Page 93 of Yes No Maybe

Rowan

It’sthefirstdayof school, and I have no choice but to pull myself together. Gathering my books into my large purse on the kitchen table, I take inventory.

My fully annotated copy ofThe Other Us.

My thin file folder of Weekly Guides.

AndThe Little Houseby Virginia Lee Burton. Jack’s advice recycles in my head—if I get lost, I’ll talk about my origins with reading and books I’ve loved.

Damn it, Jack.I take a breath. My sadness dulls my first-day jitters like an all-natural anxiety medication. I no longer have the energy to be nervous or the will to be excited.

Mom’s arm circles my shoulders. “What can I do to help?”

“Do something fun today. I hate the idea of you sitting here, waiting for us to get home.”

“I’m hitting the beach. I’ll be fine.”

I turn to her suddenly. “But you’ll be here this morning for Jane and the sign, right? She wants new pictures featuring all the work I’ve done.”

Mom slumps. “Yes, I’ll be here. But I wish you’d wait. You’re in no shape to make a big decision like this.”

“Actually, for the first time in months, I knowexactlywhat I want. It’s nice having a problem I can solve. The sooner it’s on the market, the sooner I can move. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Wait until the weekend, at least. Give yourself a chance to—”

“Mom, I’ve decided.” I force a smile before planting a kiss on her cheek. “I know what I’m doing.”

Sara rushes into the kitchen. “Ready, Rowan?”

Walking into my classroom twenty minutes later has an instant calming effect. Ilovemy classroom.

Large windows feature the gangly pines and thick-leaved magnolias outside in the courtyard—evergreen all year. Over the years, I’ve gathered cozy thrift store finds to create an eclectic and colorful vibe—a patchwork of mismatched rugs, a reading corner with plush chairs, pillows, and bean bags. The desks face each other, a wonky round table that centers attention on them, not me. In the center, a large wingback chair, black with red and orange daisies, will serve as our sharing chair as we jump into reading.

But the room’s most unique feature was created by the students themselves. A comic-book-style mural covers the cinderblock walls—artistic odes to the literature we’ve read. Frankenstein’s monster peeks over the whiteboard next to an imagined Pecola with distorted blue eyes and withered marigolds from Toni Morrison’sThe Bluest Eye. Dark moors stretch across the tops of the windows and feature a glowing hound and a brooding Heathcliff. A long ocean scene along the back wall showsThe Old Man and the Sea,Moby Dick,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, andThe Odyssey. A nearly translucentInvisible Manhovers in an underground room covered in lights. Harry Potter, a black cat for Edgar Allan Poe (my idea), Percy Jackson, Katniss Everdeen,The Ranger’s Apprentice,The Hate U Give, andHowl’s Moving Castle—whatever literature the class loves finds a place.

It’s the ideal setting to launch the project, I decide as the bell rings.

Seniors filter into the room with the casual ease and confidence of students ready for graduation. We launch into a round ofhow-was-your-summeras they settle, oddly taking the same seats they had the year before, as if no real time has passed.

“How’s Mr. Maddix? Any wedding plans yet?” Ashley Morrow asks, looking coy.

My head tilts to my notes. “He’s fine… I think.” They exchange looks but, thankfully, don’t press for more information.

A shy-looking redhead named Benny whispers to Eddie Speck—the star of the play last year—and Eddie laughs and raises his hand, much to Benny’s dismay. “Ms. Mackey?”

“Yes, Eddie.”

“Benny wants to hear your mac-n-cheese story,” he reveals with a devious look, hazing the new kid, though it’s clear they already know each other.

I glance at the wall clock and lean against my desk. “Only three minutes into class… It might be a new record.”

But for the first time in nine school years, my pre-planned explanation doesn’t spill out like usual.If you don’t share your stories, what’s the point of having them?Jack’s words cause an unexpected swell to my typically calm mental seas. Thinking about Dean does, too. I don’t feel ready for this.

Julio says, “You don’t have to tell us again, Ms. Mackey. We all know you got too excited making mac-n-cheese.”

“Right. Yes. Um, I was fifteen and hungry after school. So, I went for my favorite—boxed mac-n-cheese. I got the water boiling in a pot that was too small…”

Usually, I joke about hungry teenagers or how my cheesy noodle addiction led to destructive behavior. But the story falls flat when I can’t deliver a soft transition. Instead, my brow pinches as the memory replays. I pop up, holding my notes,The Other Us, and reaching forThe Little Housefrom my desk, knocking into my travel mug of coffee. It plops over, hits the desk’s edge, and dumps onto the floor.

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