“You asked me about myself.” Mr. Slocum went back to his desk, sat, and opened a drawer. “I brought a photo album.” It was an old-fashioned leather loose-leaf binder, just color pictures in clear plastic sleeves. He pointed to a brownstone. “This is where I was born, in Red Hook, Brooklyn. That tall boy next to me is my brother, Eugene. He teaches chemistry.” There was Mr. Slocum in high school, a basketball player with long straight hair down to his shoulders, and in college, and getting married. He was widowed now. He was displaying his life for her, only the broadest strokes, of course, but he must know she could tell everybody about this and get a good laugh.
When he was finished, he drew himself up. “You have now fulfilled your school service, Clara.”
Not Miss Hartel. Clara.
“I did a little reading on Memory Enhancement. You don’t lose your memories, but you feel altogether differently about them, have I got that right?”
She nodded, impressed. He understood ME very well.
“Sometimes people change their name, I hear. It is still Clara, isn’t it?”
“Close enough,” she said, the simplest answer. Of all the teachers she’d ever had, how come horrible Mr. Slocum had been the only one to notice something off about her? He’d called it la-la land—which was also close enough, since he had no way of knowing about a glass coffin. He’d been a jerk about it, too. Well, until today.
“Really, thank you,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t! Wait, you mean—okay, right.”
She grabbed her things. She’d thought she would rush to the bus stop but found herself walking slowly for no reason she could think of. It was as if she wasn’t sure how to get there and didn’t want to take a wrong turn and get lost.
Once at the bus stop, she did homework for the rest of the afternoon, looking up every few moments so she wouldn’t miss the dark-haired girl, and hearing the sighs of the hydro-buses as they came and went. She wasn’t getting much work done because she also kept checking the time—ninety-four hours to go, ninety-three, ninety-two.
At one point her phone buzzed. Cooper had sent her a link, and a message:
Hope to see you, where or when.
She tapped on the link; it was that song “Where or When.” She popped in her earbuds. It was beautiful. But she just played it once.
All afternoon she saw only one person she recognized: Ms. Brackman, who had Candy with her. Candy plopped down on the sidewalk not far from the bus stop and for several minutes absolutely would not budge from the spot.
“Don’t be like that!” Ms. Brackman said, before opening her handbag and taking out a piece of chicken.
Wednesday lunch and afternoon found her back at the bus stop. It was Halloween, and tons of kids were in costumes: superheroes, firefighters, Mr. and Ms. Potato Heads. Still, there was no girl in the jean jacket. It was as if the dark-haired girl was deliberately avoiding her.
She was just hauling out some books when her phone buzzed. There was a message from Dr. Lola:
Short-staffed today can u walk Rouge?
This was so inconsiderate—she needed to sit here. Why couldn’t Dr. Lola just leave her alone? What was it about having a blissful, carefree childhood that made someone think she could snap her fingers and get what she wanted?
The girl could still hear Dr. Star’s flat, generic voice: There’s no anger, it’s gone, like a banished king, never to return.
But the anger, like a lake of lava seething inside her, lingered.
From deep, deep down, this was Clara’s anger, erupting.
On my way, she texted back. It occurred to the girl that, after all, Dr. Lola might be doing her a favor. The girl in the jean jacket might be at the dog run.
Gr8!!! Dr. Lola answered. What’s with the ID pic?
Well, it wasn’t something you could explain in a text.
At the animal hospital, Stacey greeted her with a smile. “You’re a lifesaver! Dr. Lola’s in the back.”
The girl walked down the hall and found Dr. Lola cleaning a dog’s teeth. Rose had seen this procedure. You had to sedate the dog. The dog lies on its back on a long, shiny table, eyes open but unseeing, here but not here.
Like Clara in the glass coffin. But the psychic had said it to Rose, not Clara, that she was “here but not here.” Which had confused Rose and confused the girl now, too.
“Rose, thank you so much!” Dr. Lola said, turning around and taking off her gloves. Rouge ran over to the girl and immediately tucked her chin down and pushed the top of her head into the girl’s side.
“Where’d Rouge come from?” she asked.
“She’s a rescue,” Dr. Lola said. “She wound up in a shelter for abused and abandoned animals.”
Poor Rouge. What had she been through? No way to ever know, either; it wasn’t as though Rouge could pull a photo album out of a desk drawer.
Out on the sidewalk the girl noticed something Rose hadn’t picked up on, that people hurried out of her way now that she had an enormous dog at her side. It made her feel powerful, but also uncomfortable, because people didn’t understand. She wanted to say, Don’t be afraid—she’s a pussycat!