Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emily
The sun shone through the windows in my classroom on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon in February as I handed back the graded tests to my sophomore History class. I praised them for their hard work and attempts at addressing the finer points of early 20th century immigration, and reminded the ones who hadn’t done as well that they still had several more chances to make up for less than stellar grades.
“Nice work, Nina,” I said with a big smile, as I set her test down on her desk. She gave me a nervous look that quickly turned into a wide smile as she saw that the grade on the top of the page was an A.
“Thank you, Ms. Fowler,” she said, smiling up at me.
“Don’t thank me; you did the hard work!” I said, returning her smile. I handed out the rest of the papers and then went over the answers before the bell rang.
Nina hung back as her friends headed to their next classes. Nervously, she approached my desk and said, “Ms. Fowler, I need to talk to you.”
“Okay, what’s up?” I replied, looking up from the computer where I was pulling up a PowerPoint lecture for the next class.
“Not now,” she said, looking toward the door and then back at me. “After school?”
“Are you all right, Nina?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“Yeah, fine,” she nodded. “I just need to talk to you in private.”
“Okay, I’ll wait here for you after the last bell,” I agreed. She nodded, then turned and ran out the classroom door.
I spent the last two periods of the school day worried that something was wrong with Nina. I had a sinking feeling that she was going to tell me she was pregnant and ask for help telling her parents. I sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case, but I steeled myself just in case it was. I didn’t want to be judgmental, but I wasn’t at liberty to offer her any advice on how to deal with the situation outside of advising her to tell her parents.
I was packing up my things and had all but given up on Nina showing up when she entered the classroom. She looked subdued and less than happy. As much as I wanted to launch into a series of questions, I forced myself to hold back and wait for her to speak first.
“Ms. Fowler, I feel like I have a problem,” she began nervously. “I want to be able to talk to my dad about it, but I don’t know how to start the conversation.”
“Your dad’s a pretty straightforward person,” I said, hesitating a little. “It’s probably best just to approach him in a direct manner and say what’s on your mind. He loves you more than anything, and I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you about any problem you have.”
“But see, that’s just it,” she said. “It’s not technically my problem.”
“Oh, is that so?” I said, feeling my stomach begin to churn. Teenagers had a way of asking questions “for a friend” that made me wish I could free them from the shame and guilt they felt asking for themselves.
“Yeah, it’s actually kind of his problem,” she continued, looking up at me before shifting her eyes back down to the floor and shuffling nervously. I waited, knowing that if I interrupted, she might get spooked and stop talking. When she looked back up at me, she said, “Look, my dad misses you. He’s old and stubborn, and he won’t talk about it with me, but I can tell that for the past month he’s been really lonely without you.”
“Oh, I…well, it’s complicated,” I began, and then stopped. I had no idea what to say. I’d missed him terribly, but I had no idea how to approach the issue of my family with him. It felt too huge and overwhelming to have to explain the situation, and then to have to endure the humiliation of admitting that my family was the polar opposite of his, well, that felt like more than I could stand.
“I know you might not want to hear this, maybe you moved on and have a new boyfriend,” she said quickly. “But I saw my parents together before the divorce, and my dad was never as happy with my mom as he was when I saw him with you. He was calmer. More patient. And since you’ve been gone, he’s just kind of shut down and gone back to being a grumpy old man. I know he misses you.”
“I see,” I nodded, as I listened to her talk about the differences she’d seen over the past month.
“I thought maybe if you could talk to him…” she trailed off before shrugging and saying, “Maybe you could talk some sense into him, you know? I mean, maybe he’d apologize for being a jerk, and you’d take him back.”
I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at the idea that it was Blake’s fault we’d split up. If only Nina knew the truth, then she’d probably hate me, too.
“Look, I know you’re sad about your dad and me, but I think he knows what’s best for him,” I explained. “I don’t think it’s right to blame him for everything, either. We are both adults.”
“They why don’t you both act like it?” Nina blurted. “You guys are always telling us teenagers to be honest and talk things out. Why can’t you follow your own advice?”
“Oh, Nina,” I said, chuckling as I rubbed my eyes. “Were it only that easy.”
“It is,” she said, staring at me. “It is that easy. You just have to say what’s going on and then talk about how to fix it.”
“Well, as much as I like the idea…” I began, as a knock on the classroom door interrupted the conversation. I looked up and called, “Come in!”
The door opened and through it walked Blake. I looked at him and then back at Nina, who now had a satisfied grin on her face. I shot her a look before I smiled and said, “Hello, Mr. Gaston. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Hello, Ms. Fowler; it’s good to see you, too,” he replied, giving Nina the same confused look that I had given her moments before. “Nina told me you wanted to see me about her grades.”
“She did?” I said, looking back at Nina, who was slowly making her way to the door. “Wait a minute, young lady.”
“Nope, I wanted you two to talk. Bye!” she chirped, before quickly yanking open the door and running out into the hall.
Silence filled the room as Blake and I stared at the open door and empty hallway, listening to the sounds of footsteps growing fainter. I looked back at him and inhaled sharply. He was even more handsome than I remembered. His hair was a little longer and, as a result, the salt-and-pepper gray was a little more pronounced, but the five o’clock shadow made him look a little more tired than I remembered him being.
I stood staring at him from across the room and couldn’t think of a single thing to say.