sheet—only theirs came with illustrations and bright markers to fill in answers forFavorite place,Favorite music,My pets, and so on.
Parents munch on cookies I snagged from Trader Joe’s earlier, while others inspect the room their kids spend half their days in,admiring our colorful worksheet cubbies and the daily whiteboard riddle.
A soft, permanent smile is pasted on my face, braced for the inevitable questions parents will hurl my way. I’m hoping they won’t snap their jaws at me—a danger no one warned me about when I became a teacher. Because, as it turns out, much of teaching is pandering to parents’ exceptional demands. But there’s been no snapping yet. On the contrary, each parent has been pleasant thus far.
My gaze fixes on the steady blur of figures passing my open door. I suck water from my reusable bottle, nearly finished after an hour of bored sips. Look around the room, sip. Glance down at a paper, sip. As I gulp the cold liquid, I’m pulled from my thoughts when a tall woman, chic in wide-legged jeans and an oversized blazer, shuffles in, her expression rigid with worry.
“Are you Ms. Bly?” she asks before noticing my name on the whiteboard. “Oh, duh.”
“Hi!” I offer with a wide smile. “Yes, welcome in.”
“Sorry I’m late. I realized this afternoon it started at seven and not eight,” she says, frantic. Exhaling sharply, she adds, “I’m Phoebe Tory. Bodhi’s mom.”
I see it now. He’s her mirror image, the big brown eyes, dirty blond hair, the sharp chin already developing.
“No problem at all,” I say assuredly. “It’s so nice to meet you. Bodhi’s a great kid.”
“Aw,” Phoebe tuts, beaming. “He thinks the same of you. He even credited you for our trip to the Queen Anne Book Company last night to get some Bailey School Kids books. I couldn’t believe it. I remember reading those.”
“I love that,” I admit, a sense of pride washing over me. “We’ll be reading some great books in class this year. It’s all in the pamphlet.”I hand her a copy with theTell Me About Your Childsheet. “If you want, a lot of the other parents filled out this paper. It helps me get to know the kids better.”
“Fabulous. Should I do it here?”
“Yes, and you can sit at Bodhi’s desk if you want,” I suggest, pointing.
Phoebe smiles, sliding into the small wooden seat.
I retreat to the front of my desk, twirling a long strand of red hair. Pair by pair, parents hand me the paperwork, shake my hand, and file out. Soon, only Phoebe remains. I try not to stare. I can’t help but notice that she keeps staring atme. I busy myself with reading the papers to avoid meeting her gaze again. I’d hate if she thought I was rushing her out.
Finally, she approaches my desk. “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asks, brows lightly twisted. “I wasn’t trying to gawk. I just can’t place your face…”
“Maybe you’ve seen me outside school during pickup?” I suggest, aware that something about her feels familiar, unable to place it, either.
“No…” she says, trailing off, hand on her chin. “Bodhi’s dad or babysitter always picks him up. Where are you from?”
“I’m from here. Well, Lake Blair. It’s about twenty miles east.”
“That’s it. I’m from Blair, too. Unfortunately.” She grimaces.
It’s only then that her last name clicks. Tory. As in Madison Tory. The girl who went missing last year. Phoebe must be her older sister.
I almost bring it up, but the words catch somewhere between curiosity and dread. I hesitate, not wanting to contribute to the endless questions that must be pressed upon her.
“You didn’t like growing up there?” I ask instead.
She falters for a moment, looking around the room to ensure we’re alone.
“No, I liked my childhood. But in recent memory…” She trails off, taking a hefty breath. “My younger sister went missing a year ago. Madison Tory?” she says, checking if I’m familiar.
“Of course. I remember her from school. I’m so sorry.”
Phoebe perches on the desk across from mine, fingers picking at her thumbnail. “It’s been… hard,” she admits, looking up at me. “My mom moved out of Blair a few months ago when she realized that at least one of the police’s suspects lives there. Left a bad taste, you know? That some rich asshole on the lake could have done something to Madison. And the police aren’t even close to arresting anyone.” She exhales. Her voice softens. “You don’t still live there, do you?”
My lips are dry, my throat tight. “I don’t, but…”
Phoebe’s phone blares in her pocket, startling us both. She groans, rolling her eyes at the caller ID. “It’s my ex. He’s probably calling about Bodhi. It was really great meeting you.” She swipes to answer. “Hey. I’m just leaving the school.”
And then Phoebe’s gone. I’m alone in my classroom, which suddenly feels like an eerie place—the outside’s blackness crushing against the windows. The fluorescent lights feel brighter, like they’re spotlighting me. My mind is spinning with questions.
