Part Two: Impressions. Chapter Seven: Harrison MacDonald Raby

Some people think Ms. Blake was some kind of saint. Some kind of perfect angel sent down from heaven. But I happen to know from first-hand experience that that woman is far from perfect. She’s a law-breaker, an alcoholic, an addict of far too many vices – and that’s exactly why I love her.

And I do actually love her. I know i’m a little young, and I’m certainly a lot younger than her, but I’ve never felt more strongly for any other woman than I have for Mallory. Even then in that tiny little classroom, I knew that I would never meet another person as extraordinary as her. She was unflinchingly honest and unapologetic, especially when it came to telling her students that they were wrong. We were only eleven, but to Mallory it wouldn’t have made a difference if were five, fifteen, or fifty. She expected everyone around her to be a smart as a whip, and if you didn’t understand something then you had better figure it out really quickly before she called on you. It may have been a little harsh, but we all came out of that classroom ready for anything – we walked into middle school unafraid to challenge our teachers what we thought was wrong with our school and our society. We were young, but well informed, citizens of the world, and there was nothing scaring us away from lecturing the previous generations about their screw-ups.

I don’t mean to make it seem like she was a total bitch; there were also qualities about her that were really nice. For instance, she was fiercely loyal to her kids. I remember one of my best friends, Warren, had put a tarantula in Principal Vachon’s desk during recess one day, and she was pissed as hell. Principal Vachon had been dealing with Warren in her school for all five years, and so she figured that he was behind the prank. But when she came into our classroom and demanded to see Warren in her office immediately, Mallory covered for him by saying he had broken one of the commandments, and he had been inside with her during recess. Now, that was a really nice thing of her to do. I’m not sure whether it was motivated by Mallory’s love of Warren or hatred of Principal Vachon, but still – it was really nice.

She also acted like a mother to some of us. There was this little mousy girl named Bridget, who I swear could be blown away by a strong wind she was so wispy, who used to stay inside with Mallory every day during recess. I don’t think Mallory had a very close relationship with her own mother – I remember her coming into school the day her mom died and acting like everything was fine – but she looked at Mallory as if she were the stars and the moon. I chose to see things a little differently. My brother Tom and I were raised by a single mom who strove to be the perfect specimen of a mother ever. She worked two jobs, but she never ordered take out, and she never hired a baby-sitter, and she never ever missed a single one of our soccer games or band concerts. And I know that everyone wasn’t as lucky as I was to have a really supportive parent in their life. But the truth is that it got a little stifling. She constantly wanted to know everything my brother and I were doing at every minute of the day. She never let us eat dinner at other people’s houses. in fact, she didn’t like us ever going over to our friends’ houses because she was worried that weren’t appreciative of all the hard work she did to make our house pleasant and inviting. She never cursed in our presence, or smoked or drank or did anything that might influence us to make poor life choices. If it wasn’t for the fact that she got knocked up twice by an abusive ex-husband – you would think she was the Virgin Mary.

But I didn’t need someone in my life like that. My mom had dreams of me going to Harvard and becoming a doctor, but I knew from a very early age that I didn’t want any of that. And the longer she kept holding out this strange delusion that I was going to be the most successful person to come out of Goodland, Indiana, the more guilty I felt about wanting something else for my life. My grades were decent, but I much preferred reading the comic books hidden under my bed, or playing video games on those rare occasions my mom let me out of the house. These were things that normal kids did, and yet I felt like a huge disappointment that I didn’t have grander aspirations. That if I wasn’t what my mom wanted me to be, then there must be something wrong with me.

And that’s why Mallory played such an important part in my life. She was far from perfect and far from successful, but she seemed as happy with her life as anyone I had ever met. And when she gave that speech on the last day of class about not trying to be successful or rich or famous, but instead being something that makes you happy – that speech really spoke to me. Sure, I felt like I was probably a rotten apple that fell from a painfully perfect tree. But Mallory seemed to be exactly the same, and I figured that she and I were kindred spirits of some sort. I couldn’t have possibly known at the time what kind of childhood she had, but on that last day when she told us that she wanted us to know all the things she never knew at our age – I knew that something must awful must have happened in her life in order for her to become the person she was.

And when I got older, I found out exactly what those problems were. When I was a freshman in high school, I found myself looking for a job after school. Partially because my mom thought that it would provide me with “good character” and partially because it meant having to spend less time under the prying eyes of my mother. Unfortunately, I was too young to get a job at any real workplace, so I had to settle just working odd jobs for people around the neighborhood. I put an ad out for my services in the local newspaper, and almost immediately Mallory called up and told me that she needed some help around the house.

That’s when I started calling her “Mallory”, by the way. When she hired me, she told me that there would be no need for formalities. I don’t want you to think that I’m the kind of person who always called adults by their first name just to sound cool or something. Like the way Alison used to call her mom “Sandra?” Super weird.

Anyway, the jobs she needed me to do involved mainly organizing some of the things around her house. Mallory was kind of a hoarder, and she needed help going through all the things and figuring out what to throw away and what to sell and what to keep. She told me that if it were just her doing it, everything would stay. That’s why she needed fresh eyes: to put things in perspective.

And then, after those projects were done, it was maintenance around the house. She was getting old (although she never did want to tell me her real age) and fixing leaking sinks and faucets were too straining on her back.

And then, after I had fixed everything in the house that needed fixing, I began fixing her. Because Mallory was incredibly lonely and sad and though she didn’t like to show it, I know she needed someone there for her. Someone she didn’t need to be perfect for.

Look, before you say anything, I want you to know that she never forced me to do anything, ok? I wanted to; everything I did, I did out of love. Yes, there’s an age difference, but I don’t really know what that has to do with anything. I was always committed to her, and after I graduated high school, I moved in with her. Everyday I worked in the post office sorting through endless piles of letters and packages, and at night I got to come home to the most glorious imperfection in the entire world. I told my mom, of course, where I was living, but no one else knows. Everyone else thinks I moved out to some neighboring town, because my mom’s too afraid to tell them that I’m living with a woman nearly forty years my senior. Because it would mean that she had done something wrong in raising me.

If only she knew.

I lived with Mallory up until last year, when I got back home from work and all my things were laid out on the driveway. She said we couldn’t be together anymore. I still don’t know what was wrong, but she looked so scared that I figured someone must have found out about us. I asked her if I could still come over to see her, and she said that it would be better if we didn’t make contact with each other for a while.

And that was the last time I ever saw her. A month later i found out she had disappeared. Just vanished without a trace. And it kills me, you know? Because if she wanted to leave, if there was some sort of scandal she was keeping under wraps, then I would have gone with her. I would have gone anywhere she wanted me to.

I haven’t slept well ever since she’s been gone. I can’t eat, I can’t think straight. I know that somehow it must be my fault and i’m not sure how. But I’ll help Bridget in any way I can, because I need to find Mallory again. I need to be with her.

Part Two: Impressions. Chapter Six: Stanley Eugene Thibodeau

My last name is a derivation of the French name “Theobald,” which roughly translates to “bold, or brave.”

I always found this kind of ironic, because I’m kind of the most cowardly person you’ll ever meet. I’ve spent my whole life running away from my problems, and I don’t seem to show signs of slowing down any time soon.

My therapist sometimes compares me to Neville Longbottom from the Harry Potter series (which I’ve never read or watched, because I suffer from wiccaphobia, which is defined as a quite intense fear of witchcraft), and she always tells me that although Neville lived, in the beginning, in a constant state of fear, he, like me, had a background of bravery and heroism, and he apparently ended up saving the wizarding world. “True courage will show itself in the face of adversity,” she always tells me. “So don’t worry.”

But the thing that she doesn’t seem to understand is that my cowardice is never something I’ve ever been ashamed of. Because of it, I’ll probably never be arrested. I’ll probably never get cancer, or get into a car accident (I walk everywhere I go because in Goodland, you’re never more than 2 miles aways from any other part of town). I keep my house pretty well hidden by a mass of Sassafras tress, so I’m in very little danger of getting robbed. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t borrow money from other people, so I probably won’t get murdered by some thug in the middle of the night. I eat healthily, and I take multivitamins, and I rarely drink soda or coffee. Freakish weather patterns and spontaneous combustion aside, I could probably live to one hundred if I wanted to. And while my family and peers often found my lifestyle strange, they never sought to change me.

And then, in 5th grade, I had Ms. Blake. And everything in the world I had ever avoided seemed to congregate in that classroom. I remember, quite distinctly, two things she did on the first day of class that upset me.

Number one: She called each of us up to her desk to speak with us privately, because she wanted to get to know us better. As soon as I went up to her desk, she asked me a question about what I liked to learn in the classroom and what my favorite subject was, but I could stop staring at how sharp and red her nails were. They all looked like mini daggers covered in blood, and I couldn’t bring myself to answer her question. When she noticed I wasn’t responding, she asked me, “Stanley, are you scared of me?” and I had always been told to tell the truth, so I nodded my head. And instead of comforting me, she merely smiled and said, “You should be.”

Number two: After lunch, she had us gather in a circle and talk about what our favorite books were. Afterwards, when we all were supposed to return our chairs to our desks, one of the kids was stuck in his. At first I thought it was one of the other kids, but then Ms. Bake said, “Is something wrong?” and started laughing. She glued one of her students to a chair, just to teach us a lesson about not getting on her bad side, I guess.

So, by the end of that first traumatic experience, I was already certain that I was going to dread going to school every day. I used to fake sick to try to get out of having to spend a day with Ms. Blake, but my parents knew how mysophobic I was (mysophobia is defined as a fear of contamination and germs), and so they never bought that I was actually sick.

Instead I had to “suck it up like a big boy” and try not to flinch every time Ms. Blake came near me. Which was pretty difficult, because she like to call on me a lot. She had a habit of always calling on people when they were unprepared to answer the question, and since I had a habit of never raising my hand, I became one of her primary targets. Thankfully, Bridget Kane and I (the two shiest kids in the class) were bright students, and so we were never caught that off guard.

But eventually it got to the point where I couldn’t take the craziness anymore. She never seemed to follow any sort of rules at all about what was appropriate to teach kids our age. In history class, she had a “special segment” called “Was He Really That Bad?” in which we discussed evil dictators and the positive economic or social benefits they produced during their reign. She essentially was telling us that men like Hitler and Stalin were good people! Unbelievable! And instead of having pop quizzes on useful stuff like state capitals and American Presidents, she quizzed us on collective nouns like a bloat of hippopotami or an implausibility of gnus. “Don’t be such a grouch, Stanley. Besides you never know when you’ll be on a game show or at a trivia contest and a collective noun question will come up. I could win you hundreds of dollars!” she once told me when I protested the nature of her quizzes.

The worst was when she started teaching horror stories in October. After recess we would come back from the playground and all the lights would be off except for a few candles that cast an eerie glow on Ms. Blake’s already ghoulish features. Sometimes, she would even have scary music playing in the background, or she would have a special volunteer (usually Harry) to be the sound effects specialist: making the classroom supply door creak at inopportune times, or blowing into a bottle to make it sound like the wind was blowing. Now, I was the kind of kid who started crying if someone so much as whistled The X-Files theme song within earshot. Clearly this wasn’t going to go over well for me. So after two weeks of pure misery, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I ran to the Principal’s office and told her everything I knew. Unfortunately, this did nothing to actually deter Ms. Blake from her plans. On the contrary, it seemed that, despite her burly exterior, Principal Vachon was just as much of a coward as I was, because she never came back into the classroom to check on us ever again. Even when I had other things to report, like smelling alcohol on her breath, or finding ground cigarette butts in the trash bins, she would just tell me that I had an overactive imagination.

Even worse was the treatment I started getting from other students. No one, even Bridget, wanted anything to do with me after that incident. They started calling me nasty names like “Rat Bastard” and “Sneaky Stanley” and even “Thibo-douche” when Ms. Blake wasn’t around. If I didn’t have many friends before, I certainly didn’t have any by the time winter break rolled around.

I still don’t have many friends really. Once you get a reputation for being a killjoy, you tend to not get invited out to any raging parties. Just as well, since those parties are riddled with all sorts of diseases, sexually transmitted or otherwise. Still, sometimes I wonder what my life would be like now if I had just come out of my shell a little more that year.

But while the other kids beat me up and called me names, Ms. Blake never seemed to get angry at me. And she must have known it was me, because if the kids figured it out in a couple of days, she probably knew the moment Principal Vachon stepped through that door. And yet, though she could have punished me – though she could have “found” me guilty of a commandment, say, she didn’t think I was telling the truth or doing my own homework or something – she was as cordial to me as ever. If anything, she maybe even backed off on calling me out in class. I think she even maybe felt... sad for me? Like, suddenly she realized that maybe terrifying me out of mind every day wasn’t the best way to do her job.

At any rate, she and I seemed to set up a little signal where she would only ask me to answer a question if I made eye contact with her. So that was actually kind of nice of her. And, she had a really strict “no bullying” policy, and while some teachers don’t enforce that kind of thing (for instance, every teacher I ever had in high school), Ms. Blake made sure to punish every student who made fun of me, which made for a pretty empty playground the week after the incident. So, while we probably didn’t like each other very much, we respected each others boundaries.

In return, I didn’t tell Principal Vachon about any more of the crazy stuff she did. And believe me, she did some crazy stuff. Like, once, as part of our creative writing class, she had us visit a graveyard for inspiration. We had to pick a tombstone we liked, and based on the name of the deceased and any epitaphs we might have found, we had to write a story about that person’s life. Some people did really well with that assignment, like Warren Creyton who, although my biggest bully, was a darn good writer. I remember he wrote this really chilling story about a young girl who, while sleepwalking, wandered into the forest, and then when she woke up, she ended up in a field full of flowers that were so beautiful, she never wanted to leave, and then she died of starvation. It was a lot better than I’m telling it now, but I promise it was pretty. Anyway, he wrote all of it based on some little girl’s epitaph saying, “Here lies our girl, the blooming flowers fading.”

I didn’t want to spend more than five minutes in that place, so I chose the one closest to the exit, which belonged to a man named Bryan Shivers, which I thought was a good name for a character anyway. He didn’t have an epitaph, so I just wrote something quick about how he died from drowning in a freezing lake, and that was it. I went to wait in the school bus, but Ms. Blake stopped me and asked to see my story, and when she saw the person I had chosen, she for some reason got really scared, and she asked me to pick someone else. I told her that I had done the assignment, and it wasn’t fair to have me go back in there again, but she screamed at me to “Just do it! Please, Stanley!”

I’d never seen her act that way before, so I figured it must be pretty serious. I chose the one next to him, and when I came back, she let e sit on the bus in silence. When we got back to school, I went to the library to try and figure out what it was about this guy that made Ms. Blake, the most fearless woman I’d ever met, show terror in her eyes. After some digging, I found an article about a serial killer who had lived in Goodland twenty years ago (with a name like that though, I’m not surprised he was crazy. Even the oddly placed “y” in his name gives me the creeps). Apparently, Bryan Shivers killed 15 people in the state of Indiana before the police got a tip about who his next victim would be. They surrounded the house, but before they could get inside, it exploded, killing a few police officers in the process. They found two bodies in the house, and since they had never actually seen what Bryan Shivers looked like before, they assumed that the one holding some sort of incendiary trigger was their guy. And since no one wanted to claim his body, he ended up being buried in our cemetery. It happened twenty years beforehand, right around when Ms. Blake more to Goodland I guess, and the house that exploded was right next to hers, so I supposed it must have scared her pretty badly.

I bring this up, because several months ago, I read an article in the Indianapolis Star that they the police reopened the case, and now they think that the body may have been someone else’s. That Bryan Shivers might still be at large.

Now, I may be the most cowardly person in Indiana, but I know true bravery when i see it. And Ms. Blake was most definitely the bravest, toughest woman I know, even in her old age. So when the very last day I ever saw Ms. Blake was the day that article came out; well, I figure that can’t be a coincidence.

Part Two: Impressions. Chapter Five: Daniel Jackson Starkey

(author's note: this is a horrible, horrible chapter that I wrote in about an hour. It will most certainly be rewritten. I apologize for how much it sucks in advance).

Chapter Five: Daniel Jackson Starkey

There are very few people who anger me as much as Ms. Blake. Seriously, she’s in my top five, right up there with Hitler, Rod Blagojevich, and Nick Cage (how on earth do they still cast him in movies? Shouldn’t he be in an insane asylum somewhere?). She may have been pretty hot for an old woman, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that she sucked as a teacher.

Seriously, like how did she even get a job at Goodland Elementary? Because a couple years ago, right after Principal Vachon passed away, I was helping cover the funeral for the Goodland Gazette (even being the only attorney at law in Goodland doesn’t mean you don’t need the extra cash every once in a while, and the Gazette pays its freelancers pretty well). I noticed that all of the teachers were there except Ms. Blake, which was strange because although I never saw them get along that well, there always seemed to be a strange connection between the two of them. So when I asked all the other teachers about Ms. Blake, they all told me that Ms. Blake never got a teaching degree from any university at all. They remember her becoming a teacher on the very same day she moved into town (she apparently was born in California somewhere), and that was it. More importantly, not a single one of them could remember why Ms. Blake had been hired, and Principal Vachon apparently always refused to answer any questions about why she would hire a woman with zero teaching experience or qualifications.

And, consider this: once, Principal Vachon threatened to fire Ms. Blake for teaching outside of the curriculum, but then she mysteriously backed off when Ms. Blake told her she “wouldn’t do that” if she were her. Something’s definitely gotta be up. So, in my opinion, that means she probably had some dirt on Principal Vachon, some sort of information worthy of blackmailing someone into never ever getting fired, even when they deserved it. So, I figured I should do some digging.

But why do I hate Ms. Blake so much? Well, it may sound silly, but on the very last day of class, she said something to me that deeply upset me. See, you have to understand that, at the beginning of the school year, Ms. Blake had us all write down on a sheet of paper what we wanted to be when we grew up. And, because one of my earliest memories was watching the film To Kill A Mockingbird (Some people may disagree, but I always thought Scout was kind of cute in a rough and tumble kind of way), I wanted to be a lawyer with all my heart. Ms. Blake however, thought otherwise. She thought I was too stupid to become a lawyer, just because I wasn’t doing too well at school at the time. But she didn’t just tell me this in private. I might have been ok with her pulling me aside and tell me that I might want to pursue other career options. But no, she had to tell the entire class that I was too dumb to pass the Bar.

I don’t think any words have ever stung so much, even Kathy telling me she wanted to cancel the wedding. I was so humiliated, and I decided right then and there to do whatever it took to prove her wrong. So that one day, I could come back with a law diploma from some place prestigious, like Harvard or Columbia, and shove it in her face.

So I’ve worked my ass off every day since then. Even though I was dyslexic, I made sure to spend all my free time practicing reading and writing, so that I would get faster and more accurate. I took a while for me to start making straight As, but by the time I got to high school, I was on track to being in the top ten of my class.

But then, freshman year of high school, I ran into Ms. Blake at a town hall meeting. I figured, now would be a good a time as any to let her know how wrong she’d been. So I went up to her, and told her that I was making straight As now in all my classes, and that she should be able to discern that I would become a lawyer after all. She looked at me with confusion n her eyes, and said “First of all, i don’t think you understand what discern means, and second of all, who are you?” So I told her that my name was Danny Starkey, and that she had told me that I couldn’t become a lawyer in 5th grade.

Then she laughed, actually laughed in my face and said, “and you think grades are all it takes to get into law school? You clearly aren’t prepared at all.” I asked her what she meant, and she said “Well, do you have a job? Any extra-curriculars? There are going to be thousands of other kids who are smarter and more talented than you, and you think that a couple of As in English somehow makes you special? Danny, i may not have seen you in a while, but so far I’m not impressed. And if I, as no more than a retired old elementary school teacher, am not impressed, then I don’t think any college with a decent law program is going to be. Perhaps you should consider becoming a notary public instead. I hear that’s a degree you can get at the community college.”

Well, you can imagine I got out of there in a hurry. I mean, after all those years, I thought for sure she’d apologize for making such a huge mistake, and instead she just tore me down again! So the next day, I started a mock trial team, joined the debate team, and got a job as an filing assistant at the county court house. It was a lot harder to keep my grades up. I mean, I already spent all my waking hours studying for my exams, since it took me a lot longer to read the assigned chapters than most people. But I figured, if Albert Einstein and Erin Brokovich and freaking George Washington were dyslexic, then I could do whatever I damn well set my mind to. In fact, they all probably had people like Ms. Blake picking on them too, and that really set my mind at ease.

And by the time I graduated high school, I graduated as valedictorian of my class, and I had myself a place at Northwestern (only a two and a half hour drive from home). I was hoping Ms. Blake would be at the graduation ceremony, but I supposed she was too embarrassed to come, seeing as how my success at school had been on the front cover of the Goodland Gazette the day before. I wanted to stop by her house, just to see her face, but I was content to just mail her a graduation program and article clipping, with a note that said, “Keep these for when I’m a famous lawyer one day, and you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

And I continued mailing her things all throughout college. Copies of my report cards, Dean’s List notifications, letters of recommendations from my professors (I told them they were for internships because I figured they wouldn’t be too keen on fueling a decades-old feud I had with an old teacher). And then, when I got into Law School, my obsession with having Ms. Blake admit that she wronged me got even worse. I never left my apartment, I never made any friends. That’s when my fiance, Katharine, told me that she was starting to think that I cared more about Ms. Blake than I did about her. And in a way, she was right! But how could I not care about the one person who always told me I could never make something of myself?

Once I graduated law school, I turned down the offers I got from firms. I know that was a stupid decision to make, considering how much student debt I had to pay off, but I wanted to open my own practice in Goodland right in downtown, so that Ms. Blake could see that I had made something of myself. So, I opened Starkey & Associates, even though I had no associates, and waited. I waited for her to come and see me, because I always figured that she wouldn’t be able to stay away.

A year after I started my practice, Ms. Blake still never showed up. I began to get really frustrated, because everything I did, I did for her, and she was just ignoring me. Honestly, I didn’t want to have to visit her. That would have been weakness on my part, and i wanted her to be the one to grovel, her to be the one to beg my pardon. I started to pray that she would get into some sort of legal trouble; that she would get into a car wreck and need a lawyer, and I’d be the only one around. So she’d come to my office, crying about how she didn’t want to serve jail time, and I’d laugh in her face and tell her, “Sorry, but I suppose I’m not smart enough to represent the likes of you. What do I know, right? I’m just some dumb idiot in a suit. But you know what? I know that there are tons of other lawyers in Indiana, and though their fees will be a lot more expensive, hopefully they’re sympathetic enough to take your measly little, pathetic little case pro bono.

Now, you might be saying that I’m being a little harsh. Maybe you think I should be thankful that Ms. Blake treated me that way in 5h grade. That she knew I had some sort of potential, and she only wanted to get me riled up so that I could live up to it. Well, it’s true that if she hadn’t made some of those remarks, I probably would be a low-level manager of the grocery store my father owns. But the reason why I hate so much isn’t because she told me I couldn’t become a lawyer. It’s because I did become one.

Eventually I got so tired of waiting that I found her address and went to her house. It was a small little thing at the bottom of a hill. I remember that day and the house very clearly, because I remember thinking how strange it was that a woman, who had apparently come into enough money when we were in 5th grade to retire early, was living in a dinky little place like that house. It was completely run down; the stuccoed walls were cracking, and the light yellow paint was starting to turn green from some of the moss. The garden clearly hadn’t been kept up with, since the weeds were threatening to be taller than the bushes lining her driveway. I figured she probably spent it all on alcohol or something. I remember think how ashamed she would probably be when she opened the door; to see that her now incredibly successful student would see her live in such squalor. I was practically giddy with delight.

The doorbell was broken, so I had to use this old knocker that was covered in disgusting cobwebs. She opened the door, and squinted at me, as if she couldn’t remember who I was. I knew she was faking; trying to make it seem as if hadn’t tried to tear me down. I remember peering down at her through my (very distinguished looking) glasses, and saying:

“Ms. Blake, my name is Daniel Starkey, attorney at law.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she, surprisingly, smiled. “Danny,” she said. “Yes, of course. Come in, come in.”

The inside was much cleaner, but incredibly threadbare. Nothing more than the bare essentials; no decorations whatsoever. That shame I expected her to show? Nonexistent, which was a shame, because it was one less thing I had to gloat about: my three bedroom, three bathroom house I had built, even though I’m the only one living in it.

We sat down at her kitchen table, and she handed me a glass of long island iced tea. “You’re old enough to drink alcohol now, aren’t you?” she said. “I’m not a child anymore, Ms. Blake,” I said. “Well, then stop calling me Ms. Blake! I’m Mallory.” she said. And then she took a long sip of her tea. “So, what brings you here, Danny? Am I in some sort of trouble or something?”

And that’s when I got really mad. I said, as calmly as I could, “You know why I’m here. I’m here for you to apologize. I’m here for you to tell me that you were wrong.” She smiled and said, “Oh really? And what is it that I was so wrong about, Danny?” And I said, “Don’t play dumb with me! You said that I was too stupid to become a lawyer. And then, in high school, even after I had brought my grades up, you said I was too stupid to get into law school! Well, guess what? I did get into law school! A great one, in fact, and I graduated with honors! And now I’ve started my own practice here in Goodland, and I’m the only lawyer in this entire town, so everyone has to come to me! I succeeded when you said I would fail! I win! So what do you think about that, Mallory Blake, huh?!”

She put down her glass and, I remember this very clearly, she looked me right in the eye, a challenge on her face, and she said, “Well, I guess I have one thing to ask you. Are you happy? Because if you aren’t, then I’m afraid you haven’t won anything. If you aren’t, then I’m afraid, Danny Starkey, that as much as it saddens me to say this: I’m the one who has won.”

I remember sitting there for a good minute or two after that. Just sitting there, staring at her stupid blonde hair and her stupid haunting eyes, and her red fingernails that tapped out a rhythm on the side of her glass. And then I stood up, thanked her for the tea, walked back to my car, and started to cry.

Because thinking back, I realize that I wasn’t happy at all. I was absolutely miserable. She had told us that we should focus on the qualities we want to embody as human beings and the relationships we have. And I forgot about that. I used to be fun. I used to have a wonderful girl named Katharine who loved me. And I threw that all away because I had something to prove. If she hadn’t said those things – if I had really listened to her, maybe my life wouldn’t be as shitty as it is now. Because living alone, and working on petty cases in a lifeless town when I could have been happy somewhere else? With someone else? That’ll always be my biggest regret. That I listened to all the wrong things.

Part Two: Impressions. Chapter Four: Kristin Delta Creyton

Say what you will about the similarities between me and Warren, but do not compare me to him when it comes to avocados. Warren will eat those slimy green fruits till kingdom comes. Puts them on salads and tacos and pasts and hamburgers. Once, in high school, I walked into the kitchen and saw he was eating it plain. With a spoon, just like a cup of pudding. Fucking disgusting. I would rather eat pickles covered in chocolate and dipped in raisins rather that ever have to taste another avocado ever again.

We also have very different tastes when it comes to music. I did a lot of theater in middle school and high school, and so I spent a lot of time in my attic room, listening to my favorite cast albums. Warren couldn’t stand any of that; he was always more of a heavy metal kid, and we used to fight and fight on saturdays over who could play their albums in the living room. It wasn’t a pleasant auditory experience, and now I look back and wonder how on earth my parents ever put up with us. Two young twins who were complete opposites in every way except looks; they really ought to be canonized; I mean, really, up there with Saint Thomas and Matthew.

Even our dating habits. I always made friends with all of Warren’s girlfriends; in fact, I usually stayed in touch with them long after Warren had moved on to the next one. In fact, if there was a girl I particularly liked, I always told her to get away while she could, before he could suck away her soul. I don’t know why girls always seemed to like him so much. I mean, obviously I’m biased because he’s my twin brother, and even if he looked like Jake Gyllenhaal and sang like Michael Buble I’d still find the idea of dating him repulsive. But yeah, he’s certainly no Jake Gyllenhaal, and if you put him and a dying cat in a singing competition, I’d bet my money on the cat. Warren made it his mission to torture, humiliate, and drive away any and all of my potential boyfriends. Even the nice ones. In fact, I remember one case in particular, when Stanely Thibodeau, this real sweet mousey kind of guy, came to our house to pick me up, Warren egged his car, and then blamed his anger on some feud they had in elementary school than Stan didn’t even remember anymore. So, yeah. He and I are different people, completely.

But while Warren might say differently, I loved having Ms. Blake as a teacher. It was probably the only thing we agreed on when we were ten. Before Ms. Blake came along, home life wasn’t so great for me. He’s a good brother now, always coming to see his nieces and I at Christmas time. But back then – oh boy. He used to, after i woke up, pour water mixed with yellow food coloring from our pantry on my sheets, and then tell mom and dad that I had wet the bed. And then he would tell the other kids at school, too. A complete nightmare. School was the only escape from that, because we always had different teachers.

But then when teacher I was supposed to have for 5th grade, Ms. Lafayette, died of a heart attack (my parents literally only told me about that the other day. In school we had been told that she was visiting family upstate, how sick is that?), they just made all the other classes bigger, rather than hire a new teacher. So, I somehow ended up in the same class as Warren, much to my chagrin. I figured, if he was that horrible to me at home, then imagine what he’d be like with a whole new set of friends to impress. Luckily, Ms. Blake caught him in the act of pranking on the first day. She was smart enough to see that Warren had snuck out the front door right as she was coming in from the teacher’s lounge, and my parents had warned her ahead of time about his “youthful and misguided energy.” When she noticed that the chair she had placed her binder next to was a little shinier than usual, she switched it with the one next to Warren’s lunchbox. Genius move on her part, although if he’d been one step ahead of her, he would have switched his lunchbox with someone else’s (like mine, probably), that way at least someone would be humiliated. At least, that’s what I would have done.

And then, when we had our one on one meetings with her, she asked me if it was true that Warren and I were fraternal twins. When I told her that, unfortunately, he was my twin brother, she leaned towards me and whispered, conspiratorially:

“If that boy gives you any trouble, either here or at home, you let me know. And he’ll have a lot worse coming to him than a hole in his trousers.”

Well, I liked her immediately after that! And from then on, if I could sense that Warren was up to something, I would remind him that Ms. Blake was my best friend in the whole wide world, and that she and I had a secret signal a la Batman or Powerpuff Girls, and I could have her over to kick his ass like that.

And that shut him up real fast.

Sometimes he forgot about my special connections, and then in class I would slip Ms. Blake a note, real secretive, and Ms. Blake would glance over at me and tap her nose with her right pointer finger, and that meant that she read my message loud and clear. And then at some point during class, Ms. Blake when no one else was looking because they were working on an assignment or reading silently or something, she would lean down over his desk and whisper something in his ear, and his eyes would go really wide, and he’d look over at me in fear, and I’d nod my head, as if I knew what she had just told him. God, I can still remember that same terrified look on his face every time. Priceless.

Of course, I never knew what she actually told him. Any time I asked she always told me not to worry, that she had taken care of the situation, and that he shouldn’t be causing me any trouble for at least the next week. I always thought it was somehing about how some zombie (at that age, Warren had a curious fear of the walking dead) would come and eat him in his sleep. But now I think it may have been something a lot more sinister than that.

I had totally blocked this memory until recently, when Warren had emailed me to tell me that Ms. Blake had gone missing, and that he was flying back to Goodland to figure out what happened. I had totally forgotten it. Probably I was so disturbed, so traumatized by it at the time, that I hid it in the recesses of my brain. But then the moment I read that email, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I had to close my eyes the memory hurt me so badly.

I haven’t told anyone this before. Not a single soul. And I wasn’t planning on it, because, let’s face it, it doesn’t reflect too well on my brother, and it certainly doesn’t reflect well on the woman I had once considered my friend and savior. But I feel that, especially now, it doesn’t make any sense to try and cover up the past.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was still in girl scouts (another difference between Warren and I; he was never one for organized activities) and in March I made my girl scout cookie run as I always did. Well, a new little girl had moved in next door, and she was also a girl scout, and since she was much cuter than I was, I figured everyone would be buying from her and not a scrawny acne-riddled teenager. So I decided to go to the neighborhood a few over from ours, just to try my luck. It turns out that there was a whole new cookie-selling market to be discovered that whole time! Thirty minutes into my route, I had already sold fifty boxes, mostly to old people who didn’t have any grandkids.

Eventually, I came to this small house at the bottom of this really steep driveway. There wasn’t a doorbell, so I knocked on the door and waited. No answer. But then, I heard some noises coming from the back of the house, and I thought, well, maybe whoever lives here is in the backyard and can’t hear me. So I go around the back, and the gate was open, so I let myself in. No one’s in the backyard, but I can see into one of the windows on the ground floor, through the blinds. And what do I see?

Two people. Definitely having sex.

And I’m mortified, right? Because, first of all, I’m a freshman in high school, and it’s not like I had that much experience. I mean, what i was seeing was way beyond any spin the bottle game i had ever played.

By the way, when I say, “what I was seeing”, I don’t mean like I stood around for five minutes and just watched them going at it. It felt like I was frozen still, but it can’t have been for more than a few seconds, because then the woman turned her face to me, and through the scattered light of the window-shade I could see it was her. Ms. Blake.

I ran out of there as fast as i could because why wouldn’t I?! I mean, that was my teacher, for christ sake! That’s like thinking about the day my brother and I were conceived.

And that’s when it hit me: the guy in the room. I could only see his back, but he had a tattoo on his left shoulder blade. This kind of sunburst, with a spiral in it. And earlier that year, my brother had come into my room and told me that he and his friends and one of his friend’s older brothers had gone to some parlor in Indianapolis where they didn’t care if you were a minor or not, and he showed me that same tattoo, and made me promise not to tell mom and dad about it. And then a few days before, he told me he ran into Ms. Blake on the street, and how great she still looked after all those years.

So, yeah. If Warren told you that our opinions on Ms. Blake differ, then he’d be half right. I might have liked her then, but now I feel nothing but disgust for her. I know she wasn’t a teacher any more, and that in the state of Indiana he was technically over the age on consent, but God!, what if she’d done something to him all those years ago?! I think about how much he admired her, how much we all admired her, in some way or another. And I think about her red lipstick, and her smile, and her mischievous eyes, and how she would whisper in his ear and how sometimes he’d break one of her commandments and he’d have to stay inside with her during recess. I think of all of that and I can’t help but feel furious at how blind I was. To think she was trying to help me, when all along she was after him.

I also can’t help but think that after Warren left or after she got tired of him, whichever one came first, she moved on to someone else. Maybe someone even younger, and it terrifies me., because I did nothing to stop her all those years ago. Who knows how many boys I could have protected if I had told the whole town. All I can hope is that she got caught one day by someone with more guts than I did, and that’s why she left town. Because she was ashamed.

Because she ought to be ashamed.

Part Two: Impressions. Chapter Three: Warren Christopher Creyton III

The way she didn't give a damn about anything absolutely thrilled me. I remember she had this tradition that every day of October, for the entire month, instead of reading whatever the curriculum told us to, we read excerpts from horror stories. I mean, really scary shit: The Fall of the House of Usher, The Tell-Tale Heart, Frankenstein, Dracula. She would turn out the lights, and we’d all sit in a circle and she’d light a single candle in the middle of the room, and she’d start reciting these words as if they were poetry; as if the were the most glorious sentences in the english language. I remember lying down right next to her and just listening to the sweet roughness of her voice, and the way she could relish syllables and . She always told us not to tell any adults, which of course I never did (what am I, an idiot?) but then some kid (I think it was Stanley Thibodeau, or, as I like to call him now, Thibo-douche, on account of how he ratted out Ms. Blake) told the principal that Ms. Blake was breaking the rules. I never forgave Stanley for that; even to this day, if I saw him in the streets, I would probably beat him up. So, Principal Vachon came down to our classroom one day, and told Ms. Blake to obey the curriculum and teach The Phantom Tollbooth like she was supposed to.

To which Ms. Blake simply smiled her crooked smile, lips cherry red and full, and said, “No, thank you.”

Now, let me tell you something about Principal Vachon, so you can understand the severity of the situation, ok? Ms. Vachon looked the way I always imagined Ms. Truchbull would look 30 years later. She was old and gigantic and had the kind of sharp, piercing eyes that made you think that if the grim reaper ever met her, even he might think twice about taking her out. Which is why she seemed to live forever, on account of how I found out how she just died recently. She was also incredibly stern, and though she never laid a finger on any of us, even having to stare into her eyes for ten seconds was its own kind of torture.

So the fact that Ms. Blake didn’t give a rat’s ass to what Principal Vachon had to say – the fact that she refused Principal Vachon’s orders the way someone refuses another helping of turkey at Thanksgiving dinner – well, let’s just say she was kind of my hero.

And, oh man was Principal Vachon royally pissed. I swear I saw smoke coming out of her nose or something. She took a step closer to Ms. Blake and – I completely remember this conversation:

Principal Vachon: what did you just say to me?

Ms. Blake: Oh, I’m sorry, is your hearing aid not working again? I said N. O. No. As in, I’m going to continue reading The Shining, as I have every other year I’ve ever taught at Goodland Elementary.

Principal Vachon: YOU TEACH THIS EVERY YEAR?!

Ms. Blake: Indeed I do.

Principal Vachon: Why wasn’t I informed of this?

Ms. Blake: Quite frankly, it’s because I knew you would react like this. Listen, Eleanor, I know you may think that they’re not ready for this kind of material, but they are. They are smart enough to distinguish between reality and fiction, they are smart enough to distinguish what is right or wrong – although we did discuss “gray areas” and moral ambiguity last tuesday – and they are most certainly smart enough to know that if they don’t want the fun things to be taken away from them, they shouldn’t come to you.

Principal Vachon: MS. BLAKE, I DEMAND THAT YOU STOP TEACHING THIS INAPPROPRIATE MATERIAL AND BEGIN LISTENING TO YOUR SUPERIORS OR ELSE.

Ms. Blake: Or else, you’ll what, Eleanor? Fire me?

And this is when it got really quiet, because Ms. Blake stepped right up to her, only millimeters apart (Although Ms. Blake was almost boob level to Principal Vachon, so she had crane her neck) and said in a whisper:

I wouldn’t do that if I were you. And I think you know why.

What the hell does that mean?! I still have no freaking clue, but it must have been something horrible, because Principal Vachon actually looked scared. Terrified, even. Sure, it was only for a split second, but I’d never seen Principal Vachon look intimidated by anything before. And Ms. Vachon muttered something about how as long as no parents complained, she could continue her debauchery, and Ms. Blake’s eyes lit up like Christmas, and she said “that’s a good girl” and then she sat back down, picked up The Shining, and asked Principal Vachon not to let the door hit her on the way out.

What a woman.

And I have to say, for a woman in her early 50’s she was pretty hot. Even I knew that, and I hadn’t even heard about the concept of a cougar yet. But yeah, she definitely was a TILF, if you know what I mean. She had this long blonde hair that she always wore with a headband or flower or something. And her lipstick – always a bright red, and always applied again after lunch, just in case it had faded with eating. But the most beautiful think about her was her eyes. She had these really dark eyes that seemed almost black, but if you got close enough, they were just a really dark green. The color wasn’t as important as their intensity though – they seemed to change with every mood. They shone, they sparkled when she was happy, and then could be hard and unforgiving when she was angered (which, I admit was quite a lot, since we were all a bunch of troublemakers). And million other feelings in between were reflected a million different ways in her eyes.

And the rest of her wasn’t bad either. Let’s just say that I wasn’t exactly bothered if she dropped something during class.

The thing is, there is definitely a discrepancy between boys and girls when it comes to feelings about Ms. Blake. Most of the girls seemed to hate her (with the exception of that mousy girl, Bridget, the one who called me last week), and most of the boys, even if they didn’t realize it yet, had dreams at night about her curves.

Other than the horror stories during October, I can’t remember much about what she actually taught us, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t a great teacher. In fact pretty much all the learning I ever got was from her class.

Because, let’s face it, I’m not that great of a person. I was a brat growing up, always battling against my twin sister for the attention of my parents. I would put shaving cream in my sister’s shoes, and put gum in her barbie doll’s hair, and once I even shaved our pet dog, John Hancock, the day before my mom was supposed to bring him to a dog show! I wasn’t much of a breeze for any of my teachers either. I was the kind of kid who kick other kids in the shin, and administered indian burns, and put tarantulas (they belonged to my best friend at the time, Steve) in my teachers’ desk. With Ms. Blake as my teacher though, all that changed. That first day of school, I planned to pull this, in my opinion, genius prank. Someone had told me that she liked to arrange her chairs in a circle after recess, so that we would all feel like equals when we discussed literature. I would figure out what chair was hers, I would pour super glue all over it, and she’d get stuck to her chair. Priceless. So when we left for recess, I waited by the door, and watched her rearrange the chairs. She left for a bit to get her lunch or something, and quick as lightning I went in there, poured an entire bottle of superglue, and went outside.

When we came back in, She told us all to sit down, and, with a smirk on my face, I did what she told me to. We talked about what each of our favorite books were and why, and what kind of characteristics our favorite stories shared. I remember actually being interested in what we were discussing, which was rare for me, because I had never liked reading before (I was always more of a “let’s blow up stuff” kind of guy). I was so absorbed in the lesson, that I had completely forgotten about the prank, until she got up to grab a book from her shelf.

And then I realized something had gone horribly wrong: I couldn’t move from my chair.

As I was frantically trying to figure out if I had made a miscalculation somehow, Ms. Blake turned around and made eye contact with me. “Is something wrong, Mr. Creyton?” she asked me, her voice dripping with sarcasm. My eyes went wide as she grinned at me, gave me a wink, and asked Kris to hand me a pair of scissors. I never crossed her again.

In turn, I actually started to care less about pranking and more about actually learning stuff. I learned that I actually had a knack for writing, and my overactive imagination came in handy when she had us write short stories during November. But then as soon as middle school started, I pretty much forgot all my progress. I went back to being a bully, and being horrible to my teachers, and not caring about any of my classes. And then, my sophomore year of high school, I ran into Ms. Blake again on the street. She looked great, considering she must have been at least in her mid-50s by that point, she still looked as radiant as ever. She asked my how I was doing, and I told her that I had – that very day – attempted the super glue trick on one of my teachers and they totally fell for it, and she laughed. And then I asked her how she was doing, and for a brief moment there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes – those incredibly expressive eyes that I used to dream about sometimes – and then it was gone and replaced with that impish gleam. “Oh, you know,” she said. “Just tired. It’s been a while since i’ve taught you know.” And then I remembered the last day of class, Ms. Blake gave us this long speech that ended with her telling us she was going to retire. And then I remembered that she told us that the most important lesson she could ever teach us was about how we needed to be happy with our lives, and with who we are as individuals. About the fact that the jobs that we have, and the money we make, and the material objects we buy with the money we make from the jobs that we have don’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

To this day, I still think it’s the smartest thing I’ve ever been taught. And for a while I forgot it, and I will always regret those wasted years in which I could have accomplished something. And so I decided that I was going to make something of my life, instead of just using my status as a class clown to hide from what I really want to be: a writer. I didn’t care about being published or anything. I just wanted to write about the things I knew or wished I knew, in the hopes that someone, somewhere might connect to it. Because I remembered that the only times I was ever truly happy were days when I read my stories allowed. That’s the kind of respect I wanted. Not the kind tat came from people just laughing at my jokes, but real respect for who I was as a person.

So I got a degree in education. I decided to get a job teaching english in Japan for a while, and in my spare time I wrote like crazy about my experiences overseas, and what they meant to me. About what those kids, those incredibly bright and eager kids, meant to me. They were all my children, just like we were Ms. Blake’s, and sometimes I wonder what she must have gone through. To teach for decades and watch them leave you year after year, cause after only three, I couldn’t take it anymore. it was too much. I cared too much about them, and it terrified me, because I had never cared to much about anyone ever. And then I think about how lonely she must have been when she retired. I knew she never married or had any children and that must have been real sad for her. Maybe that’s why she left us. To find new children somewhere.

Part Two: Impressions. Chapter Two: Daphne Elizabeth Milstead

It’s not a secret that a lot of women don’t like me. See, the thing is that I’m a super great friend once you get to know me. But most girls don’t want to get to know me, because I’m too pretty. It’s true! It’s not my fault that they’re too intimidated by my beauty to want to hang out. And it’s not like I’m gonna dumb down my looks just so people will like me more. So whatever. I’m not mad. Believe me, I am TOTALLY ok with the fact that I’ve had was more boyfriends than I’ve had girlfriends.

But the person who I think was most threatened by me was Ms. Blake. I mean, that lady was bat-shit crazy, and she almost always took it out on me. I mean, she would always ask me these... questions. Like, go out of her way to try and trick me. I remember once, she asked Gene what the square root of four was, and he said two, and then she gave him a piece of candy. But when she asked ME what the square root of negative four was, and I said negative two, she laughed at me! Said it was some made up number! And then when I told her that I couldn’t have possibly known that, she said that she had explained the rules of square roots earlier, and then she yelled at me for not paying attention, which I wasn’t. And then she made me miss recess because I broke one of her stupid commandments! Ugh, whatever. I’m SO over that bitch.

Because she WAS a total bitch, you know? Like, I can’t think of anyone who actually liked having her as a a teacher. Except for maybe that quiet chick who would always purposely get in trouble just to faun all over her. It was so weird. She was, like, IN LOVE with Ms. Blake, and that’s gross. Not because they’re lesbians, or whatever. I’m totally down with lesbians. Like, I WAS one in college, at like parties and stuff. But yeah, it’s because Ms. Blake is old and wrinkly and gross.

My older siblings (I have two older brothers and an older sister, you would totally like them) always told me horror stories about Ms. Blake. About how she made some her students cry because she was so mean. About how she used to drink this really gross stuff from a coffee thermos, and when someone asked her what it was, she smiled and told them it was the tears of children. SHE SMILED. I mean, what kind of messed up shit is that?! Anyway, neither of them actually had her as a teacher (ugh, I’m so jealous), and my siblings and I didn’t get along back then, so naturally I thought they were trying to trick me. You know, make all scared or whater so the could laugh at how stupid I was.

No. She was WAY worse than they described her. I remember, on my first day of school, I walked into class wearing a really cute outfit that I had picked out myself. It was this super cure pink and white polka dot dress, with patent leather white mary janes and a white headband. Plus, I had on these tiny diamond earrings that i begged my parents for Christmas. I looked freaking ADORABLE. And the first thing Ms. Blake did when we started class was individually talk with us at her desk. So she could “get to know us all personally,” she told us. So, when I went up to her desk, I smiled, like every good girl should, and introduced myself. She looked me up and down, and then said, “well, you’re a very pretty little girl.” To, which I said, “I know,” because I DID know that I was pretty, and I never understood why I was supposed to pretend otherwise. And then Ms. Blake leaned forward and got really close to me. She had this weird little smirk on her face, and this really red lipstick, and from up close it almost looked like her mouth was bleeding. And when she got close enough that I could see specks of light her eyes, she said, “Your looks may let you get away with a lot of things, but I want you to know that in here? With me? That prettiness doesn’t mean jack. You’re either smart or you’re not. You either want to learn, or you don’t. And no amount of smiling or eyelash fluttering is going to distract me from who you really are. Someday, it won’t work anymore, and you’ll be in real trouble.”

Well, that scared me shitless. I mean, it wasn’t NEW information. My mother used to always tell me, “Well, you’re as dumb as bricks, but at least you’re gorgeous.” But my mother always said it like she was proud of me (after all, they were her genes). Ms. Blake said it like she it was a threat. And I hated her for it. Cause she was right; I didn’t know how to actually DO work. I spent my whole life up until that point having people pinch my cheeks or having people pat my on the back and say, “good try.” But that wouldn’t cut it with Ms. Blake. Not at all.

I couldn’t have gotten rid of her sooner. And I was determined to prove her wrong: my looks would never fail me, and I could prove it. Because once I got to middle school, it was SUCH a breeze. All my teachers freaking LOVED me. And, to top it all off, I hit puberty pretty early (and none of that acne shit; I mean the big boobs), and then there was a whole new world of people to wait at my beck and call. All I had to do was smile at a guy once, and I had him wrapped around my little finger on a little string. I’d go over to his house for a study date, and have him “explain” the homework to me, and when I didn’t get it, I’d pout and say that I was just too stupid to get it, and he’d wrap an arm around me (I know they were trying to cop a feel, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, am I right?), and tell me not to cry, cause he could just do it for me. And then I’d lift my head up, back straight, boobs out, and kiss him on the cheek.

Who’s the stupid one now, huh Ms. Blake? WHO’S THE STUPID ONE NOW?!

And once I got to high school, things were even better. Think I wrote any of my essays? Nope. The only language I ever learned was french, and I mean EXACTLY what you think I mean. Even my college admission essay was written by a guy in my AP Human Geography class. The trick is to never get someone TOO smart to do your work for you. Because then your teachers will never believe that you actually wrote it. The guy I actually got to write my essay was IN Ms. Blake’s class with me actually. Huh. I never thought about that, but yeah, Stanley had to suffer the same torture that I did.

You might be wondering why I needed a college admission essay. After all, what would I could possibly find in college. Uh, I don’t know, A SMART HUSBAND. But seriously, I needed a really smart husband who could get a really great job that pays well, because I certainly wasn’t gonna get the life I wanted – the life I NEEDED – by working a nine to five job somewhere. I know Ms. Blake told me I would never be a super model, but I certainly looked like one, and if there’s anything a nerdy, socially retarded genius wants, it’s a gorgeous arm-candy of a wife. So thanks to Stanley, Johnny, Benjamin, Carson, David, Alex, Katie (it was a one time thing) and all the hundreds of guys who helped me get my A- average GPA, I got into a decent school and began my search for Mr. Right.

It didn’t take me long to find him. All I had to do sign up for a really high level computer science class and then drop it before the deadline. Kyle Hardy was a super genius at something to do with computers. He was also a pretty fat guy, and because of that he had a whole lot of self esteem issues, which was perfect for me. So one day I approached him in the cafeteria asking for help in the class that I wasn’t even taking anymore. And then eventually when he found out (he asked the teacher about how I was doing in the class) I turned up the pout, and told hi the “truth”, that I was so attracted to him, but too shy to say that I had dropped the class. Three years later we were engaged, six months later we were married (I had to sign a prenup, but I figured that was ok because if I ever left him, it would be for another rich man) and BAM, I was living the life.

But then, two years into our marriage, I met him. I met Max, and my life was changed forever. He was our gardener, and I fell in love with every bit of him. He was loving and kind, and he had the most beautiful, expressive eyes I’d ever seen. And I didn’t care that he was dirt poor and kinda scrawny. I knew that I could never be happy with Kyle, not with Max in the picture. And I tried every trick in the book I had, and he just wouldn’t have it. He’s the first guy I’ve ever met who didn’t care about how pretty I was. I remember his girlfriend, a girl named Libby came to bring him his lunch and I watched them from the window looking so happy and in love and I was so angry. Cause she wasn’t pretty AT ALL! For the first time in my life, I couldn’t get what I wanted, and it terrified me. I remember what Ms. Blake told me, on that first day, “One day, your beauty won’t mean a thing, and it will ruin you.” Well it did ruin me. I eventually divorced Kyle because I simply couldn’t bear the thought of having to see Max in the yard every day. After the divorce I didn’t have ANY money, and I didn’t have ANY skills, and the only part of me that was worthwhile was my body.

So that was my only choice. And it may seem like a really shitty one, but the truth is that it’s not so bad. I get paid really well. And every night, a different guy tells me how pretty I am. And I feel like maybe I’m good at something after all. But it will never matter, because no matter how good I am at THIS job, he’ll never look me in the eyes again.

Sometimes I wonder if this is all Ms. Blake’s fault, you know? Like, if Ms. Blake hadn’t treated e like I was stupid, if I hadn’t been so desperate to prove that I COULD rely solely on my looks, maybe I would have enjoyed learning. Maybe I’d be smarter, and maybe I could get a guy like Max to love me for who I really was.

I hate Ms. Blake so much for what she did to me, and I’m not even sorry that she’s gone missing. Not one bit. In fact, when that freaky girl called me (which, by the way, super creepy because I don’t know how she got it) to tell me Ms Blake had disappeared, I was happy. Freaking ECSTATIC, actually. And when she asked me to come back to Goodland to help look for her, I didn’t agree because I want to help her. I agreed so that I could see if she died. And boy, wouldn’t I be happy if she was.

Part Two: Impressions. Chapter One: Bridget Rosalie Kane

Chapter One: Bridget Rosalie Kane

Mrs. Vachon was always the principal of Goodland Elementary for all of the time I lived in Indiana. I mean, she was also principal before I lived in Indiana, which is to say that she was principal before I was born. I suppose she was a nice principal, in that she never hit us, or sexually assaulted us or anything. But I didn’t like her very much. In fact, I hated her. A lot.

Which is a horrible thing to say, I know. I should be nicer to a woman who’s dead now. But she made me do a lot of things that I didn’t want to do. Or, I mean, one major thing that I really didn’t want to do. She made recess a requirement for everyone.

I hated going outside. I mean, I still do, actually, which is a shame considering where I live now. I used to tell people I was agoraphobic because it made people pity me, but then I felt bad for lying. Agoraphobes face social anxiety when faced with large, open spaces. I just didn’t like to get my clothes dirty. But no one care about any of that. All the teachers I had in elementary school didn’t care that I wanted to just sit down in read. My mother, before she died, used to take my books away from me when I was bad. She would shove me out into the backyard and lock me out of the house. She’d say, “For pete’s sake, Bridget, a little fresh air will do you good.” As if the quality of the air, the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen and other gases, was somehow better outside. Like it would make me less shy and more athletic.

But Ms. Blake was different. She knew I didn’t want to go out into the hot sun and get all sweaty and gross. She knew that I should have to be forced into physical exertion. So she let me stay inside with her. And I always was grateful to her for that.

It wasn’t all fun and games though. I mean, I couldn’t just sit and read because if Mrs. Vachon ever came in and found me, Ms. Blake could have been in a lot of trouble. So instead I had to be bad. I had to break at least one of Ms. Blake’s Ten Commandments every day. The ten commandments were Ms. Blake’s own invention, although looking back I think every teacher had their own set of rules. They were painted onto individual ceiling tiles, so that any time we looked up in boredom, we were reminded to follow the rules. The Ten Commandments – I still remember them – were:

Thou shall not hit or inappropriately touch another person.

Thou shall not say swear words in the classroom.

Thou shall not bully other students or make fun of them for their stupidity.

Thou shall not come to school unprepared to learn.

Thou shall always listen when other people are talking.

Thou shall come in from recess on time every day.

Thou shall turn in all homework assignments and projects on time

Thou shall answer questions, both written and oral, to the best of one’s own knowledge.

Thou shall not steal someone else’s property

Thou shall always tell Ms. Blake the truth, even when it is inconvenient or uncomfortable.

Some of them were easier to break than others. Since I never went out to recess, I never had the chance to come back late. Also, if there was one thing I hated as much as going outside, it was doing poorly on my schoolwork. I mean, was easily the smartest girl in that class, and more importantly I actually liked learning. So that also mean I couldn’t come to class unprepared or cheat on tests, or turn in assignments late. I also had, and still have, an aversion to swearing, since both my parents and my drunk uncle who lived with us swore all the time. More importantly, I didn’t want to make anyone else feel bad about themselves, so bullying and hitting and stealing from others was a no. So that left only one of the commandments for me to break.

Every morning, I would lie to Ms. Blake. I would, for instance, spill some of my juice box. Right in front of her desk. And then she would ask me, “Bridget, did you spill this juice?” And I’d look her straight in the eye, and say, “No.” Easy as pie. She’d tell me that I broke a commandment and remind me that a consequence of committing a classroom sin was no recess (which, to most students, was like eternal damnation). I’d nod my head, sit back down, and count the minutes until Ms. Blake and I could be all alone.

Even when we were alone, there was still work to be done. I couldn’t look like I was enjoying myself. So Ms. Blake had me perform chores like grading pop quizzes, organizing files, sweeping the floor, and other things. I always enjoyed the praise I received from Ms. Blake after for a job well done. It always made all the effort worth it. She’d sit in her chair (“my throne,” she used to call the big, plush orange armchair she substituted for the industrial black roller) and she’d eat her lunch. Every day she had a turkey sandwich, a brownie, and coffee from a thermos. Sometimes she would even read aloud to me, from a book or a newspaper while I worked. I loved listening to her voice. The gravelly undertones of a former smoker (or maybe she still smoked back then? Does she still smoke now?) adding texture to an otherwise lilting voice. Sometimes when I’m bored and reading at work, I imagine her reading to me in that rich, soothing voice of hers.

Sometimes other students would break the commandments, too. Not on purpose, of course. No one would willingly give up recess. But there were a couple of kids that always caused trouble. There was one boy, I remember in particular, named Harry. Harry was, what Ms. Blake like to call, a dumb ass. Truly. He was horrible, even as a kid, and he never knew when to hold his tongue or just back off. So he ended up having to do chores with me a couple of times a month. And boy did I hate him. I hated having him fool around and screw up stuff when I actually wanted to help. I hated having to compete for Ms. Blake’s attention and affection. It wasn’t fair that she spent more time yelling at him than she ever did speaking sweetly to me. It really wasn’t fair.

But I’m being nit-picky. Overall, she was a great teacher. The greatest teacher I ever had, actually. Even in high school – I mean, even in college when I was taking classes from published scholars – I never had someone quite like Ms. Blake. She was smart and funny and no-nonsense. She always told us the truth. Things that other adults couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us, she would turn into a lesson. For instance, I remember some boy in class asked how babies were made. I mean, this is a question that my own mother refused to answer until I was fourteen. And yet Ms. Blake calmly drew diagrams on the whiteboard and explained, in great detail, the stages of sexual intercourse. Most of the class was far too immature to appreciate her bluntness, but she didn’t care. I mean, she was of the philosophy that if you were drowning in the ocean, it wasn’t her job to steer the boat back to you and help you in. She’d stay on shore, throw out a life preserver, and have you swim to it. She never condescended or stooped down to our level. On the other hand, if you didn’t understand the material fast enough you were “shit out of luck” as she used to say.

And then quick as a flash, 5th grade was over. I remember crying the night before in my bedroom. My mom patted my head and told me that I’d still see all my friends again next year, but it wasn’t that. I didn’t have any friends, and if my mom had known me at all she would have realized that. I was crying because I would never have Ms. Blake as my teacher ever again. The teacher who let me stay inside rather than play kickball or tag. The teacher who read us scary stories the entire month of Halloween. The teacher who swore like a sailor and laughed with reckless abandon and didn’t care even a little bit what the other teachers or our parents thought of her.

I remember the last words she ever spoke to us. She called everyone back in from recess, and had us sit down. She said that it isn’t what we become but who we become that matters. I never forgot that. I live with that sentence in my mind constantly. She told us that we would never grow up to be what we wanted to be. I had said that I wanted to be a librarian, which, I mean, I sort of am now. I work at a bookstore. In Cape May, New Jersey. Far away from Goodland, Indiana, I know. And a lot more people, too. Well, at least in the summer. In the summer, we get more than forty-thousand people. But in the off-seasons, we never have more than four-thousand. I like that. I like it much better when it’s quiet. When I can sit in the store and watch the gray waves and listen to them crash against the shore. Beautiful.

Of course, the summer is better for business. And if it weren’t for the summer tourists, I’d be totally broke. Everyone wants to read on the beach, but no one wants to pack books in their suitcase. It’s the perfect problem. We’re located right on the boardwalk, and so we’re the first stop on the way to relaxation. The name of the bookstore is The Title Wave, and it’s owned by a guy a few years older than me named Parker Johnson. He hired me after I first graduated from college. I had majored in Journalism, but all the newspapers I applied to turned me down. They said my writing style was too terse and not interesting enough. I didn’t really understand that. I mean, I always thought that a good reporter just collected and told the facts, but I guess I was wrong. He opened the store with his wife on their honeymoon, but she left him some years back. Right after she left, he needed a new partner to run the store with because he was lonely. I just happened to be vacationing on Cape May during spring break, because I had won a trip from a silent auction. I had actually brought a lot of books with me, because I always like to be prepared. But I finished them far fasted than I had anticipated. Luckily, at the The Title Wave, you can also trade in used books. I went in to get some new ones, and that’s when I met him. Parker’s a wonderful guy: he’s smart and well-read. He and I spent that week discussing our favorite pieces of literature. His was Ulysses, mine was Jane Eyre. Before I left, he told me that as soon as I graduated, I was welcome to come back and run the store with him, for 50% of the profits. He even said I could live in one of his spare bedrooms. I took him up on his offer because we have a lot in common, and he’s one of the few men I’ve ever felt comfortable around.

We aren’t dating, or anything. I mean, we slept together a few times, back when I was first hired. But I was never really attracted to him. I’ve never been attracted sexually to anyone, actually. I always thought it because something was wrong with me, like I hadn’t found the right person. I thought that sex with Parker would fix everything, but now I think I made a mistake. There was never anything wrong with me, I don’t think. And I feel awful that I had to use Parker to figure that out, but he’s forgiven me now. Sometimes he gets frustrated and upset that I won’t be with him, but I just tell him that I can’t love him.

I’ve never loved anyone, really. I never had any friends I was close to. I didn’t even really love my parents that much. I mean, they’re my parents, so I’m glad they raised me, but I never felt truly connected to them. When my mom died when I was sixteen, I didn’t even cry, even though I know I should have.

The closest I’ve ever felt to love was in 5th grade, with Ms. Blake. She was an angel to me. An oasis from the outside world that I hated so. I think about her loud laugh, and her broad smile, and the way her eyes crinkled up at the corners. I think about how her painted fingernails (I remember them being a fire engine red) would click against the desk when she was frustrated with a student. I even think about the outfit she wore on that very last day of class: an orange tank top and white capri pants, with a silver barrette in her hair, and small diamond earrings.

I also think about one of her last messages to us, that we should always remember the ones who help us. So that if the time comes when they’re in trouble, we can repay the favor.

That’s why when I found out she disappeared, I knew I had to be the one to find her. Because I owe it to Ms. Blake to help her, and find out the truth. Even if it’s inconvenient or uncomfortable.