The side door to the kitchen opened and shut, startling Sylvie from her chair. Scott loped through the mud room and into the kitchen, talking on his cell phone. He opened the fridge and stuck his head inside, not even glancing in her direction.
She stared, feeling visible and obtrusive in her own home. When had she last seen him? When had they last spoken? He looked sloppy, unshowered, his mess of dark hair thick around his face. His tattoos peeked out from under his clothes, the ones on his wrists, the one creeping up his neck, another peering out under the T-shirt sleeve on his bicep. Before Swithin gave Scott the assistant coaching job, they’d balked at his tattoos, ordering him to cover them up. It was difficult to imagine Scott at Swithin as an adult figure, a quasi-authority. Certain teachers, all prim and neat in their burgundy blazers and tortoiseshell glasses, probably gave him wide berth in the hallways and conversations probably halted when Scott entered a room.
Scott barked a few more words into his phone and hung up without saying good-bye. Sylvie cleared her throat, and he looked over. His eyes were dark, unresponsive. She had no idea what to say. Every icebreaker seemed clumsy, inappropriate.
Scott shut the fridge, shuffled to the coffeemaker, and lifted the carafe. “The coffee’s cold,” Sylvie said quickly, rushing over to him. “Here. I’ll make some more.”
Scott held the carafe in midair. “I’ll just microwave it.”
“No, you should have fresh coffee. It’s terrible microwaved. Skunky.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s no trouble.” She already had the grinder out and was dumping the cold grounds into the trash.
Scott stepped away, folding his arms over his chest. Even though he was fairly thin, he filled up a room. Sylvie spooned the fresh grounds into the filter and cleared her throat. “So. What’s new with you?”
He didn’t answer, instead opened and closed cabinet drawers, looking for something to eat.
The coffeemaker began to burble and hiss. Sylvie licked her lips, staring at a slight water blemish on the stainless-steel toaster. Her heart drummed fast. “Wrestling team going well?”
Scott snickered. Sylvie was glad she wasn’t holding a coffee cup; if she had been, it would be rattling in her hand, the liquid sloshing over the side. He knew that she knew. He knew what was being said. And now he was enjoying watching Sylvie scramble to figure out a way to talk to him about it. How could he chuckle? A boy had died under his watch.
She turned to him, a vein at her temple suddenly throbbing. “They said you have to meet with some of the teachers.” There. That was her way in.
He assessed her, leaning against the counter. One eyebrow arched. “Yep. That’s what they say.”
She stared at him, trying her best not to blink. Would it be better or worse to just flat-out ask him what had happened? Did she want to know, or was she happier remaining in the dark? Even if she did ask, would he tell her? “Do you know when your meeting is?” she blurted out.
“Next week, I think.” He inspected his nails.
“Ah.” It was as though they were having a conversation about the weather or if she should put regular or premium gas in her car. Sylvie ran her finger over a chipped spot on the countertop, wishing she could crack something against it. “And … do you know who the meeting is with?”
“Nope.”
She stared at the slowly filling coffeepot and took a breath. “Well, maybe you could dress up for the meeting. Wear a jacket.”
Scott made a noise at the back of his throat. “A jacket?”
“Or at least a shirt and tie.” Just don’t wear those ridiculous pants that hang around your ankles and show your underwear. Just don’t wear the sweatshirt with that word I can’t even repeat on it. Just comb your hair.
Scott said nothing. He turned and took the lid off the old earthenware cookie jar, the very same one that held homemade sugar cookies when Sylvie was a girl. Scott reached for a chocolate chip cookie, took a big bite, and then held the uneaten part outstretched reflectively. “Mmmm,” he decided. Crumbs fell to the floor.
He finished his cookie, laced his hands together and turned them inside out, giving each knuckle a crack. “I thought you were, like, a powerful force at that school. You can make it go away.”
She blinked at him, trembling inside. Is that what you think? she wanted to say. But now Scott had walked into the mud room—the conversation was over. A few moments later, he returned with his sneakers, loud orange and white high-tops. She watched as he sat down at the table, propped one foot up on his knee, and began to leisurely lace the shoes up. It was as if he was another creature entirely, one whose actions she couldn’t begin to predict. One of those sea creatures that lived in the sunless depths of the ocean. Or maybe a carnivorous plant that ate gnats.
“Going somewhere?” she asked.
“To the city. Just for the morning.”
“How come?”