The day after my mother and I make our peace, on a bright and sunny Sunday, I curl up at what’s become my usual spot on the couch to watch television. Suddenly there’s a knock on our front door, loud enough to be heard over the clatter and splash of Grandma doing the dishes. Mama crosses the living room to answer it, and I find myself hoping it’s the girls again, and that they’ll try to talk me into leaving the house. I think I might be ready to talk to them, but I wouldn’t blame them if they don’t ever come back after how I turned them away last time.
But standing on our sagging porch in a cheerful yellow dress the color of freshly whipped butter, a bright smile on her face, is my English teacher, Miss Odeen.
I’m in my pajamas still, and I freeze in shock until at last I think to grab the quilt at the foot of the couch and throw it over myself. I can’t speak.
‘Hello,’ says Miss Odeen, focusing on Mama. ‘I’m so sorry to barge in like this, but I’m Beverly Odeen, Evie – Evelyn’s – English teacher over at Eastside? We’ve missed her so much at school, and I wanted to say hello and see how she’s feeling.’ She pauses at the end of this little speech and smiles broadly, and my first thought is how strange it is to hear Miss Odeen refer to herself by her first name. Mama runs a hand through her hair in a way that tells me she’s trying to put on her company face. Miss Odeen couldn’t be much older than Cheryl, but there’s something so polished about her, so put together, that I can understand Mama’s reaction.
‘Miss Odeen, how nice to meet you. I’m Evelyn’s mother, Marjorie Barnes,’ she says. ‘Please do come in.’
‘And please call me Beverly,’ says Miss Odeen, stepping inside. She glances toward me on the couch. ‘Evie, it’s so nice to see you.’
I manage a smile and a tiny wave just as Grandma chooses that very moment to come out of the kitchen, dish towel in hand.
‘Marjorie, who is it?’ she says, then notices Miss Odeen and stops short. ‘Oh, hello.’
‘This is Beverly Odeen, Mama,’ she says. ‘Evelyn’s English teacher. She just wanted to stop by and check on her.’
‘How nice,’ Grandma says, clearly taking in all the hallmarks of Miss Odeen’s refinement in one quick once-over. The shiny hair, the perfectly applied pink lipstick – enough, but not too much. The elegant posture, like maybe Miss Odeen took dance classes once. Grandma offers her a cup of coffee and a spot on the recliner, which she accepts carefully, crossing her legs at the ankles. At this moment Mama must realize my situation and takes pity on me.
‘Evelyn, why don’t you run to your room and get dressed,’ she says before turning to Miss Odeen. ‘I’m so sorry she’s still in her pajamas. She’s been through so much, you know. So we’ve been letting her relax a bit.’
‘Of course,’ says Miss Odeen, like it’s nothing at all.
‘’Scuse me,’ I mumble as I race toward the bedroom, still clutching the quilt for cover. I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks.
As quickly as I can, I make myself presentable – clean dress, brushed teeth, washed face – before I venture back out, my heart hammering. What on earth am I going to say to my English teacher on a Sunday in my living room, with Mama and Grandma hovering in the kitchen trying to tease out every word we say?
Maybe Miss Odeen can read my mind because when I return, bashful and nervous, she suggests the two of us go sit on the porch.
‘It’s lovely out there,’ she says, standing, her coffee cup clutched in her manicured hand.
‘All right,’ I say, and I open the front door.
I’ve been shuffling between my bed and the couch for enough time that to go outside feels strange, and the sun is pretty blinding. We settle into the rusting white metal chairs that stare out at the street, and I can’t help but glance toward Juanita’s house, hoping she isn’t outside to see and wonder about this strange situation. But there’s no one.
‘Evie, we’ve missed you in class,’ says Miss Odeen before taking a ladylike sip of coffee. ‘And I’ve been worried about you.’
I squirm a little in my seat.
‘I’m fine, I guess,’ I say.
Miss Odeen nods like I’ve just said something profound, then gazes off at the house across the street. ‘You know, when I was young, I got into some trouble, too.’
I snort. I can’t help it. I snort in front of my English teacher.
‘You?’ I ask. ‘I can’t picture it.’
Miss Odeen grins and shrugs. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, but I wasn’t always a grown-up, Evie.’
I can’t help it. I ask her how old she is.
‘I’m twenty-four,’ she answers, not pausing. ‘I’ll be twenty-five in December.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m fifteen, but you knew that.’
Miss Odeen smiles broadly.
‘I did,’ she says. ‘And like you, I was also fifteen once. And while I won’t go into details, I had a rough go of it for a bit. Quite rough, actually.’
My mind fills in the possibilities. Did Miss Odeen run away? Shove her mother in the hallway of her home?
Lose a dear friend in the glare of headlights?
That last thought hits, and my body numbs for a moment. The loss of Diane is humming in the back of my mind at all times, like a terrible song that’s skipping, but every so often the heaviness of her absence really hits me, and I can barely breathe.
‘Evie, are you all right?’
I shake my head, feel hot tears coming on. I remember how Diane never apologized for crying, and I don’t hide my tears from Miss Odeen.
‘Here, Evie,’ she says, pulling an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket. ‘Take this. You can keep it.’
I reach for the folded piece of cloth, grateful, and dab at my eyes.
‘I’m just thinking of Diane,’ I say. ‘I just … I miss her so much, Miss Odeen. It honestly hurts.’
Miss Odeen looks at me, and I think I see her eyes gloss over, too. She swallows once before speaking. ‘I know, Evie. I miss her as well.’ When she says this, her voice cracks.
‘It’s almost … I mean, I want it to get easier because it hurts so much, but I also worry that if it gets easier, it means I’m forgetting her.’ Now that I’ve said it out loud, the fear feels even more raw. But something about naming it feels right, too.
Miss Odeen nods, then gazes up, like she’s collecting her thoughts. At last she says, ‘I can promise you that it will get easier, and I can promise you that even when it does, you’ll never forget Diane.’
I wrap my fingers around Miss Odeen’s handkerchief – it’s got strawberries embroidered on the border; it’s really too nice to give away – and I try to trust her words. I want them to be true. I need them to be.
After a little while of sitting in a comfortable silence, Miss Odeen asks me when I might be ready to come back to school.
‘Yours is the only class that I miss,’ I admit. ‘I like the people you’ve taught us about. Like Jerrie Mock and Fannie Lou Hamer.’
‘That’s flattering, Evie. I hope you’re not my only student who feels that way,’ she says, smiling, ‘but I’d love it if you eventually came back for all your classes, not just mine.’