She shopped. Bluefly.com, Piperlime, Nordstrom, Saks. Her parents paid her credit card bill each month without comment. She accumulated stuff she didn’t even want. James Perse T-shirts ($65 each) and J Brand skinny jeans ($169). Tory Burch “Aaden” ballerina flats ($250). A Marc Jacobs “Eugenie” quilted-leather clutch ($495). She’d once spent $500 on black satin lingerie from Agent Provocateur just to see if they’d notice; while waiting for the package to arrive, she’d drifted to sleep each night to the image of her bedroom door bursting open in a flurry of outrage, her father’s gray suit rumpled, her mother’s black hair frizzed. But they’d never said a word about it. Her best friend, Emma Fleed, had seen it hanging in the closet with the tags still on and made such a big deal about it, Abigail had told her to take it all.
She was grateful for Mr. Ellison: thirty-two years old, tall, with sloped shoulders and a barely noticeable paunch over his belt. When he taught, he wore striped dress shirts, Gap jeans, and a braided leather belt that had started to fray but held some special meaning for him—Abigail teased him about it once, offering to buy him a new one from Michael Kors or Ferragamo, and he pouted until she changed the subject. He wore square-rimmed glasses over his hazel eyes. His hair was strawberry-blond and thin and his face clean-shaven. There were little nicks of blood around his jawline and neck. His teeth were straight, his fingers freckled and strong. He had a degree in English literature from Berkeley, which was a hard school to get into, and his favorite book was A Confederacy of Dunces, written by some guy who’d killed himself before the book was published and won the Pulitzer Prize. Mr. Ellison talked about this story often, seeming to cling to it in a way that made no sense to her.
He was the yearbook adviser. He edited her write-up of the drama program, and she liked to watch as he scrolled red pen across the page, striking through lazy phrases, lassoing commas that had no place.
She liked to watch him pace around the yearbook room in the afternoon light. The walls were cream, and the ancient windows, arched and warped, sealed them in a golden heat. The building, Stone Hall, was over a hundred years old and always smelled like something baking. It was her favorite place.
—
Mr. Ellison asked for her number at the beginning of junior year, in case important yearbook issues arose.
In September and October, their texts were strictly business: When is football article due?? and Editorial mtg Tues 3pm.
Their dialogue evolved gently, slowly. By November: What r u up to? She’d text, In pjs in bed still studying, just enough to make a picture in his mind. By January he’d begun to text her deeper questions:
What do you care about?
I don’t know. Grades I guess. College. Beating my sprint time. Making the best yearbook ever!!
Is that your answer?
What do u mean?
I don’t believe you. I think there is more.
Maybe…do u rly want to know?
What do you want?
Why r u asking?
What have you never told anyone else?
I don’t know.
Tell me.
Ok. Here’s something. I’ve always hated summer. Since I was a kid. I’m already dreading it.
I thought kids were supposed to love the summer? No homework, slip-n-slide, hot dogs, &etc.
Exactly. All year there’s hw and tests and so much to do u can’t even think, then one day a bell rings and it’s like stop everything, go outside, here’s this piece of plastic and some nasty boiled meat on a bun, time to have FUN!
I’m not sure I understand. I want to.
There’s too much time. U just float around in it like a speck. Sleep in. Hang out. Watch tv. Go online. Go to the beach. Get burned. Eat shitty fast food u don’t even like. What’s the point?
Is that what you do? Or, what do you do with all that time?
Nothing…think.
:) What do you think about?
U don’t really care abt this do u?
I care about you.
It’s stupid. Just…Is there something more to me than all this stuff I’ve been given? What if there’s not?
Talk to me, he wrote. Tell me a secret.
—
One afternoon in early February, Mr. Ellison took Abigail into the clock tower to research a yearbook article about the school’s history. Students weren’t allowed up there, but she was an exception.
He unlocked the door and guided her through the dusty dark to a steep wooden staircase. She began to climb, cobwebs clinging to her wrists and hair. She coughed. Mr. Ellison followed, his breathing heavy in the close space.
Finally she climbed out onto splintered floorboards, blinking in the sudden light. The belfry was a small, square room with arched windows that had looked dollhouse-sized from the ground but now revealed themselves to be enormous. It no longer held actual bells; to mark the hours, the secretary played a recording of bell-like sounds that had been donated by the class of 1978.
Mr. Ellison emerged behind her, and bent to catch his breath. After several uncomfortable seconds he straightened and smiled at Abigail, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
“I can see why people don’t come up here much,” he said.
“Yeah,” she agreed, pulling a sticky string of cobweb from her hair. But she was interested. She began to circle the room, running her hand over the scribbled yellow walls. Paint flaked and powdered in her palm. The walls said:
THE OPPOSITE OF LOVE IS NOT HATE BUT IN-DIFFERENCE.
DEFY THE LAWS OF TRADITION.
DROP ACID NOT BOMBS.