finished.
She half walked, half ran to Sugar-On-Main and, with her phone still off,
secreted
herself—as in hid from view—in the bakery’s back office until anyone from school who was out front—anyone she might
possibly
know, who might start asking questions—was gone. She’d have stayed there until her mother came, if she hadn’t been starved. She devoured a brioche and two carrot muffins, washed them down with an espresso that she fixed when her aunt couldn’t see, because, forget espresso, Jill hated her drinking coffee, period, but if she was going to stay awake long enough to do homework
and
study vocab that night, she needed caffeine, right?
Feeling guilty about going behind Jill’s back—but not guilty enough not to check out the front to make sure that no one who mattered was there before she went out—she looked around for a way to help her aunt. With closing time less than an hour off and the front mostly empty, the rest of the staff had left. Dylan was already wiping down tables, which was good, because Grace hated doing that. She liked checking credit card slips, but Jill was doing that herself. So she set to work consolidating what remained of the day’s pastries on a single tray. Squatting behind the display cases, she was hidden from anyone who might come in off the street.
She kept an eye on the door. Dylan was doing the same, glancing worriedly there between swipes with his rag, but for a different reason. He had a baseball game at five and was worried their mom would be late. He was already wearing his uniform, and had asked Jill three times whether she would drive him to the field if Deborah didn’t get there on time. He had asked Grace twice whether
she
would watch the game if their mom couldn’t make it.
Grace prayed she wouldn’t have to. There was no way she could stand in public view watching a bunch of ten-year-olds swing at balls that were way out of reach.
She was lost in the horror of it, when her mother finally arrived and not from the gym, as Grace had thought, but still in her work clothes. She gave Dylan a hug, squeezed Jill’s arm, and made for Grace. Hunkering down beside her, she said quietly, “I kept trying your phone. How’d it go today?”
“Fine, until the paper came out,” Grace said with a sudden anger—and yes, at her mom. Deborah had started the lie. “All the kids were looking over each other’s shoulders to see me. I felt like a criminal.”
“They were reading about Mr. McKenna. It isn’t every day that a teacher dies.”
“They were reading about
you,
” Grace argued in a furious whisper, “and when they weren’t asking me questions, they were looking at me funny, like they knew the truth. I barely made it through track practice. I mean, I botched my intervals and then didn’t finish the eight hundred, which
sucks
. The whole
team
was staring.”
“You’re imagining it.”
“No, Mom. They’re staring, and they’re talking about the funeral. They’re all going. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I had Mr. McKenna in class. Do I go, too?”
“Do you want to?”
“Omigod,
no,
” she hissed, “it’d be a
nightmare
to be there knowing…knowing…” She couldn’t say it. “But everyone else is going, so it’ll look awful if I don’t.” She wilted. “This just gets worse and worse, Mom. It’s like…
unbearable
. If I still liked Dad, I’d go live with
him
for the rest of the year,” she threatened, inviting an argument. She knew how much her mother hated it when she talked about hating her dad.
But her mother was looking out through the display case glass at Dylan. He had moved on to a new table and was wiping it with large slow strokes. Though he had his back to them, the up-and-down movement of his head suggested he was watching his hand. Even Grace knew enough about his eyes to be uncomfortable with that.
She rose beside her mother, and for another minute, they both watched. Then Deborah went to Dylan and put a hand
She half walked, half ran to Sugar-On-Main and, with her phone still off,
secreted
herself—as in hid from view—in the bakery’s back office until anyone from school who was out front—anyone she might
possibly
know, who might start asking questions—was gone. She’d have stayed there until her mother came, if she hadn’t been starved. She devoured a brioche and two carrot muffins, washed them down with an espresso that she fixed when her aunt couldn’t see, because, forget espresso, Jill hated her drinking coffee, period, but if she was going to stay awake long enough to do homework
and
study vocab that night, she needed caffeine, right?
Feeling guilty about going behind Jill’s back—but not guilty enough not to check out the front to make sure that no one who mattered was there before she went out—she looked around for a way to help her aunt. With closing time less than an hour off and the front mostly empty, the rest of the staff had left. Dylan was already wiping down tables, which was good, because Grace hated doing that. She liked checking credit card slips, but Jill was doing that herself. So she set to work consolidating what remained of the day’s pastries on a single tray. Squatting behind the display cases, she was hidden from anyone who might come in off the street.
She kept an eye on the door. Dylan was doing the same, glancing worriedly there between swipes with his rag, but for a different reason. He had a baseball game at five and was worried their mom would be late. He was already wearing his uniform, and had asked Jill three times whether she would drive him to the field if Deborah didn’t get there on time. He had asked Grace twice whether
she
would watch the game if their mom couldn’t make it.
Grace prayed she wouldn’t have to. There was no way she could stand in public view watching a bunch of ten-year-olds swing at balls that were way out of reach.
She was lost in the horror of it, when her mother finally arrived and not from the gym, as Grace had thought, but still in her work clothes. She gave Dylan a hug, squeezed Jill’s arm, and made for Grace. Hunkering down beside her, she said quietly, “I kept trying your phone. How’d it go today?”
“Fine, until the paper came out,” Grace said with a sudden anger—and yes, at her mom. Deborah had started the lie. “All the kids were looking over each other’s shoulders to see me. I felt like a criminal.”
“They were reading about Mr. McKenna. It isn’t every day that a teacher dies.”
“They were reading about
you,
” Grace argued in a furious whisper, “and when they weren’t asking me questions, they were looking at me funny, like they knew the truth. I barely made it through track practice. I mean, I botched my intervals and then didn’t finish the eight hundred, which
sucks
. The whole
team
was staring.”
“You’re imagining it.”
“No, Mom. They’re staring, and they’re talking about the funeral. They’re all going. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I had Mr. McKenna in class. Do I go, too?”
“Do you want to?”
“Omigod,
no,
” she hissed, “it’d be a
nightmare
to be there knowing…knowing…” She couldn’t say it. “But everyone else is going, so it’ll look awful if I don’t.” She wilted. “This just gets worse and worse, Mom. It’s like…
unbearable
. If I still liked Dad, I’d go live with
him
for the rest of the year,” she threatened, inviting an argument. She knew how much her mother hated it when she talked about hating her dad.
But her mother was looking out through the display case glass at Dylan. He had moved on to a new table and was wiping it with large slow strokes. Though he had his back to them, the up-and-down movement of his head suggested he was watching his hand. Even Grace knew enough about his eyes to be uncomfortable with that.
She rose beside her mother, and for another minute, they both watched. Then Deborah went to Dylan and put a hand
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