Page 155 of 72 Hours of You

“Well, she was. And”—she pauses—“and she was a dear friend of mine. Her husband was often away, and she and I would spend our holiday breaks …” She stops herself, like she’s suddenly remembered she’s talking to a random teenager and not her telehealth therapist. “Anyway, she was quite fond of you. Saw a lot of potential. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but alas.”

“Oh.” Fucking shit. I’d rather be suspended.

“She told me she had a wonderful talk with you last week.”

“She did?”

Ms. Shywill nods. “Teachers spend their professional lives chasing after some To Sir, with Love idealized version of what education can do for someone. For most of us, that moment is as elusive as a date from Sidney Poitier himself.” She smiles at me as if I’m supposed to know who that is or what the hell she’s talking about. “Not to say that you’re an unruly city kid in need of a firm hand! The point is, it meant a great deal to her that you were coming around.”

“Um, thank you,” I say. I scooch to the end of my chair, trying to signal to her subconscious that I would very much like to escape, but in a polite way.

Ms. Shywill takes a sharp inhale through her nose and stands up. “Right, well.”

“Yeah.”

We muddle through an awkward exit, and I power-walk through the front office, keeping my eyes down, and push through the double doors into the bright parking lot, which is now deserted.

I get in my truck and stare at the manila envelope on my lap. My hands shake a little bit as I go to open the flap and I get a sliver of a papercut on my pointer finger. It stings like a bitch and for some reason that sharp pain is the first thing that makes me really want to cry today. But I don’t. I just want to get this over with. I reach in and pull out a thick, glossy purple packet.

NYU PHILOSOPHY DEPARTMENT

COURSE OFFERINGS

Twenty-Two

I DRIVE AROUND FOR A WHILE, and when I get home the house is silent. The kind of silent where you can hear those little hair cells in your inner ear tingling, amplifying the echoing nothingness around you.

Dad is still at work or sleeping at his desk pretending to work so he doesn’t have to come home and remind himself that he’s supposed to be raising two girls. And who knows when Jules will be back. A ride home with Noah is never just a ride home. I’m sure he’s convinced her to “cruise through Tee Beezy” and record him attempting to scarf ten Crunchwrap Supremes in under four minutes (his record).

Which means, finally, I’m alone. Not even a fair-weather cat or a rapid-blinking gerbil to greet me.

A few years ago, Jules asked for a dog. She fell in love with some half-poodle-half-Siberian-husky on one of those rescue websites where they put the dog in a bandana and write a little intro from the animal’s point of view. She begged Dad to let her adopt this scruffy bulging-eyed thing called Macaroni.

Look, Dad. Look what it says. “I love watching baseball—the Mets are my team!” See? He’s perfect! And look, Syd: “I love going on long runs and feeling the wind in my fur.” You could run with him! Wouldn’t that be so great? And it says he also loves to snuggle. Look at his eyes. What do you think? Can we get him?

Dad was pretty close to caving, but then I reminded the two of them of my very severe pet dander allergies.

I don’t actually have allergies, but the thought of having another living thing in this house? I couldn’t do it. Dogs’ lifespans are short as fuck. And that whole “it’s better to have loved and lost” thing? Obviously, Tennyson never had to see his mother’s dead face with three bloodred gashes slanting down her ashen cheek. If he had, he might’ve reconsidered his position on the whole situation. Really, I was saving Jules from herself—there was no way she could’ve handled another loss of something she loved.

I drop my backpack at the door, kick my shoes across the entryway, and head for the kitchen. But when I go to grab a bag of pretzels and a bowl of chocolate chips, I realize I’m still holding the packet from Ms. Jegstrup. I pull open the trash drawer under the kitchen island. Because, really, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this thing? Start a keepsake box of shit my dead teachers gave me? I think the fuck not.

But still, my hand hovers there, over an old banana peel and forty-five million paper towels. The packet and I are both sort of suspended in time and space. Like, clearly I should just uncurl my fingers and let it drop into the garbage abyss below. But I can’t seem to let go. Schrödinger’s trash.

Fuck it. I push the drawer shut with my foot, tuck the stupid packet under my arm, grab the food, and go upstairs.

I’ll just … throw it away later, like restaurant leftovers.

I sit down, push the packet to the edge of my desk, and pull out my red notebook. Just because I can’t throw it away right now doesn’t mean I have to sit here actively thinking about it. I’ll distract myself.

With other people’s deaths.

How normal.

I pick up my pencil and put it on the paper. I’ll start with the baguette woman. She’s going to be—

You know, I don’t actually give a shit about NYU. It’s not like seeing the sprawling urban campus or the carefully curated glossy images of diverse kids reading in Washington Square Park is making me consider applying.

But Ms. Jegstrup thought it might. All that bullshit from the ice cream party meant something to her.