“No.”
I’m listening only halfheartedly to the woman on the other end of the line. I stare out the window, watching the neighbors’ children shake a flimsy tree so that the remaining leaves fall down upon them. The children are my clock; when they appear in the backyard I know that it’s late afternoon, school is through. When they disappear inside again it’s time to start dinner.
“Her cell phone?”
“It goes straight to voice mail.”
“Did you—”
“I left a message.”
“You’re certain she didn’t call in today?”
“Administration never heard from her.”
I’m worried that Mia will get in trouble. I’m worried that she will be fired. The fact that she might already be in trouble has yet to cross my mind.
“I hope this hasn’t caused too much of a problem.”
Ayanna explains that Mia’s first-period students didn’t inform anyone of the teacher’s absence and it wasn’t until second period that word finally leaked out: Ms. Dennett wasn’t here today and there wasn’t a sub. The principal went down to keep order until a substitute could be called in; he found gang graffiti scribbled across the walls with Mia’s overpriced art supplies, the ones she bought herself when the administration said no.
“Mrs. Dennett, don’t you think it’s odd?” she asks. “This isn’t like Mia.”
“Oh, Ayanna, I’m certain she has a good excuse.”
“Such as?” she asks.
“I’ll call the hospitals. There’s a number in her area—”
“I’ve done that.”
“Then her friends,” I say, but I don’t know any of Mia’s friends. I’ve heard names in passing, such as Ayanna and Lauren and I know there’s a Zimbabwean on a student visa who’s about to be sent back and Mia thinks it’s completely unfair. But I don’t know them, and last names or contact information are hard to find.
“I’ve done that.”
“She’ll show up, Ayanna. This is all just a misunderstanding. There could be a million reasons for this.”
“Mrs. Dennett,” Ayanna says and it’s then that it hits me: something is wrong. It hits me in the stomach and the first thought I have is myself seven or eight months pregnant with Mia and her stalwart limbs kicking and punching so hard that tiny feet and hands emerge in shapes through my skin. I pull out a bar stool and sit at the kitchen island and think to myself that before I know it, Mia will be twenty-five and I haven’t so much as thought of a gift. I haven’t proposed a party or suggested that all of us, James and Grace and Mia and me, make reservations for an elegant dinner in the city.
“What do you suggest we do, then?” I ask.
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “I was hoping you’d tell me Mia was with you,” she says.
Copyright ? 2014 by Mary Kyrychenko
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing can be a solitary task. We sit behind a computer screen or lock ourselves in a room with a notebook and pen, and obsess over fictional characters. Some days, we find ourselves talking to imaginary people more than any real human beings in our lives. While the rest of the world is asleep, our characters are tormenting us in the middle of the night, demanding that we make them say this or do that.
Writing is a solitary task, and yet book publication is anything but. I feel so fortunate to have so many amazing people on my book publication team: my extraordinary literary agent, Rachael Dillon Fried, my brilliant editor, Erika Imranyi, my publicist, Emer Flounders, and all the other dedicated, hardworking and all-around wonderful people at Harlequin and Sanford Greenburger Associates—the editorial, publicity, sales and marketing teams, and various other literary agents and assistants I’ve had the privilege to meet (and those working hard behind the scenes who I have yet to meet)! I’m so proud to be part of the Harlequin and Sanford Greenburger families.