Page 73 of The Roommate Lie

“We had some really good times,” I admit. “Christmases were incredible. Being so close to the hedgerow with all their decorations and light displays.”

When I glance over, Alice has the most adorable smile on her face. A quiet, knowing smile. “Is that why you like making Christmas ornaments?”

I chuckle.

I’m surprised she remembered that. It warms me up a little knowing she paid that much attention in my art shed. That she held on to that question and still wants an answer.

“I like knowing my work is part of a holiday that brings so many people joy. That my ornaments are hanging up in their homes and seeing them on their tree might bring extra joy.”

I hesitate. I know I should stop, but I don’t. “And if things are rough, I like knowing my ornament might be the one thing that does bring them joy.”

We had a few years like that, especially near the end. Where the happiest things in that house at Christmastime were the ornaments on the tree. I don’t mention that to Alice, but I think she can tell. She reaches for my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, and she isn’t playing any games this time. She’s just comforting me.

I glance away. As I lead her back toward the hedgerow, we don’t say much. If Alice spots the town slogan sign on the corner, right across the street from my old house, I can’t tell.

But I see it, and I feel that slogan deep in my soul. I just wish she felt it too.

Ponderosa Falls

You’re already here. You might as well stay.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

CHARLIE

I’m in a rare mood when we part ways for the afternoon, weighed down by a heaviness I didn't expect. Alice goes to the general store for a nice public writing session, and I head to Ponderosa Elementary. Because it’s the last day of school, and nobody throws an end-of-the-year party like Mama Roscoe.

As much as I love helping out in her classroom, my mood doesn’t improve. This is the last time these four walls will be hers, the last school year her name will be taped up on the door. Carl and I help her set up her room each August and take it apart each May. It’s the end of an era.

Her old classroom probably won’t be mine in the fall either, not with the Victorian fixated on my bad reputation, but I try not to dwell on that. This is supposed to be a celebration. I have a piñata to man and an entire stack of picture books to read out loud—with voices. Though every once in a while, I can’t help wondering who will be in here next. Who will get the honors if it isn’t us.

I don’t have to wonder for long. Two minutes after dismissal, while my mom is outside at the car line and I’m sweeping up piñata dust, her classroom door swings open. My oldkindergarten teacher, Mrs. Marks, walks in, the one who hated me. The first adult who ever told me I was a bad kid and treated me accordingly.

She retired a long time ago, but she walks in like she owns the place, and she isn’t alone. A woman trails behind Mrs. Marks who is at least half her age. They pause by the doorway, sizing up my mom’s classroom like they can’t wait to move the furniture.

Dread knots in my chest. I don’t have to ask why they’re here. The younger woman is the epitome of a small-town kindergarten teacher, and I mean that as a compliment. Pastel cardigan, kind face, no makeup—her blonde hair is pulled into a friendly ponytail, and if she broke out in a “Days of the Week” song right now, I’d probably join in.

She’s getting this job.

I don’t know anything about her, but this is an easy one. Everything about that woman is picture perfect. She smiles warmly as she walks over to introduce herself, and the dread in my chest knots a little tighter.

“Fiona Birdsong,” she says, and I almost choke on my lime piñata jawbreaker.

Fiona Birdsong?

That’s a Disney princess name, and she’s definitely getting this job based on moniker alone.Mr. Roscoecould never compete withMs. Birdsong.One of those names sounds like they sent an angel down from heaven to nurture children and fill their lives with wonder, and the other name…doesn’t.

I can see the writing on the wall, but Mrs. Marks reads it to me anyway. Just for fun. “Fiona’s my niece. She had her final interview today for the kindergarten job. She’s only been teaching five years, but she’s already been nominated for Teacher of the Year twice.”

Of course she has. I’d be more surprised if she hadn’t been nominated. The fact that she hasn’t won might actually be a travesty.

To her credit, Fiona seems uncomfortable with her aunt saying all that out loud, and she gives me a humble shrug. “This is such a great community school. I’m sure there are plenty of qualified candidates.”

And me, Fiona. There are plenty of qualified candidates and me.

I don’t know why I do that to myself, how I take her arrival so hard, so fast. Why I meet one kind-faced woman and decide fate has spoken. Maybe it’s my past and where I come from, or maybe it’s just the mood I’m in. Either way, there’s no stopping it.

I can’t explain the feeling that comes over me, but it’s familiar, a unique mix of disappointment and shame that I know all too well. It’s athrift store coat with holesfeeling. Aneveryone’s eating school-lunch pizza but I’ve got a homemade peanut butter sandwichfeeling. Made on expired bread my mom had to get from the discount place one town over.

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