“The cutest.”
He returns the phone. Ros gives her daughter one last wistful glance before swiping to a new photo. “And Brooke went to the eighth-grade dance with her boyfriend.”
Zach does a mock double take. “Wait, what? Brooke has a boyfriend? When did that happen?”
“A few months ago.”
“Oh my god, tell me everything. How did they meet? Who declared their love first?”
Ros passes the phone back to him. Brooke, wearing a floor-length gown with dingy sneakers underneath, scowls at the camera, clearly embarrassed by her parents’ need to memorialize her first school dance.
Sitting between them, I assumed I’d be included in the conversation, yet they’re talking around me like I’m not even here. It stings,even though I know these two may not have seen each other in a while, maybe not since the last retreat, and want to catch up. Still, it pulls me right back to Ms. Landry’s classroom—to the teachers going about their business while I linger in the doorway like a lonely ghost.
“I wish I could tell you. Brooke’s entered that phase where every question only merits a one-word answer. How was school?Fine. Do you want takeout for dinner?Sure. Do you have any plans for the weekend?Dunno. I feel like I have a thirteen-year-old stranger living under my roof. My husband says she’ll grow out of it. I’m like, sweet Jesus, when?”
“Nic could probably tell you,” Zach says, returning the phone. “She teaches elementary school.”
“Do you really? They didn’t say much about what you did on—”
Connor clears his throat at the front of the bus, and we fall silent. A warning: Don’t disclose anything about our parents. Zach and Ros share an annoyed look, but instead of feeling like an imposition, it reminds me that someone else on this bus is even more of an outsider than I am. That, unlike the driver, I’m now a member of this club, now party to its secrets.
That I belong here.
“How long have you been teaching?” Ros asks.
“Almost fifteen years.”
“Bless you, because I could never.”
“It’s not as hard as you think.” A lie. It’s absolutely as hard as they think, probably much harder. “I actually learn the most about my students when they’re not talking to me. They’ll come into my classroom after school and gossip about who’s bullying who, who’s copying their homework assignments, who has a crush on a classmate. You could try carpooling your daughter and some of her friends. You might be surprised what you overhear.”
“I don’t think they’re going to open up about anything important when I’m right there.”
“Believe me, they forget you even exist.”
“All right.” Connor claps his hands together. “Everyone’s here, so you know what time it is.”
Everyone’s here? I know there aren’t many serial killers out there, even fewer with children, but surely there must be more club members than just the five of us. What about Greer? I scan the parking garage, but all I see are strangers dragging their suitcases toward their vehicles.
Connor proceeds down the aisle with a tote bag, and, one by one, we drop our electronics inside. Kemy asks if he can come to her last. “I’m waiting on a confirmation email,” she says, clicking refresh like that might hurry it along.
I pull out my phone and, as Hannah deposits a set of headphones into the tote bag, hurriedly search for Greer’s most recent message.
Just arrived in Seattle. Where are you?I type, then press send.
A chime dings somewhere on the bus. My head whips up. I expect to find Greer standing in the doorway, but no one’s there.
Hello?I type.
Send.
Another chime.
This time, Connor digs around in his pocket, checks an illuminated screen before returning to his task. Could that be a coincidence? I try one more time, just to be sure.
Connor?I type.
Send.
