Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER FOUR
Three days later, I’m walking to the small faculty mailboxes set up in the main office when my boss sticks her head out from her small office in the corner and pins me with one of those sweet smiles she gives people before asking them to do something. “Stevie, just the person I wanted to see. Can you come talk to me real quick?”
As if I could tell her no.
Nodding, I collect my things from the box and follow her inside, closing the door behind me. She sits behind her oak desk with pictures of cats and children resting in frames and a name plaque that says Ms. Clifton in gold engraved lettering. A present from her nieces, the very same children showcased proudly in the brown picture frames beside it, since she doesn’t have any of her own.
“What can I help you with?” I ask, taking a seat across from her. The first time I sat in this very same chair was for the job interview that led to this position, and as nervous as I was, worried I’d have pit stains by the time it was over, I knew I’d crushed it. So, when I’d gotten the call with the official job offering, I’d taken it with a big smile that I couldn’t wipe off my face for weeks.
Beverly Clifton, a fifty-something-year-old woman with a no-nonsense attitude, gives me a warm look. Warm for her, anyway. I can see why some of my coworkers are intimidated by the woman who doesn’t often smile when she’s around the adults. Kids are another story, which is a good thing since you need a lot of patience and a friendly face when you’re surrounded by hundreds of them daily.
“I wanted to give you a heads up about a new student starting today that’ll be in your class. I spoke with his parents last week, and they informed me he’s on the spectrum. He has high-functioning autism. His father told me he didn’t need an aide at his last school, but they’re open to it if they feel he needs help here at Stanton. He went through extensive therapy when he was younger, and they say he’s shy but a smart young man. So, I think he’ll be a good fit in your room.”
She wants me to keep an eye out and give her reports if I’m reading between the lines correctly. I have a background in special education studies, minoring in it in college, so I know a thing or two about autism. “Okay, I’ll make sure to note anything I feel necessary.”
My boss smiles at me. “I knew you’d be a good fit for him. My Ari is on the spectrum too. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.” She reaches forward to grab one of the photos of a tall blonde holding a cat half the size of her. “She’s always been the sweetest little girl in the world, nothing my sister couldn’t handle. But some people don’t look at differences the same. Unfortunately, not all schools have the resources to handle children like Ari. She isn’t high-functioning.”
Ah. So, the last school district couldn’t give the family what they needed. I’ve learned in my years of study that they might have some trust issues with other districts. It’s reasonable. It just means I’d need to prove to them we can handle anything their son would need.
“You can count on me,” I tell her genuinely, readjusting my bag and sliding my mail under my arm.
“I know I can.” She leans back and gives me a look—one I can’t quite determine the meaning behind before she says something that makes my body lock up. “You’d make a wonderful mother someday.”
It’s not a totally inappropriate thing to say to your employee, but it’s definitely bordering on that line. There’s a reason why I teeter on topics of conversation when I’m here because I know from personal experience what it’s like to have certain things I’d rather not talk about, especially with people I have to see every day, brought up in casual conversation.
Like my divorce.
And like the whole having children thing.
It’s hard to sound normal when I force out a calm, “Thank you.” Maybe she could hear the slightest tremble in my tone, but I clear my throat and stand before she can say anything about it. “Is there anything else?”
She shakes her head, oblivious to the storm of feelings swarming my stomach where the butterflies used to flutter once upon a time. “I suppose that’s all. Here’s the name of your newest student and the transfer file on him so you can get a better idea of his background. I’ll have someone show him to the room when he gets here.”
Accepting the thick folder and tucking it with my other things, I head out of the office with a few wavering “hellos” and head nods to the other tired-looking faculty pouring in before the school day starts. Refusing to let anyone see the cloud building over my head, I hold myself up higher, walk confidently, and paint a smile on my face like I do best.
I’m your everyday Picasso, perfecting phony smiles with a flick of my lips instead of a paintbrush.
The name on the paper given to me didn’t register until the classroom door opens and a little boy with a head full of blondish-brown hair walks in, followed by a tall, older version of him.
I’d glanced at the name scribbled on the paper in black ink when I set my things down in my room, and no red flags stood out because plenty of people have that same last name. In my 32 years of life, I’ve probably run into at least ten different Millers.
So, when Fletcher Miller walks in holding the shoulders of a little boy who’s wearing a pair of light blue jeans and a wrinkle-free white polo shirt neatly tucked into the waistband of his denim, staring at either his black Sketchers or the checkered tile floor, I nearly choke on the coffee I just took a sip of.
Because really?
But I recover quickly, offering a welcoming greeting as I walk over to the newcomers and give them each a smile as if I don’t know who either of them are when the squeeze in my chest says otherwise. “You must be Dominic,” I tell the little boy. He doesn’t say a word, only scrapes the toe of his sneakers against the tile that his eyes are plastered to.
His father clears his throat, squeezing his shoulders in encouragement. “Go on, Nic.”
Lowering to his level, I offer the timid boy a soft smile as he glances at me through his lashes before quickly looking back down. “My name is Ms. Foster. It’s very nice to meet you.” When I notice his tiny fist tighten around something, I give it an inquisitive look before meeting his eyes again, which dart away the second they meet mine. “What is that you’re holding?”
The little boy glances up at his father, who’s watching us carefully, a hold still on his son’s shoulders, before seeing his father’s nod of encouragement again.
When Dominic, or Nic, I’ll have to figure out what he prefers being called, opens his fist, there’s a single piece of white ribbon in it that looks stained and frayed. “It’s my good luck charm.”
His…
I smile wider. “I have one of those too. A blue marble I carry with me in my pocket everywhere because I was told it’d bring good luck.”
He blinks. “Has it?”
I nod. “Every time.”
Looking up at his father again, he quickly tucks the ribbon in the pocket of his blue jeans before looking around the room. Some of the students are reading, others are finishing up basic entry level assignments to figure out where best to start in my teaching modules, and some are probably goofing off based on the smatter of giggles coming from the girls in the corner who are all looking at something on their table.
When I stand, I gesture toward a desk off to the side. “You can set your things down over there. We don’t have assigned seats in this classroom, but that’s the only one available for today. I’ll introduce you to everyone in a few minutes.”
After he turns and squeezes his dad’s legs in a quick hug, he walks over to the desk I pointed out and sets his things down on top of it, touching his pocket every few seconds to make sure his good luck charm is still there.
I turn to the man who I’m still surprised to see in my domain. “He’ll be in good hands,” I assure him in case he’s worried.
“Was it true?” he asks low enough for only me to hear. “About the marble?”
Reaching into the pocket of my favorite polka-dot dress, I retrieve the item in question. Nobody besides my family knows I still have it, but I’m not sure they know I still carry it around even though I’ve come to terms with it being a regular old marble people can find in stores worldwide.
It’s about the mindset.
The man filling a majority of the doorway blinks, dark eyes widening slightly as he studies the circular object pinched between my two fingers.
Putting it back in my pocket, I look over my shoulder at his son, who’s staring out the window facing the playground. “Everyone needs something to comfort them through the hard times, no matter what those times are. It doesn’t matter how old you get.”
I lift my shoulders.
“I need to get back,” I tell him, and I feel relieved when he steps back with another dip of his chin. “Pickup is at three sharp if the office didn’t tell you. We’ll have a good day.”
When he walks away without another word, I let myself breathe a little easier as I turn to my class and clap to get everyone’s attention.
“Okay, everyone. Eyes up here.”
Maybe if I weren’t my mother’s daughter, I would have ignored the opportunity presenting itself when I pull into my driveway after work and notice the man hosing off his truck a few houses down. But a voice in my head resembling my mother’s tells me to go over and thank him for letting me borrow his push mower so my lawn wouldn’t be the cause of a neighborhood riot.
I’d put it off long enough even after my dad returned it to its rightful owner with a handwritten thank you card from me attached to the handle. Mom had told me I should have put my number on it, or at least gotten him a gift card somewhere nice, but there was no way in hell I would do the first and didn’t have a lot of spare money to offer him the second.
Now that I’d have his kid in my classroom for almost an entire year, I need to at least be civil with the man of few words instead of feeling like there’s sordid history lingering, even if the history isn’t ours. Not that I think he’d randomly blabber anything about what or who he knows at any school event we might both be at. I just need to be sure that the air is cleared for my peace of mind, if nothing else.
Sighing, I pull my keys from the ignition of my bright green Hyundai Accent and stuff them into my purse after locking up behind me. My family always teases me about the hard-to-miss lime color of my small car, but I love it. I can’t lose it in a packed parking lot, and it doesn’t take a lot of money to fill the gas tank. Hunter always felt the need to comment on the nine-year-old vehicle too, not caring that it was paid off and cheap to maintain because it never compared to the fancier things he drove.
He’d always suggest trading it in for something like his, giving the car a small sneer whenever he was around it. He’d always have to remind me how much his sleek, black sports car cost along with other random facts about the engine that mine didn’t have as if that instantly made his better. Still, I never cared enough about the unnecessary add-ons to get rid of mine.
But that was Hunter. He was raised to like nicer things. Name brand instead of generic. Nothing secondhand. And when it came to anything material, it had to be the best of the best. I couldn’t really fault him for thinking the way he did since it was all he knew before meeting me and my family—the exact opposite of his. That doesn’t mean his constant teasing about my car, the color, the size, and everything in between, didn’t sometimes get on my nerves. I always just let it go, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Brushing off the wandering thoughts, I make the short walk to the house, where murky water runs down the driveway and into the small storm drain right off the end.
I don’t know if my neighbor can hear me coming since I changed out of my heels and into flats as soon as I got into my car, but his back is to me as he focuses on spraying off one of the front wheels that looks like it’s covered in dirt.
Whether he knows I’m there or not I don’t know. But I don’t make a point to stand there like a creep without making myself known, no matter how badly my eyes want to linger on the stretch and pull of his taut back and arm muscles as he moves the hose. “Where’s Nicki?”
It took some time, a lot of eye contact avoidance, and a few smaller conversations whenever his attention would be pulled to the window instead of something I was saying, but Dominic eventually told me he prefers being called Nicki. So, I made a mental note of that and stuck a Post It on the attendance sheet for any subs that’d need to know in the future.
The man who must stand 6’4” straightens, his back tensing as he releases the nozzle handle to stop the water. Slowly, he turns to me, where I stand by the open tailgate of his Dodge RAM 1500 according to the emblem on the side.
It takes him a few seconds, his eyes never wandering from my face, before he says, “Inside playing video games.” A pause. “He didn’t hate his first day.”
Some people may be offended by that lackluster statement, but I take it as a compliment. Sort of. “I’m happy to hear that. I think he’ll get along with his peers well. A few of the other children went up to him at lunchtime and sat at the same table, trading snacks. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t move either like he could have.”
Once again, all I’m given in response is a small nod—a barely-there gesture of acknowledgment.
I sigh, knowing that he knows I’m not here for small talk. “Look, I don’t know what you do or don’t know about…” My lips press together, shaking my head at my fading words. God, why is this so hard? “Not a lot of people around here know about Hunter.”
There. I said his name.
And my neighbor…tenses?
Willing to evaluate that at a later date, I say what I need to since I’m sure he has better things to do than listen to me ramble. “I know that we know some of the same people, probably even talk to some of the same groups still, but I live a very private life here because of how things…went down. All of that stuff, things with Hunter and his family, is a really sore subject for me, so I don’t talk about it to anybody if I can help it. Only one person at the school knows, and that’s because she caught me crying in the bathroom, which is still mortifying to think about. I don’t even know why I told you that.” I cringe, then watch his long eyelashes fan his cheeks with a slow blink, taking me and my nervousness in. “I’m not proud of still struggling a little with the situation, but it’s the truth. So, I just wanted to let you know in case you run into anybody or in case you mention something to anyone in the area.”
Not that it’s likely many people from my old life would care about where I am now. It’s not like I’m hiding from anyone. Even when I get rid of my PO box and change my address to the one across from where I’m currently standing in front of a stone-faced beast of a man, it wouldn’t be hard for anyone to get it if they asked around. My mom especially likes to share the information she probably shouldn’t, though I’m unsure if she’d be so loose lipped with Hunter if he had the gull to ask her.
Swiping my tongue along my dry lips, I flatten a hand down the front of my dress. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope nothing is going to be awkward between us because of our past with people. Hunter…he always really looked up to you. I’m not sure if you knew that, but I think he sort of saw you as a father figure since he didn’t have one.” He probably didn’t need to know that either, but when the word vomit starts, it’s really hard to rein it in. Hunter’s biological father died when he was little, and he never got along with his stepfather, so he always looked at the man standing here like a role model he never had. “Sorry, that wasn’t relevant to this conversation. I’m not even sure where I was going with this other than to ask if we’ll be okay. Since we’re neighbors and I’m your son’s teacher and all…”
I’ll probably cringe again when I think about this conversation later, but then I’ll be proud to have had it. The old me probably would have done anything to avoid an awkward conversation, but that gets people nowhere in life.
“So, are we good?” When he doesn’t answer, I shift my weight so the trail of water still rolling down the slight decline of his driveway doesn’t run underneath my shoes.
Lieutenant Colonel Fletcher Miller, my neighbor, and father of my newest student, doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Or maybe it just feels that way because of how intensely he’s staring at me with pursed lips and a tight jaw. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him in this mode. People called him Hellfire back on base because of how he presented himself—hard eyes, tough exterior, rarely ever a smile on his handsome face. He always looks so serious, like inside his head, he’s thinking over the next move and maneuver that gets him to where he needs to be.
Eventually, he loosens a sigh, looks over his shoulder at his house as if he’s checking for his son before his eyes go back to me. “Your business is your business.”
Okay…
That’s good, I guess. A start.
The fist not clenching the nozzle tightens by his side before loosening again. “Nic seems to like you,” he adds quietly. “He doesn’t like many people because they don’t treat him like other kids.”
Instantly, I frown. It doesn’t surprise me, though I wish it did. During my college classes and school observations, I heard stories about how students with learning disabilities or any type of special needs were mistreated from the rest. I always swore if I ever had a student in that situation, I’d include them in everything, making sure they weren’t singled out or made to feel uncomfortable. For some kids, the classroom is the only safety net they have. I never want them to feel like they’re unwelcome in any way.
My lips only waver from the deep-set frown weighing down the corners of my lips when he finally tells me, “We’re good.”
I know why.
Because his son likes me.
And he loves his son.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I give him a single nod. “Good. Okay. Um, well I should get going. By the way, thank you again for letting me borrow your mower. If you need anything…” There’s not much I can offer him, but I know it’s the polite thing to offer. “You know where I live.”
Though, I hope to God he doesn’t take me up on that.