“Yeah, I know,” comes the response. “My timing was off.”
A new voice chimes in. “Along with everything else.”
“Well,” says the first voice in a kindly tone, “you have a lot on your mind today. I don’t expect perfection. But I know practice can be a good distraction, and maybe that’s something you can work on at home while you wait to hear from your sister.”
Ivy’s eyes bug out. Before I’m fully aware of what’s happening, she’s grabbed my arm, yanked open the nearest door, and shoved me into a small, dark room. “What the hell?” I sputter, my shoulder banging against the nearest wall. I barely have time to register that we’re in a closet full of mops and buckets before she’s pulled the door closed behind us and darkness descends.
“That’s Daniel and Coach Kendall,” she hisses. “His office is next door. And Daniel’s friend Trevor, I think. Lacrosse practice must’ve just let out.”
“Oh shit,” I mutter, my heart dropping as I listen to Coach Kendall’s earnest voice go on about protecting the ball on the run. Ever since I started hanging out with Lara, I’ve done my best not to think about him; or if I do think about him, it’s to tell myself that he and Lara are a bad fit and should break up. But now, listening to him talk with Daniel and Trevor, all I can think is that he’s a nice guy staying late with a worried student while his fiancé runs around behind his back. With more than one person.
“Daniel, do you still have those extra gloves from the last game?” Coach Kendall asks.
“Yeah, in the front pocket of my bag,” Daniel says.
“I’m gonna take them back, okay? Fitz might need them.” A chuckle, then Coach Kendall asks, “What do you have in here? Rocks?” God. It’s exactly the kind of dumb dad joke Wes would make, which only makes me feel worse.
“Just a lot of balls,” Daniel says.
“Balls,” Trevor repeats, snickering. “So many.”
“All right, guys, I gotta head out. Rest up tonight, okay?”
“You got it, Coach.”
A set of footsteps passes our door, then fades. Daniel and Trevor shove each other around for a few minutes, laughing about something I can’t make out, and then their footsteps pass us as well, loud and echoing as they race down the empty hall. We wait until there’s nothing but silence, and then we wait some more. Finally, Ivy opens the door a crack and peers into the hallway. “Coast is clear,” she whispers, pulling her keys from her bag and holding them tightly in one hand so they won’t jingle as she walks.
“You sure that key will open it?” I ask as we approach Lara’s classroom. The door is closed, the interior dark.
Ivy rattles the knob; it doesn’t budge. “We’ll find out,” she says. The same square key from before fits easily into the lock, and when she turns the knob again, the door swings open with a low creak.
“It’s pretty crap security to have one key for everything,” I say.
“Well, this is Carlton.” Ivy steps through the doorway, and I follow. “Nothing bad is ever supposed to happen here, right?”
The classroom is dim until Ivy flicks the switch near the door, flooding it with light. It’s weird, considering the circumstances, but I can feel myself starting to relax as I smell the familiar mixture of paint and pencil shavings. The room looks the same as always. A long table running against the far wall is covered with art supplies: thick stacks of paper, bright paint bottles, boxes of charcoal and colored pencils, and galvanized steel canisters to hold paintbrushes.
Even before Lara started teaching here, this classroom was my happy place—the one part of school where I always felt like I belonged. Come to think of it, though, I probably felt more at home here before she became my teacher. Because this room was just about the art then; my fingers itching to grab charcoal or a pencil as soon as I walked through the door, my mind buzzing with images I couldn’t wait to translate onto a page. There was no desperate yearning to be noticed, no confusion and guilt when I finally was. A comic I drew sophomore year is framed on the back wall, from when my teacher, Mr. Levy, submitted my work for a contest. It won first place, and the whole class clapped when Mr. Levy hung it up.
“Well done, Cal,” he said. “I hope you’re as proud as we are.” And I was.
A wave of something almost like homesickness washes over me, so strong that my knees feel weak and I have to lean against the wall for support. It hits me, suddenly, that I wasn’t just feeling nostalgic for middle school in the parking lot this morning. I was nostalgic for this—the Before Lara version of Cal—because that’s the last time I can remember liking myself.
Noemi could’ve put it more gently, maybe, but she was right. I’m a shell.
My phone rings, startling both Ivy and me. I answer in a panic to stop the noise, and barely register that it’s Wes before holding it to my ear. “Hey, Dad.”
“Cal?” His voice is tight and worried. “Are you all right?”