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Still lying on her back, her hands still linked, her face still mostly blank, Geneva said, “Please don’t make me go to school.”
“Honey—”
“You’re going to say I have to go, but Idon’t. Ms. Morrel said I could be homeschooled. I could stay home and do assignments and take some tests and get everything I need that way.”
The high school had begun implementing their ‘independent study’ plans for Geneva the very next day after their meeting only a few nights ago, but giving Geneva alone time during class hadn’t addressed the issue of what happened in the hallways—which was where the worst of the bullying occurred. Until the school implemented some kind of effective policy to deal with bullies, there would be no respite for Geneva or any other bullied kid.
Homeschooling had occurred to Siena, but only as quickly or deeply as the touch of a feather. Not even long enough to become an idea. It was impossible. For so many reasons.
“Geneva. I can’t homeschool you. I have to work. And I only have a high school diploma. Even if I could cut back on my hours and still pay for us to live, I don’t know enough to be your teacher.” She’d gotten good grades in high school, but that was almost fifteen years ago. If somebody dropped the quadratic equation in front of her now, she might not even recognize it, much less be able to use it.
Geneva sat up and grabbed her Chromebook from the nightstand. “You don’t have to! I could teach myself. There are modules and materials that I could work through. Look.” She’d turned her screen so Siena could see.
She’d called up a homeschooling website. Siena glanced at it but didn’t try to process its information. Geneva probablycouldteach herself; she was way smarter than Siena. It didn’t matter. Siena was working fifty hours a week to keep the bills paid right now, and Geneva was too young and, more importantly, too naïve to be left on her own. Siena needed her to be in school because she couldn’t afford a full-time sitter.
Guilt slammed down on her shoulders. She could tell herself that allowing Geneva to leave school and become a hermit at the age of fourteen would hurt her irreparably when she had to live on her own, but the real truth, the main reason, Siena wouldn’t—couldn’t—entertain this new homeschooling idea was that she needed the free childcare.
Was she allowing her sister to be tortured daily and miserable constantly because it wascheaper?
She was, wasn’t she? God, she sucked. Everything fuckingsucked.
“I can’t, honey. I don’t know how to do it all. I’m trying so hard, Gennie, but I just—”
“Don’t call me Gennie,” Geneva said, her voice flat with disappointment. Siena had been trying to explain her own feelings, but all her sister had heard was the name she’d preferred most of her life.
Siena was so very tired. Her muscles felt like iron. Her heart could barely beat for all that weight.
For the third time on the day that was just ending, she felt like she might cry. She’d held tears back all day, and she held them back now, too. Geneva didn’t like to be around crying people. But when she got to her room, she was going to indulge in a thorough bawl-a-thon.
There was no more to be said or done here tonight. Standing, Siena said, “Lights out. Go to sleep. You have school in the morning. Since I’m off tomorrow, I’ll drive you. Good night, Geneva.”
She left without waiting for her sister to respond; she knew she wouldn’t.
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~oOo~
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Cooper still wasn’thome the next morning, when Siena returned from dropping off her silent and despondent ward at school. He’d probably gone off to party after his workout and was now passed out in a hotel room in one of the casinos, with a naked bimbo or three draped over him.
Whatever. She shouldn’t be asking him for favors, anyway. She’d figure something else out. Actually, maybe martial arts was a dumb idea. She didn’t want to train like that, with a guy so close to her.
As she slammed her car door shut, he came around the corner and roared down the street. Siena stood beside her car, paralyzed by competing impulses: one to talk to him, the other to run into her house before he cut his engine.
Her paralysis settled the question.
Usually he parked toward the back of his carport, but he stopped on the driveway, alongside her car. After he cut the engine, he stayed on his seat, smiling at her as he removed his helmet.
Still feeling that tension between fleeing and engaging, Siena crossed her arms and stayed beside her car.
He didn’t look like he’d partied hard last night—or if he had, he’d bounced back well. He looked showered and fresh, dressed as usual, in jeans and black work boots, a flannel shirt, this one in a solid burnt orange color, and, of course, his kutte. He was wearing a fairly full backpack, so she couldn’t see the patch, but she knew what it looked like.
“Morning,” he said. “How you doin’ today?”
“Morning. I’m okay.”
He dismounted and opened his backpack. From it, he pulled a rectangular cardboard box. It had a lot of black print on it, but she couldn’t make out what it said.
