Page 5 of Again, In Autumn

That night, fourteen years ago, she pulled my suitcase out and began cramming clothes inside. She argued, “This is our last summer together. Dave and I go to Boston in two months, he’s already got a job lined up with Dad, and everything’s going to change.”

I watched her pack my things, as helpless to stop my demanding big sister as I’ve ever been. My clothes weren’t cute then, they were functional. It didn’t take her long.

“You have David,” I tried.

“I’ll have David for the rest of my life,” she said. “I only have one more month with my sister.”

“What exactly does that mean, Fran?” I remember asking.

She thought about it. “No boys. No distractions. I’ll kick Dave out every chance I get, he’s bored of me anyway.”

Her blue eyes met my green ones, and I knew I wouldn’t deny her. I only ever saw those blue eyes on a crying twelve-year-old, a blur of black clothing, begging my smaller body to comfort her. A car accident killed our mother and our nonexistent father moved so far out of reach that we’d need NASA’s assistance to communicate with him.

Francesca needed me, and my undying compliance changed my life.

That summer will hang over me forever, a dark cloud dampening otherwise happy memories. A moment in time begging to be fixed. It’s the reason I can’t stomach this suitcase, why I haven’t been back to the lake house in years, and why I don’t listen to the radio. I’m afraid of random songs on the airwaves and Spotify recommendations. The singer-songwriter genre is ruined for me.

Adam Kent did that.

Chapter Two

I’ve never been so happy to hear a bell ring.

“It’s over!” I say, closing my laptop and stashing the notebooks and lesson planning binder in my desk.

My teacher’s bag sits lonely in the corner. It will hold nary a craft, laminated sheet, or vocabulary list. There will be no new Christmas name tags made this week. Only spiced cocktails and pumpkin pie with perfectly crafted adornments.

After searching for the smart board remote and finding it in a succulent plant, I turn off the cartoon Thanksgiving episode for which two kids sprawled on the carpet have turned into vegetables.

“Okay, friends!” I stand and clap my hands. “That’s the final bell. I don’t know what’s going on, but the green bus must be running a little late today.”

Everleigh rolls to her stomach. Her paper turkey crown crinkles. “I want to go home.”

“Trust me, we all want that,” I say.

“Where’s the bus?” Maverick groans, knocking over his open water bottle.

“Testing my patience.” I snatch his water and her backpack and herd them, like sheep, to the classroom door. My lanyard bounces off my chest, and turkey earrings swing back and forth. “We’re going to walk up the hallway and see what’s going on.”

A fifth grader runs past me to carline. Any other day I would have told him to slow down. Today, I couldn’t care less. In fact, I encourage his running. I would like to beg off out of here at a run myself.

Mrs. Dicesare points her finger at me. “Cute outfit, again, Miss Rose,” she coos. “If that’s what you wear to school, I can’t imagine what your normal clothes look like, girl.”

I smooth the shoulders of a brown turtleneck and rest a hand on the waistband of warm, plaid pants. “You can find every item I own in old J.Crew catalogs,” I call over my shoulder.

“Vintage?” she asks distantly.

“Cheap!” I correct. I buy second-hand items and shop at Marshalls, not because I love the thrill of the hunt and like bucking trends, but because I’m poor.

A familiar shape appears at the top of the hall.

“Ah ha!” I cheer. “There’s Mr. Jones. Run, children. Run to your freedom!”

They take off running, immediately to be scolded, so I offer a faint, “Sorry about that. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Back in my classroom, I shut the door behind me and exhale. It’s so quiet. It’s my favorite sound in the world – the quiet of a room that is usually buzzing with noise. I turn off the lights and close the emergency curtain over the sliver of a window. If I time this right, I can be out of this building in –

“Wow,” says Noelle.

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