Page 41 of In Her Mind

“It’s strange,” Jenna murmured. “Seeing all these younger versions of people I still know.” There was Stuart Sheely, with his slicked-back hair, his gaze already sharp with the acumen that would one day sell second-hand cars. And Cindy Brooks, whose smile in the yearbook photo had not yet assumed the diplomatic curve it wore on city council.

“Time marches on,” Frank said, his voice a low rumble. He pulled back slightly, giving Jenna space to continue her examination. “But people...they don’t always change as much as you’d think.”

“Or sometimes more than you can imagine,” Jenna added thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on a picture of a boy she barely recognized as the current owner of the local hardware store.

“Time’s kinder to some people than others,” Jake commented, leaning closer to study faces from a time long before he’d become part of Trentville’s story.

Jenna’s eyes darted to Jake. There was a sense of detachment about him, as if he were observing a private world to which he’d never belong. She could feel a subtle tension and wondered if this would deepen the invisible chasm between them.

“Mostly just surface changes,” she replied. “The essence remains.”

Her eyes paused on the younger face of one of her favorite teachers—William Hartley, a shock of black hair, a mischievous sparkle that belied the stoic educator she’d admired. She’d forgotten that he and Frank had been in school together. It was surreal, seeing him with that hint of youthful rebellion, so far removed from the man who’d taught her about the Civil War with solemn reverence.

“Alright, we can’t get sidetracked,” Frank remarked, his voice drawing them back to the present. “SV and NS aren’t panning out. We’ve looked at everybody who had those initials. Let’s take a different approach. Suggestions?”

“Ruth mentioned Lisa might’ve had a secret boyfriend,” Jenna reminded them, breaking the rhythm of flipped. “If they were involved, maybe there’s some clue about it somewhere in these pages.”

“Let’s go through the clubs, activities. Something might pop,” Jake suggested.

“It’s worth a try,” Jenna agreed, glad that he was participating in their search. She flipped to a section of the book dedicated to extracurriculars, searching for a connection, a hint, anything that might offer them a shred of evidence to go on.

Jenna watched as page after page turned, each filled with youthful faces frozen in time. When they stumbled upon a section showcasing the debate club, Frank paused, and his usually stoic face softened into a wistful smile.

“Look at this,” he said, tapping a black and white photograph. There stood a younger Frank Doyle, unmistakably him, yet so different—more hair and an eagerness in his eyes that age had mellowed. He was surrounded by fellow debaters, all caught mid-argument, a moment of passionate exchange preserved on glossy paper.

Jenna leaned closer, intrigued by this slice of Frank’s past. She knew of his skills, but seeing him there among peers, a teenager with the world before him, was oddly disarming. It was a Frank she never knew, one that existed before life had marked his features with heavy lines.

“Debate champion three years running,” Frank murmured, a hint of pride in his voice. “We were unbeatable back then.”

“Looks like you enjoyed it,” Jenna observed.

“More than I let on,” he admitted, before turning more pages. “Here’s me in chess club,” he announced, “And the track team.”

“Multitalented,” Jenna commented, a half-smile playing on her lips. The yearbook was revealing more layers to Frank, adding depth to the mentor she respected.

“Helped keep me out of trouble,” Frank said, closing that chapter with another turn of the page.

Jenna’s gaze locked onto a photograph that seemed out of place among the images of clubs and sports teams. It was a band photo, and the lead guitarist, standing rebelliously in front, was unmistakable—another photo of Bill Hartley that bore the marks of a wild youth.

“It says he was in a band called Rigor Mortis,” Jenna said, pointing to the caption beneath the photo. Her voice carried a note of disbelief; the contrast between the man in the picture and the teacher she knew was jarring.

“Bill always had a flair for dramatics,” Frank mused, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jenna had always seen Mr. Hartley as an unwavering pillar of knowledge. But here he was in a leather jacket, an electric guitar slung carelessly over his shoulder. His eyes bore the wild spark of defiance, dark kohl rimming them with an aggression that matched his stance. Spiked hair, bleached and defiant against convention, towered above a sneer that seemed to challenge the very act of being photographed. Safety pins and studs adorned his leather jacket, a chaotic tapestry of rebellion so unlike the buttoned-up history teacher Jenna had known. His fingers curled around the guitar’s neck with apparent ownership, as though it were an extension of his own rebellious spirit.

“So Mr. Hartley was a punk rocker?” Jake asked.

Frank chuckled, “Bill was something else back then. A real firecracker.” He shook his head. “We used to say he was on a one-way trip to nowhere fast.”

Jenna could hardly imagine Mr. Hartley as anything other than the collected educator who guided her through the nuances of history. It seemed truly weird seeing someone she respected in such a drastically different light.

“‘Most likely to die young,’” Frank added with a dry tone as he gazed at the photo. “That’s what they said about him. He lived like he was proving them right, every day.”

“Really took that ‘live fast, die young’ motto to heart, huh?” Jake asked.

“Exactly,” Frank agreed. “He’d quote Neil Young all the time, saying, ‘It’s better to burn out than to fade away.’ Like he wanted to blaze so bright he’d just disappear instead of growing old.”

“I guess every generation thinks they’ve invented rebellion,” Jake commented.

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