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I look up from Brown Bear Brown Bear, What Do You See?, the pages so well-used they’re soft to the touch. It’s the copy my grandmother had in her classroom, which she passed down to my mom to have in hers too.
Nuria’s face is white as a sheet.
“Sure,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice cheery as I pass the book to my teaching assistant, Mr. Jake. “Y’all behave, all right?”
My stomach tightens when the sirens get louder. All ten of my students glance at the windows on the far side of the classroom.
I do the same even though we overlook an enclosed, leafy courtyard.
I still get a bad feeling about what’s about to go down. It can’t be an active shooter because we have protocols for that. As much as I’m relieved, I’m also bummed shooter is my first thought. It’s a terrifying thing that violence has become a part of our everyday lives here.
Then I wonder if a student choked. Fell. Hit their head and is gushing blood. Or maybe someone had a heart attack? We have a few older teachers on staff.
As I walk to the door, my knees feel like balloons, squishy and weirdly weightless.
Nuria all but yanks me out into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind us.
“There’s been an incident,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to a passing parent. “A fire.”
“Oh, God, where?” I turn my head, glancing at my students through the window in the door. “What about the kids? Do we need to get them out of here?”
“Not according to the fire department.” Nuria shakes her head. “The fire is on school property, but far enough from the building that we should be okay. Amelia, I’m so, so sorry.”
Gravity sucks my legs into the floor. “Sorry for what?”
Nuria meets my gaze. “It’s your car. Your car is what’s on fire.”
A pulse of disbelief detonates inside my gut, followed in short order by panic.
“Are you serious?” I blurt. “My Honda?”
My beautiful, brand-new white Honda Civic hatchback with an all season package and moon roof?
She nods, blinking as the tears fill her eyes. “The fire department—” She winces at the wail of a nearby siren. “Welp, they came quickly. I’ll give them that.”
“Is it bad?”
Nuria flattens her lips. It’s bad.
I take off at a sprint, mind racing as I try to figure out what the hell is happening. Did I leave it running? Was there an oil leak or something? The car is literally brand new; I bought it less than a month ago.
“Wait!” Nuria calls after me, breathless. “Amelia, there’s something you should know—”
But I’m already hip-checking through the front door, the handlebar making a clack-wheeze as I push out into the bright sunshine.
I’m immediately assaulted by the acrid smell of burnt rubber. Turning my head, I see flames licking into the sky in the far corner of the parking lot, and my breath leaves my lungs.
Yup, that’s my car, all right. There’s one stroke of luck: ever since I drove it off the dealership lot, I’ve parked in the farthest space away from the school. What can I say? It’s by far the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought and the only car I’ve driven that’s not a total jalopy.
I can feel the heat of the fire from here.
The fire trucks are zooming up Woodward’s front drive, sirens screaming. Without thinking, I make a mad dash for the car. I can’t help—I know that much—but I also need to know why my car is currently on freaking fire.
“Amelia!” Nuria is shouting behind me. “Wait!”
I draw to a stop just shy of the inferno. There, scrawled on the blacktop in front of my parking spot in white spray paint, is a message:
This slut is sleeping with Jim Beasley!!!!
A married man!!!!
Homewrecker!!!!!
Nuria grabs me by the elbow, and I nearly jump ten feet into the air. My skin blisters from the heat of the fire. Flames curl into the clear morning sky, smoke billowing in violent bursts of black.
“I was,” she pants, “trying to tell you about that. The note.”
The fire truck pulls up beside us. Nuria covers her ears—the siren is loud up close—but I just stand there, staring at the words.
Why all the exclamation points?
Because that’s the question I should be asking. God. But the real questions are too terrifying to contemplate. Questions like, since Jim is the only guy I’ve been seeing—the only guy I’ve seen for the past year—does that mean he’s married?
Oh, God, is Jim fucking married?
Jim told me he was separated.
Then again, he hasn’t invited me over to his new condo yet.
But he’s a single dad, trying to juggle a blossoming career as a litigation attorney with the demands of being the primary parent (his ex is an alcoholic). The kids are with him more often than not, and he doesn’t want to confuse them by bringing a new woman around. Considering I absolutely adore kids and would love to have a family of my own, not being able to meet them has been a huge bummer.
