I haven’t even started the book. When I returned to the US, I’d been inundated with book deal offers. I’d turned them all down. I didn’t want to tell my story. To disappear into the fucking black hole. All I wanted to do was take a photo again.
But when I discovered I couldn’t even do that, I’d started fighting. Then one publisher had offered to support a campaign centered on the plight of hostage journalists. Appreciating the idea of actually taking action—and knowing I couldn’t fight forever—I’d signed the contract. All proceeds from the book will go toward a foundation dedicated to negotiating hostage release and supporting their recovery.
On paper, it sounded like I might do some good. But I hadn’t thought about how I’d write an entire book.
Six months after signing the contract, I still hadn’t written anything. Then Henry called with his suggestion of applying to teach the class and using the extra time to work on the book.
Aside from the fact that I didn’t know what the hell else to do, his reasoning had made sense. Teaching and writing are two things Henry Fairchild has perfected over the course of his twenty-year academic career. If anyone can inspire me to do both jobs well, he can.
After stopping at the admin office to introduce myself to the staff and principal, I walk to the art classroom.
Windows line one side of the room, and rectangular wooden tables arranged in rows are dotted with paint and marker stains. Shelves of art supplies—charcoal, pens, oils and acrylics, glue, canvases—sit against the walls, and two separate annexes hold pottery wheels and the photography darkroom. There are student paintings stacked in racks, and clay pots lined up on display. It’s organized and messy at the same time.
An attractive woman in her mid-thirties with curly blond hair and a bandanna rises from a desk and approaches me. “Darius, I’m Hannah Meadows, the art teacher. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ll be teaching here.”
“Thank you.” I extend a hand, careful not to grip hers too tightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I’ll give you the basics, then you can just hang out and meet the students.” She gestures to the two teacher desks placed opposite each other. “I cleared out the second desk for you. Your school account is activated on the computer too, so we both have access to the student reports. The darkroom supplies and cameras all arrived last week. I think we’re set, unless there’s something we’re missing?”
I shake my head. She’s matter-of-fact and casual, which puts me cautiously at ease.
“Homeroom starts at eight, and the students who stay for first-period art class are the ones who’ve already taken the Introduction to Photography class,” she explains. “So first period you’ll teach the intensive course, and the later classes are all beginners. After first period, we have our prep period, lunch, and three more classes. Some of the students come after school to work on their art. I’m usually okay with that since I spend a little time finishing up administrative tasks before heading home. Any questions?”
“You sure you want me hanging around for the rest of the year?” I ask.
“Given that my class now has a waiting list thanks to you, I won’t complain.”
“A waiting list?”
“After the district announced that you’d agreed to teach a special photography session, the student services office was inundated with schedule change requests. I guarantee that had more to do with you than the medium.”
A knot twists in my gut. I’d known, of course, that my notoriety was part of the reason I’d been offered the job. I can’t hide from it, but I don’t want it to be a distraction either.
“Don’t worry.” Hannah holds up a hand, clearly sensing my wariness. “I’ve told the kids that you’re here to teach them photography and film development techniques and that they aren’t allowed to be nosy. Of course, I can’t promise they won’t be, but in general they’re good kids. Their curiosity might get the better of them, but they should remain respectful. And if they don’t, we’ll have a talk with them.”
She makes it sound easy. I nod and set my briefcase on the desk.
“Homeroom starts in a few minutes.” Hannah crosses the room to prop the door open. “We do attendance, announcements, the pledge. Some of the kids have their own announcements for clubs or after-school stuff. I give them a chance to air any grievances, if they want. I keep it pretty free-flowing, just so they can settle in for the day. Since we’re a couple of weeks into the school year, they’re accustomed to the routine now.”
The bell rings. A flurry of noise and activity starts outside the windows—voices rising, lockers clanging shut, doors opening. Teenagers stomp into the art room with backpacks slung over their shoulders. They don’t look all that different from the kids I went to high school with twenty-five years ago—boys with messy hair, acne, torn jeans. Girls with ponytails, shiny lips, book bags covered with pins.
Unconsciously, I look for Nell. She’s not in the first wave of energetic kids who laugh and chatter as they toss their backpacks down and take their seats. She comes in after them, her shoulders hunched and a book held close to her chest. She doesn’t greet any of the other kids as she takes her seat near the back corner of the room.
I don’t like seeing her like this—isolated and hiding. Even at the table, she looks down as she doodles on the cover of her notebook. Her hair falls forward over either side of her face. She’s at the end of the table, and the girl on her left is turned away, talking to the boy on the other side of her.
It’s like this for Nell every day. I can feel it. Did she close in on herself after her mother died or did something else happen to her?
I smother a wave of guilt. I should have tried harder to come back and visit her and Henry after Katherine’s funeral. But the world was a mess with conflicts and attacks exploding like land mines. Assignments kept me constantly on the move.
Next thing I knew, four years had passed and I hadn’t even been back to the States once.
And then—
I settle my gaze on Nell. She’s like a gothic novel heroine with her long, heavy hair and pale skin, the angularity of her features and sharp cheekbones softened by a full mouth and those thick-lashed gray eyes that used to look at me with such curious wonder.
I can’t see the little girl in her anymore.
She twists a lock of hair around her finger. I’m tempted to make my way around the tables to greet her, at least so she’ll be forced to look up, but no doubt that would cause her a small social death.
The second bell rings. Hannah rises from her desk. The noise slowly settles, as the students become aware of my presence. They shoot me curious glances, then turn to whisper to each other.
“Quiet, please,” Hannah says in a commanding voice. “You’ll have your chance to talk later, but let’s get the administrative stuff out of the way.”
She takes attendance before the intercom crackles with the principal’s voice. As he leads the pledge and makes announcements about school sports and activities, I watch Nell. She goes through the motions along with everyone else, but she’s turned inward, not focused on what’s happening around her.