She rolled down her window and shouted to him through the rain.
He acknowledged her with a quick but perceptible lift of his chin, which she took as a welcoming sign. She waved until he slung his backpack on one shoulder and came to her passenger window. His face was glistening. His skin looked slightly bluish in the rain. Water was dripping off his San Francisco Giants cap and drenching his hoodie and backpack. She worried, briefly, about the well-being of his books.
“What are you doing out here?” she said. “Let me give you a ride.”
“That’s okay.”
“You can’t stay out in this. I couldn’t live with myself.” She reached across and unlocked the passenger door. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Nick opened the door. “You sure?” he asked, glancing with uncharacteristic anxiousness over his shoulder.
She felt a flicker of paranoia—was someone watching them?—but covered it with a smile. “Get in.”
Nick shrugged off his backpack and folded into the car. The pack was a brick at his feet, his knees high. He must have been over six feet. He didn’t seem this tall in her classroom—but then, he was usually confined to a wrap-around desk, she on her feet at an appropriate distance.
“Do you want to toss that in back?” Molly asked, pointing to the backpack. She glanced in the rearview and immediately regretted the offer—evidence of her humanity was strewn with embarrassing abandon over the backseat: a Target circular with cut-out coupons, a potato chip bag spilling crumbs, a sports bra.
“It’s all good,” he said.
“So, where are we going?”
“Into the labyrinth,” he said, and pointed her into Sycamore Park.
The maze of narrow streets was drenched and gray, the sidewalks bare except for a smattering of mothers who were bundling their children into European SUVs. The rain drummed the roof of Molly’s Honda and shuddered down the windows. The heater whooshed hot air at their feet, intensifying the smells of his soaked cotton hoodie and cigarettes and her damp hair, her too-sweet shampoo, candy-apple, bought on sale.
Nick stared out the passenger window. Teenagers never felt the social burden of small talk; that was one thing Molly had come to like about them. But his silence was excruciating; she was compelled to fill it.
“So, how are you liking the class so far?”
He shrugged. “It’s cool.”
After a moment she offered, “Your Salesman essay was very insightful. I was impressed.”
He nodded. “Yeah.” Spectacular, the confidence of teenage boys! They took compliments like points they were owed—unlike the girls, who were surprised, or eager to say she was wrong.
“I think the other students would really benefit from your ideas. It would be nice to hear more from you in class.”
“No doubt,” he said, smirking, then pointed left. “Turn here.”
Molly turned in to Tamalpais Park, dismayed by how easily she had reverted to talking about school, because at the age of twenty-three she still had absolutely no clue what boys wanted her to say to them. Behind the silvery wash of the rain, she made out tasteful Craftsman and ranch houses, picket fences slick and white. Giant redwoods, oaks, and sycamores. Along the narrow streets she saw nothing garish or overlarge, nothing ugly or out of place. In some ways it was absolutely ordinary. It was disconcerting, and somewhat depressing, to know that no matter how successful a teacher she was, she could never afford to live on these streets, in this neighborhood Nick Brickston knew as home.
Then, without warning, he spoke. “You know who you remind me of?”
“Who?”
“I’m tryna figure it out. I know. That girl from that book.”
“Which? Gatsby?” She thought foolishly, Let it be Daisy.
“Naw, the one from last year. About the governess and that crazy bitch in the attic.”
“Oh. You mean Jane Eyre.” She must have frowned, because he seemed to make a calculation, then said,
“Yeah, like Jane. But also, that girl who was in Titanic. Rose whatever. Kind of like Jane Eyre and the girl from Titanic had a baby.”
“Kate Winslet?”
“That’s it.”
The water streamed steadily around them. She was aware of Nick’s body in the close space. Without wanting to, she thought of Doug Ellison, the hotel room, the girl. Was this how it started? As easily as pulling over in a rainstorm, unlocking a passenger door?
She cleared her throat. “So you do read the books. I was beginning to wonder if anyone did.”
“When I feel like it.”
“And you read on your own as well? You must.”
Nick shrugged. Now he seemed embarrassed—he jutted his chin and she noticed his skinny, razor-burned neck, and the blackheads that muddled the grooves of his nose. She saw that she had pushed into a tender place, to witness something he spent most of his waking hours ensuring no one got to see.