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Where are you?she asked, ending her query with an angry face emoji.
School, he replied quickly.
I don’t believe you, she texted back.
Muting his ringer for a moment, he waited for the teacher to turn his back and snapped a quick photo to send her, then typed,Leave me the fuck alone.
That had silenced her through the rest of the unbearably boring chunk of art history, then through trigonometry and calculus. By the time biology class started, his nose ran like a broken faucet, and he was burning up.
Come right back home after classes, was a new message from his mother. Damn that woman.
“Prokaryotes are the studio apartments of cells,” his teacher was saying in his annoying, nasal voice, drawing a figure on the whiteboard with several colors. “What’s so special about them? Does anyone know?” He allowed a moment for the classroom to engage, to no avail. No one paid that much attention to him.
In that drawn moment of silence, a new text vibrated Richard’s phone, also from his mother. This time, she wrote,If you’re not home for dinner, I’ll cut off your phone service.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” he blurted before he could restrain himself.
The teacher turned as if something had bitten him in the ass. Red-faced and agitated, he looked straight at Richard. “Mr. Gaskell, stand up, explain your outburst, and apologize to the class.”
Richard clenched his teeth until they hurt but managed to appear humble and regretful in front of the fifty-something students who wore cheap polyester suits and worn-out shoes. “I just hurt myself, that’s all. I got a splinter under my fingernail, and it hurts like a—” he paused for dramatic effect, holding his thumb in the air. “I’m really, really sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
The teacher stared at him, seemingly unsure if he was being taken for a ride. He looked straight at Richard, who held his gaze calmly, then added, “They lack nuclei and other membrane-bound organelles. That’s why they’re the studio apartment. All facilities in one room.”
Another beat of silence. “Exactly,” the teacher said, returning to his drawing while Richard still fumed. For the remainder of the class, he spaced out, thinking of his future, long-term and immediate, and how his mother’s insecurities could be managed to his advantage.
Right before the recess bell, something the teacher said caught his attention, reeling him back into reality.
“—of your classmate’s passing. We have psychologists and grief counselors available in person and on the phone if you’d like to speak with someone about Jenna. The police are asking everyone with pertinent information that could lead to an arrest to call the sheriff’s office directly.”
Richard turned to the guy behind and asked him to lend him ten bucks. The boy obliged quickly, and two fivers changed hands. Then he reached across the aisle to Rennie and handed him the money. “For lunch,” he whispered. White as a sheet, Rennie looked at him as if he’d never seen him before. “Snap out of it already,” he encouraged Rennie with a wink. “I gotta go home now, but I’ll swing by later in the afternoon. What time are you back?”
“Um, seven,” Rennie replied. His lips were pale, his eyes wide as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Mr. Gaskell,” the teacher said, raising his voice in frustration, “we were about to observe a moment of silence for your classmate. Do you think you can be bothered with that?”
He was just about to reply with more apologies when the bell rang. The timing of the exchange was hilarious, and a few chuckles ended the standoff. In under a minute, he was driving off on his way home, with the gas indicator on his dash blinking orange and Ed Sheeran’s “Bad Habits”blaring on the radio.
As he drove away, his mind wandered. He didn’t remember seeing one of those piles of flowers, cards, candles, and teddy bears that looked like the dump truck had broken down and was scattering the goods in its wake. What were they called, shrines? Whatever they were called, he hadn’t seen one of those put up for Jenna. Maybe there was one on the other side of the school building where students who took the bus were dropped off, but he hadn’t heard anyone raising any money for her or doing the usual crap bored rich girls did on such occasions. He would’ve expected Alana Keaney to be the first in line to do that and post a million selfies on the subject, with that judgmental bitch in tow, Mackenzie Trenton.
He got home in a few minutes and used the back door to sneak inside the house without passing through the living room where his mother was reading a book. When she looked up from her read, she’d notice his Jeep parked in the driveway, but by then, he’d be in the shower, or better yet, fast asleep.
His plan almost worked, only he wasted a few minutes standing in the fridge’s open door, wolfing down some leftovers from last night’s dinner. Then he snuck up to his room and slid under the covers. When his mother checked on him, he pretended to be asleep, and she let it slide with a long sigh.
He slept like a rock until about six, then got up and dressed, ready to go to Rennie’s. His friend needed company this evening; he seemed worked up by the news of Jenna’s death. He was a softie, his new friend, getting all jittery as if he’d killed her.
He was almost ready to leave when his mother stopped him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked. She was wearing a pair of blue slacks and a silk blouse, also blue, in matching shades. Her hair was neatly done as if she’d just returned from the salon.
“To Rennie’s,” he replied, veering his eyes sideways. “Why, you need anything?”
She stepped closer to him. “Yes, for you to look at me.”
He obliged, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking one step back. Pressing his lips together, he kept his mouth shut despite the many things he wanted to say to her.
She tentatively reached to caress his hair, but he withdrew, scowling, silent. “What your father and I said last night has nothing to do with you,” she said, smiling apologetically. “You know that, right?”
Rage filled his chest, burning him on the inside. “The hell it doesn’t, Mom!” He stomped his foot against the hardwood with a loud thump. “What am I doing here? What areyoudoing here, in this damn place, away from the city where we had such a good life?”
