Page 62 of What You Wish For

“How do you know they know what they’re talking about?”

“Um. Because they’re experts.”

“So? Experts are wrong all the time.”

“That’s fine. But it’s my job to keep these kids—and the faculty, by the way—safe.”

“That’s not your only job.”

“That’s my number one job.”

“They can’t learn if they’re miserable!”

“They can’t learn if they’re dead!”

At that, we both fell silent.

The wind was flicking at his hair, and his oxfords were now brushed with sand, but despite how ridiculously out of place he looked on this beach in that suit, he still managed to ooze authority. Duncan Carpenter, of all people, oozing authority. He should have been flying a kite! Heshould have been doing handstands in Hawaiian-print board shorts. He should have beenhelping.

The wrongness of the whole situation helped fuel an indignant courage in me. Me, in my straw hat, and heart-shaped sunglasses, and a T-shirt with a drawing of an octopus with all its arms stretched wide that said FREE HUGS.

I refused to back down.

And that was the moment—right there—when my need to understand what the hell had happened finally outweighed my need to protect myself. Before he could turn and walk back to the group and round everybody up before they were even finished, I found myself asking the question that had been following me like a ghost net ever since he’d arrived.

“How is it possible that you don’t remember me?” I said then, taking a step closer.

Duncan just stared at me.

“I used to work at Andrews Prep in California. We”—I gestured between the two of us, feeling a flash of irritation that I had to explain this—“worked together for two years. I was quieter then, and a lot less… colorful. Maybe you didn’t notice me. But I noticed you. Everybody did. You were…” I shook my head. “You were everything I wanted to be. You were the best possible kind of teacher I could imagine. And when I heard that you were coming here to be the principal of Kempner, I thought you’d be the best thing that could happen to us in the wake of losing Max—and that’s saying a lot. But… what happened to you? Where are your flamingo pants? Where is your popcorn tie? The Duncan Carpenter I knew wouldn’t be canceling field trips! He’d be planning new ones.” Suddenly, the anger kind of melted away, and my voice got a little shaky. “I remember who you used to be. I wassoexcited to see that guy again. But it’s like he’s gone. I don’t know where he is. And I don’t have any idea at all who you are. But I’d giveanythingto see that guy again.”

Duncan kept himself still the whole time I was talking—not moving, his expression totally stoic.

I don’t know what I was hoping for. Some kind of explanation, maybe, likeMy boring wife told me it was time to grow up and stop goofing around. Or maybe,I thought principals had to be hard-asses. Are you saying this place wouldprefera sweet-hearted goofball?

I guess in some fantasy version of this moment, I’d be able to show him the error of his ways. I’d be able to give him permission to be who he truly was. It’s that fantasy we all harbor when somebody else is completely wrong, and we hope that if we explain it to them, they’ll hear us, and go, “Oh, God. You’re right. I’m the worst. Thank you for helping me be a better person.”

Like that’s ever worked.

Anyway: it didn’t.

In response to all that—my confession that I knew him, my admission of how much I’d admired him, my accidental, utterly vulnerable, grand finale confession of how much I truly longed to see the former Duncan again—Duncan went with, “We’re getting off topic, here.”

But no. We were just—finally—gettingontopic.

I didn’t back down. “I remember you,” I said, taking a step closer, peering into his face.

Duncan looked out at the Gulf.

“What happened?” I said. “What made you like this? Why did you change?” And then, thinking maybe I was asking the question that would hit the bull’s-eye and cause him to admit the truth at last, I said, quieter, in almost a whisper. “Was it your wife?”

Duncan frowned and looked at me. “My wife?”

“She doesn’t approve of goofing around, does she? She wants you to be serious all the time. She wants you to be like all the other adults.” I shook my head. “She never had a sense of humor. Why do guys always, always go for the pretty girls—no matter how boring they are?”

But Duncan was staring at me.

Oh, God. I’d insulted him. You can’t go around calling people’s wives boring! I tried to backtrack. “Not your wife, of course—I mean—she’s pretty and also… not… boring.” I was so blatantly lying.

---