Sweet Nothing (5 page)

Elliot Sloane is responsible for the downfall of our family. Her father will die in prison because of her. She is no longer welcome in my home. She is no longer my daughter.

The room is silent, except for the even step of a man striding from the back of the room to the door. It’s Luke. His eyes find me, and he shakes his head. I know instantly that he believes my mother’s words. He believes that I’m a monster. He leaves the room without a word and slams the door.

I gasp and bolt upright, my chest heaving. My body is slick with sweat, and my heart feels like it’s going to surge out of my chest.

I fumble for the light, switch it on, and whip the damp sheets from my bed. The floor is cool on the soles of my feet. I gulp the mason jar of iced cucumber water Gwen brought to my room before bed.
Something to soothe your first day of school jitters
, she’d said.
We all have them.

At the time, I’d just accepted the kind gesture, silently dismissing the notion that I was nervous. In the car on the way from New York, I’d told myself more than once that this gig was no big deal. If I could score an acceptance letter from one of the top business schools in the country, teaching a basic economics course to high school students would be simple.

But it’s possible that anxiety about my first job has crept into the back of my mind. Or maybe it’s my lunch with Luke that’s left me so unsettled. It’s none of my business, but I’m dying to know why he had to leave so quickly.
Is she okay?
he’d asked. Worried about a girlfriend? Another faculty member, or a student? Not that it matters.

I hold the chilled mason jar to my forehead, then against the back of my neck, my heart finally starting to slow. Flop onto my back again and stare at the blank white ceiling. It’s not like Luke owes me an explanation. It’s just that I’d felt so connected to him as he’d talked about his parents. Almost literally, like there was some sort of taut emotional wire strung between us. For once, I’d felt like someone understood loss the way I did. Which meant someone understood the deepest, most painful part of me. It had made me feel less alone. And then, the wire had just… snapped, leaving me feeling even more untethered than before.

The next morning, I fling open my classroom door just as the bell rings for first period. My white pencil skirt is twisted around so that the tag’s in the front, and the white silk blouse I’ve paired with it clings to my skin like plastic wrap. Oh, and I didn’t realize until after I left my house that I’d accidentally grabbed a black bra instead of the nude bra I’d meant to wear. Show and tell on the first day.

On the bright side, only one of my turquoise suede pumps is giving me a blister on my heel the size of the Grand Canyon.

“Okay, guys. I’m running a little late this morning, so give me a second to get settled,” I announce to the room full of seniors. The guys wear perfectly pressed khakis, white button-downs with the Allford Academy crest on the pocket, and ties. The girls wear similar button-downs and pleated plaid skirts, most of which look rolled up at the waist.

I’m irritated and embarrassed, and just want to press Rewind and start this day again. I’d started to doze off just as morning light had nudged its way under my door. Promised myself I’d get in a quick power nap before my shower. An hour later, I’d woken up to the sound of Gwen banging on my door.

The students find seats and fall silent, staring as I dump my bag and travel mug of lukewarm coffee on my desk.

“Just… talk amongst yourselves, okay?” They don’t.

I twist my skirt around and brush my bangs away from my forehead, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the white lacquer desk. My coat of crimson lipstick was a half-assed attempt at looking pulled together. I’m almost grateful there wasn’t time for more makeup. With my luck, it would have melted off by now.
Awesome first impression, Elliot. They totally respect you.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk, you could at least take a look at the syllabus for the class.” I yank open my desk drawer and pull out a stack of papers. When I lift the first syllabus from the stack, the edge of the paper slices deep into my thumb, leaving a scarlet slash.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. I suck the tip of my thumb, feeling like a little kid who’s already flunking the first day of kindergarten. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I don’t belong here. I want to turn on my one functioning heel and walk out.

“You look like you had a late night.” A floppy-haired kid who looks like he stepped out of an Abercrombie catalogue calls from the back of the room. He loosens his tie, a half-smirk playing over his lips.

“Why, because I spent less time on my hair this morning than you did?” The words are out before I can stop them.

Hoots and claps sweep through the room, and the kid’s cheeks go bright red. His smirk hardens into a thin line.

“Ooh, burn.” A stunning girl with long blonde waves and too much eye makeup for 8 AM announces from the front row.

“Okay. Okay. Settle down.” What am I doing, ridiculing a student? I’m acting like a kid myself. That can’t happen again. Even if he did deserve it.

“I think we need to start over.” My pumps are killing me, so I kick them off and nudge them under the desk. “I’m Elle Sloane, and I’ll be your instructor for Introduction to Economics.” I hand the stack of syllabi to the blonde. “What’s your name?”

“Violet. But I go by Vi.”

“Vi, could you hand these out? Thanks.” I sit on the edge of my desk. “So, you probably know that this is my first year at Allford. Dr. Wesley, who has been teaching this course for the last ten years, decided at the very last minute not to return.” Something about his wife having health problems, though Dr. Goodwin hadn’t elaborated when he’d called me just six days earlier. I hadn’t asked questions. The job offer was the escape I’d been looking for.

“A few things about me: I studied business and econ at NYU.” The more I repeat it, the easier the lie becomes. “Anybody planning on applying there?”

A few hands, and one that stays raised. It’s another guy sitting in the back row. I brace myself.

“Yes, um…”

“Josh Marville.” The kid beams a giant white smile my way. A smile that practically screams
politician.
I give it ten years before I see his name on a sign in somebody’s yard. Another six before the hooker scandal.

“Josh. Question?”

“How old are you?”

I glance at the clock. 8:04. Four minutes down, 41 to go. “Josh, if you can tell me how knowing my age would enhance your study of economics, I’m happy to provide it for you. But otherwise—”

“I just mean, you look really young. But like, in a good way.” A couple of the guys in the back snicker behind their notebooks.

“Okay!” I say brightly. “This concludes the getting to know you portion of the morning.” I reach for the iPad that was sitting in my box yesterday when I got back to campus. Each faculty member had one. A gift from an anonymous donor, apparently. “Let’s take roll so we can get started.”

Somehow I manage to fumble my way through a few introductory concepts and to assign the students to groups for their semester project. Eventually, they settle down and take notes, most on iPads and razor-thin silver laptops. Every so often, I have to stop myself from looking around the room for a hidden camera. It’s like this place, these kids… they’re not
real.
They almost look airbrushed, the girls glossy-lipped and tanned, the boys with chiseled jaws and perfect smiles. Even the kids at my Upper East Side private school didn’t look this good. There has to be something in the water.

When the bell rings, I’m relieved. One period down, four more to go. I’m not sure I’ll make it.

“Thanks, guys,” I call to no one as the students check their cell phones and slip their laptops into designer bags. “And remember, things can only get better from here.” I’m sure they can smell my desperation like dogs. Purebred dogs.

“Hey, Mr. Poulos.” Martha, a slight girl who looks like Selena Gomez’s doppelganger, bats thick dark lashes at the door.

I whirl around to see Luke, smiling in the doorway. He’s holding two large coffees. He looks sickeningly good in jeans and a paint-splattered button-down.

“Hey, Martha,” Luke says, without taking his eyes off me. “You guys take good care of Ms. Sloane on her first day?”

“She’ll be fine.” Vi shoots me a pitying glance. “Probably.”

The floppy-haired kid (also known as Hayden Santiago, I learned during roll call) grumbles something under his breath and shoves his way past Luke. Luke looks at me questioningly, and I shake my head.

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay. Everybody to homeroom. Go on.” Luke waits as the rest of the class shuffles out. Then he closes the door and offers me one of the coffees. “You look—” His eyes fall to the outline of the black lace beneath my blouse. A shiver trickles down my spine.

“Choose your words carefully,” I say, too loudly. “I’ve got a stiletto and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he grins. “I was gonna say…
gorgeous.
Also, totally fried.”

“Is it that obvious?” I sip my coffee, grateful to have something to distract me from Luke’s words. “God, this is good.”

“Here.” He pulls out my desk chair and guides me into it. “Everybody starts out a little rough. My first day was pure hell. I—”

The phone on my desk emits a shrill beep. I reach for the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Sloane?” The voice on the other end is female, and older. “Pam Guttierez.”

Where have I heard that name before? “Oh. Yes. Um, hi.”

“From Dr. Goodwin’s office.” Irritation pricks at her voice.

“Of course. I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”

“Dr. Goodwin would like a word with you, as soon as you’re available.”

My stomach bottoms out. I mouth
Dr. Goodwin
to Luke. He gives me a
yikes
face, which is less than reassuring.

“Ms. Sloane?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m here. It’s just… let’s see, when am I free, I—”

“Fourth period, according to your schedule.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be there. Could you tell me how to get to—”

“Very good. See you fourth.”

Click.

“Everything okay?” Luke asks.

“I think I just got called to the Head of School’s office on the first day.” I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “Am I getting fired? I’m getting fired. I’ve taught one period of one class, and I’m totally getting fired.”

“You’re
not
getting fired,” Luke says gently. My door flies open and a herd of students spills inside.

“Out,” Luke says sternly. “You can wait in the hall until we’re finished.”

The herd retreats with a few grumbles and protests. I take a few more gulps of coffee to wash down the fear boulder in my throat.

“He probably just wants to check in on you.” Luke starts to reach for my arm, then decides against it. I feel a ping of disappointment.

“Right. I’m sure you’re right. Okay. I can do this.” I stand up, faking fresh determination.

“Atta girl.” Luke heads for the door, then stops. “Oh. I almost forgot. I came by to apologize for sketching out on you yesterday. And to give you this.” He drops a sealed gold envelope on my desk.

“What’s this? Can I open it?”

He shakes his head teasingly. “Don’t you have class now? Open it after your meeting with Goodwin. As a reward for not getting fired.”

“Very funny,” I call as he opens the door and slips into the hallway. But it’s not. Not yet. I finger the envelope as my class fills with students. Inspect it. My first name is sketched on the front in messy guy handwriting. I can’t help smiling. In a place where everything is perfectly scripted and flawless, I love that he’s a little messy. I love that he’s real.

Elle,

I can’t believe I’m about to write this, but how was your first day of school?
 
We don’t start till next week. I can’t decide whether going back will save me or kill me. I can’t stand being home anymore. It’s so quiet. But what if I can’t face everyone at school? I don’t know how to be, really. Am I supposed to hate him? Because I can’t.

He called yesterday. I couldn’t answer.

Love you for infinity,

A

“Wait! Don’t start till I get out there!” Waverly yells from inside the cottage. Gwen and I are sitting beneath the umbrella in the outdoor courtyard, sipping cucumber water from mason jars as the sun goes down. Gwen’s flipping through an
Us Weekly.
The air outside is thick and wet after a short afternoon rain; the amaryllis and other tropical plants dotted with raindrops. I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.

“Head of School’s office on the first day, man.” Gwen rests her bare feet on the

wrought iron table between us and tilts her chair on its back legs. “Are you secretly some

sort of badass?”

“I want a do-over,” I groan at the canopy of palm fronds overhead. I roll down the hem of my cutoffs and roll them up again. “And people who pay money to read about Taylor Swift’s latest breakup shouldn’t throw stones.”

“Guilty pleasure,” Gwen admits. “And just so you know, Tay Tay will not be defined by her relationship status.”

“Okay. Go.” Waverly rests a plate of hummus, warm pita bread, dates, and honey on the table and peels back the layer of plastic wrap. “Theater had a welcome back reception.”

I reach for a pita wedge and swirl it mindlessly in the honey.

“So Guttierez just calls you up after first period and says Goodwin wants to see you,” Gwen prompts me. She closes the magazine and tosses it on the table. “That’s so weird, setting up a formal meeting like that.”

“It gets worse.” I’m not hungry, so I leave the pita wedge to drown. Just thinking about the walk from my classroom to Dr. Goodwin’s office makes my stomach turn. His office was in a separate house across campus, and nothing like the rest of the buildings. His space was traditional: all wood paneling, brass, and other intimidating materials.