Page 20 of Someone Knows

It seemed so much bigger back then.

I stand looking up at the second floor of Minton Parish High School—a certain window, third from the end. It’s not like I’ve grown. I’ve been the same five foot six since ninth grade. Yet the building felt more substantial to me at seventeen, more intimidating.

“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice startles me, pulls my attention from the second floor. She’s petite, older than me by twenty or thirty years, with thick-rimmed, dark glasses that are too big for her tiny face, and a blunt pixie cut.

I’m not even sure where she came from. Inside? She’s standing in front of the main entrance, so that seems logical, but the door is shut, and I didn’t hear it creak open or clank closed.

As if she can read my mind, she gestures behind her. “My desk is in the main office, next to the window, so I spend a lot of time looking outside. We took the channel letters with the name of the school down a few days ago. Finally getting new ones after thirty some-odd years. I thought maybe you weren’t sure if you were at the right building because of that.”

I hear every word, yet it takes a few seconds for what she’s saying to register in my brain. “Oh. Yes,” I lie. “I was trying to figure out if this is stillthe high school.”

The woman smiles like she’s proud she just solved a riddle. “Yes, ma’am. You’ve reached the right place.” She fans her face. “Lordy, it’s hotter than a blister bug in a pepper patch today, isn’t it?”

Now,that’sa phrase I haven’t heard too often since moving to New York.

“What can I do you for?” she asks.

“I, um . . . I lost my high school diploma and was wondering if I can order a new one. I need to prove I took some advanced classes and graduated.” I force a smile. “I’m going back to college at my age.”

She returns the smile. “We’re never too old to learn. I can print you an official transcript. It’ll note all your classes on it. Would that do?”

“I think so, yes.”

She waves me toward her. “Come on inside.”

I look up at the second floor, the third window from the left, and swallow. I hadn’t planned on going in. I’m not even sure why I’m here, but my pulse speeds up at the thought of getting closer. “Great. Thanks.”

In the office, my eyes rove over the tall counter that separates the staff from the visitors, the frosted door to my left with Principal on it in thick black letters, the rows of mailbox slots to my right labeled with teachers’ names. I scan them one by one, left to right, until it’s clear they’re in alphabetical order. Then my eyes drop down to read the last row—Mr. Parker, Mrs. Pearlman, Miss Rojas, Mr. Santoro, Mr. Tambar. I’m relieved one name is missing, even though of course it would be.

The woman settles at her desk on the other side of the counter. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Davis.”

“Last four digits of your social?”

“Five, four, six, four.”

Her nails clack against the keyboardas she types.

She smiles. “Here you are. But just to be sure, what’s your address?”

“I don’t live here anymore, but it was 21 Julep Road.”

“Davis on Julep Road? Your momma wouldn’t happen to be Theresa Davis, would she?”

I purse my lips. The pastime in this small town is hearing a name and playing six degrees of separation. If someone doesn’t know you, they know someone you’re related to, or their sister or brother does. “Yes, it is.”

The secretary’s face falls. “I go to Saint Matthew’s Church. I’m sorry about her illness. Her spirit is so strong, though.”

Why am I surprised that strangers knew before me? I shouldn’t be. That’s how my mother operates—put on your Sunday best and gossip with all the othergood Christians. Save the ugly for at home.

“Thank you.”

“Do you live nearby?” the woman asks. “I don’t remember seeing you at Saint Matthew’s with your momma.”

I shake my head. “I live in New York.”

“Well, she must be happy you’re here now.” The woman returns her attention to her computer screen, clacks a few more keys, and the printer spits out a few sheets of paper. “Here you go.” She slides two pages across the counter and points to a box at the top right corner. “Your graduation is noted right here. If that’s not good enough, I can order you a new diploma, but usually this is more than sufficient.”

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