I stared at the french toast, the smell of it taunting me. I could almost hear his laughter from that first morning he’d cooked for me all those years ago, could almost feel his arms around me as we danced in the kitchen, one of his favorite places to pull me into him and sway in time with our favorite songs.
But there was no apron that morning, no dancing, no laughing. Just the sad, melodic voice of Bon Iver and a table set for one.
I clicked the power button on the kitchen stereo system, tossed the french toast in the trash, and abandoned the white porcelain plate in the sink along with my memories.
Westchester Preparatory School sat right in the middle of Mount Lebanon, only a ten-minute drive from our house. It was the highest ranked private school in the state and one of the top in the country.
I had nearly burst into tears the day I’d been offered my dream job teaching kindergarten at Westchester, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I’d attended Westchester my entire schooling, as had my brother, and our father, too. Dad had also been a top donor since before my brother or I even attended.
It was the middle of my eighth year teaching there, and I still felt the same pride as that very first day when I opened the large, wooden double doors that led into the main hallway of the Annie Grace Wing. Named after the founder’s daughter, it was the wing that housed pre-kindergarten through fifth grade, and the wing where my classroom had been located since the day I joined the Westchester faculty.
I unwound my scarf when the warmth from the hall hit me, the school an almost reverent sense of quiet in the early morning. The wood floors were freshly polished, the late Victorian architecture filling me with a sense of history as my eyes traced the high arches and ceiling murals.
My students wouldn’t learn to appreciate the gold and navy baroque floral wallpaper and antique chandeliers until they were much older, maybe even until they were alumni. That was when I first took pride in the school I’d attended, in the foundation of it, the hundreds of years of history within its walls.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pierce,” a familiar voice called from across the hall as I rounded the corner into my classroom.
Randall Henderson, our headmaster, strutted toward me like a peacock in heat. It wasn’t that he wanted to show off for anyone, least of all me, but rather that his personality was as loud and colorful as the purple and green feathers that beckoned you in for a closer look. His belly was round, his cheeks the same, and his smile took up his entire face even on the rainiest of days.
“Mr. Henderson,” I greeted with a nod, hanging my coat, scarf, and purse on the hook behind my desk. “A pleasure to see you this early on the first day back.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he assured me, tucking his hands into the pockets of his navy blue dress slacks. “I hope you enjoyed your holidays?”
My stomach tightened at the reality of my holiday season, spent mostly alone, save for Christmas Day when Cameron and I had joined my parents for dinner. Had it not been for waking up to what I thought was a traditional first day breakfast with Cameron, I would have hustled out the door with a sigh of relief that school had started up again.
Cameron had worked long days and sometimes even nights throughout the entire break, and even when we’d had dinner at my parents’ for Christmas, he’d barely said a word. We were both asleep well before midnight on New Year’s Eve, and I’d dreamed of earlier years that night, of midnights spent kissing under confetti rain.
“It was a wonderful break,” I lied to Mr. Henderson, hoping the smile I’d managed with those words was at least somewhat convincing. Had Mr. Henderson noticed how that smile had changed over the last five years, how it had lost the vigor and brilliance? Did anyone even see me at all, or was I as dead to them as I felt inside?
“How are your parents? Well, I hope?”
It was no surprise that Mr. Henderson would ask after my parents, Gloria and Maxwell Reid. They were a shining beacon in Mount Lebanon, well known and well spoken of. They’d married at just seventeen, and run the town as a powerhouse couple ever since.
“Very well,” I said. “Dad is just as stubborn as always, and Mom is making it harder and harder for the buckle around his waist to fasten.”
Mr. Henderson chuckled. “That woman’s cooking is a blessing and a curse.”
“You’re telling me.” I ran my hands over my modest navy blue skirt before folding them together at my waist. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Henderson?”
“In fact, there is. We have a new music teacher starting today, taking over Mrs. Flannigan’s old position as the piano instructor.”
We both shared a sympathetic look then. Mrs. Flannigan had been with Westchester for three decades, but had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s just before the break. She’d gracefully stepped down to spend time with her family before the symptoms worsened, and we all wondered how Mr. Henderson would handle filling her position so last minute.
“I was fortunate enough to find an excellent candidate who was willing to up and move over the break, but he wasn’t able to get here as early as I’d have liked to tour the grounds or even set up his classroom. Miss Maggert took care of that for me, thank goodness,” he added. “Anyway, he grew up in the area, but never attended Westchester. I wondered if you might be willing to show him around, perhaps let him join you for lunch for a while until he gets acclimated?”
Internally, I cringed, but on the outside, I only offered a placid smile and nod. The word no wasn’t in my vocabulary, and it hadn’t been ever since I could remember. Mom had raised me to always be the hostess, the one always willing to accommodate others, and since it brought me more joy seeing others happy than it did to say no for my own discomfort, I always obliged.
Always.
Even if it meant giving up my time after school to take someone’s detention duty, or enduring paper cuts helping Mom seal envelopes for fundraiser invitations, or, like now, agreeing to be someone’s lunch buddy when even the thought of mindless small talk affected me in the way nails on a chalkboard would anyone else.
“Of course. I’d be happy to,” I finally agreed aloud.
“Wonderful!” Mr. Henderson clapped his hands together. “He’s getting set up in his classroom now, but I’ll introduce the two of you at lunch today. You’re a life saver, Charlie.” He waved as he turned to exit. “Happy first day back!”
I waved in return, but when he rounded the corner and disappeared, my hand fell, my smile fading.
It truly did bring me joy to be able to help him, to see that bit of relief in his eyes when I’d told him I could handle the task at hand. Still, my hands were already clammy at the thought of spending my lunch entertaining a stranger instead of reuniting with my favorite fictional characters between the pages of a very worn book.
But I didn’t have a choice in the matter, and I knew I’d offer to help as many times as he asked me to. That was just who I was. It was who I’d always been. So, I let it all go with one long exhale as I ran through my lesson plan for the day.
Charlie Pierce, the girl who always said yes.
Reese
“She should be here any moment, Mr. Walker,” Mr. Henderson assured me, his cheeks high and pink. He rambled on about Westchester as I listened attentively, trying to take it all in. My head already hurt from the overflow of information.