Outside the Lines (6 page)

Adri

I'm up before the sun, as usual, but the whole time I'm running, all I can think about is Sherm's essay. It hit a little too close to home. So, today, I take the southern loop. The one I usually avoid.

There's pink on the horizon and the world feels like it's waking when I reach the spot. My feet slow, then stop. When I see the flowers at the base of the tree, still fresh, I know Dad has been here. Nine months later, there's still a scar in the bark, a thick gouge exposing the tender heart of the tree. It looks like I feel every time I think of Mom.

Dad won't talk about what happened. We rarely talk about Mom at all. But just a few months ago Sergeant Dixon told me that, when he first arrived on the scene, he thought Len Boyd, the owner of the market in town, had hit Mom while she was out for her run, then veered into the tree. It turns out, he'd swerved to avoid her where she lay collapsed in the road. It was one of those freak things, I guess. She was healthy. Didn't drink. Never smoked. They say most people who have aneurisms don't even know it. Mom was one of them.

I sink to the gravel at the side of the road and sit cross-legged, staring into the middle of the street at the last place my mother was alive. The silence is broken only by the frogs and cicadas in the marsh behind me. “Hey, Mom.”

I close my eyes and wait for an answer. I want to hear her . . . or at least feel something. Maybe her whisper on the breeze, or her spirit moving inside me.

I don't.

I never have and it makes me feel like a failure as a daughter—like maybe I didn't love her enough when she was alive for her to want to hang around now.

I miss her so much. She always knew what to do. She always had answers.

I don't have any answers. I don't even feel like I'm asking the right questions. I want to help Chuck, and Sherm, and even Rob, but how am I supposed to fix anyone else when I can't even fix myself?

I stand when the first morning commuter passes and jog home, cutting my run short this morning. After I shower and change, I go to the kitchen for breakfast and find Dad smearing chunky peanut butter on his English muffin.

“Morning, punkin,” he says.

I give him a hug then stick my bagel in the toaster. “I ran down Brainerd this morning. Saw your flowers,” I say, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He nods, and when I turn to look at him more closely, his mouth is a tight line.

“Do you ever miss her?” I ask.

He turns to face me and the pain in his eyes is so fresh, you'd think it was just yesterday. “Every day.”

I open my mouth to ask why we never talk about her. When I close it without saying anything, I have my answer.

“You're late, aren't you?” he asks with a nod at the clock on the microwave.

I am. I sat by the road waiting for Mom for way too long this morning. I reach into the fridge for the cream cheese as my bagel pops up. “I'll eat on the way.”

And that's it.

He sits down with his coffee and English muffin, and I pour a travel mug and stuff my bagel in a plastic bag with a napkin, then head out the door.

Theresa Owens, our fifth-grade teacher, is standing at my door when I walk up to the classroom. “I need the permission slips and the name of your chaperone for the field trip next Wednesday.”

I feel my eyes pull wide. “Field trip?”

“Didn't Pam tell you?” she asks, tapping her clipboard that has twenty wrinkled papers clipped to it. Probably her students' permission slips. “We scheduled it just before break. We're swimming with the manatees.”

She smiles like she thinks this isn't the most terrifying idea in the history of man.

“
We
don't have to swim with them, though, right?” I say, waving a hand in a circle between us.

“If you have a chaperone who's willing to go in with the kids, you don't have to.” She scrunches her face at me. “But why would you want to pass up this opportunity?”

“Um . . . because there are things in the ocean that
eat people
.”

She laughs. “The manatee habitat is in a protected bay.”

“If the manatees can get in and out, so can the sharks,” I say with an adamant shake of my head. “Me in that water isn't going to happen.”

Her smile is amused. “So you're willing to feed your fourth graders to the sharks without going in to protect them?”

I nod and glance toward the playground, where some of them are starting to congregate. “A few, yeah.”

She shoves my shoulder. “You're bad.”

“I guess I need to get permission slips signed,” I say on a sigh. “Do you have an extra I can copy?”

She hands me one. “And find a chaperone. Bus leaves Wednesday morning right after first bell. It's a forty-five-minute drive each way and a two-hour program once we get there, so we should be back by afternoon recess.”

“Great.”

I dump my stuff on my desk, then walk to the office to copy permission slips. As I'm coming out, Rob is just pulling into a parking spot. I'm relieved to see, other than Sherm, he's alone. I wave as I jog out to the lot and he rolls down the window.

“Can we speak for a moment?” I ask. I'm not sure I'm ready to have this conversation, but it needs to be had, ready or not.

He scans my face with that intense gaze, then nods as Sherm piles out of the passenger seat with the shark jaw and
A Shark's Story
in his hand. I notice the bookmark's well over halfway into the book.

“Hey, Sherm,” I say. “How are you liking the book?”

His eyes lift to mine and he opens his mouth, but then shoots a glance at Rob and closes it again.

I give him a smile. “Why don't you head to the classroom. I'll be right behind you, okay?”

He nods.

“Maybe you can read some of that book to me later,” I add. I've got to finish his reading assessment today.

He trots off toward the classroom as Rob steps out of the car.

“So, I have a favor to ask,” I say, my eyes trailing over his chest, wondering if I can stand to see him in a swimsuit. “First, there's a field trip I just found out about next Wednesday. The kids are going to swim with the manatees. It's optional. If there are children who don't want to go, arrangements will be made for them to stay here with a substitute. But if it's okay for Sherm to go, I need you to sign this,” I say, handing him a permission slip.

He scans the form, then lifts his head and looks at me. “You have a pen?”

I hand him one and he signs. “You said you had
a
favor to ask,” he says, lifting his eyes from the paper, “but ‘first' implies there's a second.”

I catch my cringe before it fully forms. “Second, I'm looking for a chaperone who doesn't mind getting wet. Would you be available and interested?”

He looks at me for a long moment before he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeat.

He combs a hand through those incredible, messy waves and just looks at me a long moment. I feel a shudder race over my skin as I imagine my hands in that hair.
He has a wife . . . or at least a girlfriend
, I remind myself.

“Okay,” he says again, “You've got yourself a chaperone.”

“Great. That's great. Thanks.” So far so good. Now for the rest . . . “And third, I—”

“Third?” he says with an amused raise of his eyebrow. “Two wasn't enough?”

I clear my throat. “This isn't another favor, but more an order of business.”

The amusement instantly vanishes off his face and his gaze grows wary. “Okay. Shoot.”

“I've finished Sherm's writing assessment. The essay prompt was a favorite memory. Do you want to read it?”

He looks at me with that same assessing eye he gives almost everything. “Yes. Please.”

I turn for the classroom and Rob follows. When we step inside, Sherm is at the cabinet of curiosities, poking at the bright green crystals inside Mrs. Martin's geode. I move to the filing cabinet and pull out Sherm's folder, then sit at my desk. I open it and take the essay from the top, handing it to Rob.

He settles onto the corner of my desk, setting the paper on his thigh as he reads. I watch his honey eyes swirl into deep pools of emotion as they flick back and forth over the page, the corners creasing at a few points. When he's done, he lifts his head and looks at me, as if trying to gauge whether I've reported him to child protective services.

“How old was he when your mother died?” I ask.

“Four. I had no idea he even remembered her.” He looks over the paper, thumbing the gold band on his pinky. There's a glisten in his eyes that causes the lump that formed in my throat the first time I read the essay to form again.

“His love for her comes through in every line. The way he describes every detail, from the joy he felt because it was her birthday, to the warmth of sitting in her lap, to the taste of the cake and his description of the way her face lit up when she opened the box and saw the necklace is influenced by her presence.” My voice is a little thick as I say it, and I hate to admit that part of the sadness that's making it that way is born of jealousy.

Sherm obviously still feels his mother. My heart aches for him, but, selfishly, also for me. I want to know his secret—how he's kept her so alive in his heart. But I have to remind myself this isn't about me. It's about Sherm and what's hurt him. It's about finding ways to help him past it.

“This was the day she died,” Rob says, handing the essay back.

“The accident?” I ask, grabbing at this chance to unravel some of the mystery surrounding these brothers.

His eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, shock meets my gaze before wary caution descends and hides everything else. He nods. “Both our parents.”

I want to delve deeper—to ask how the family is dealing, and what else Sherm might remember—but the bell rings.

“It's beautifully written,” I say as students start through the door to their seats. “He has a gift. You should nurture it.”

“He's a smart kid,” he says, easing off the desk.

He turns and vanishes out the door, and I look at his little brother, playing with the fossils on the shelves. Rob left without a word to Sherm. They've never hugged, or even spoken as far as I can tell. It's been nearly two weeks, and Sherm is adjusting to his new surroundings, but still not a word to his older brother?

His parents death was five years ago, by Rob's account, which makes me think the trouble is less that or the move and more the brother. I haven't been able to bring myself to sit Sherm down and question him. It just feels wrong, like I'm taking advantage of the situation. Because I'm pretty sure, despite Big Brother's indifference toward me, Little Brother has a bit of a crush. Making him feel safe so he can learn is my priority.

I just need to figure out how to do that.

*   *   *

I'm still obsessing over it hours later as I'm wrapping up class for the day, but I don't have any answers. So when the text comes from Chuck, I know it might be the conversation starter I need.

Rob comes to pick Sherm up and waits just outside the door, like he thinks the classroom is booby-trapped.

I move toward him as Sherm gathers his things. I pull out my phone and reread the text Chuck sent me, mostly because I'm having a hard time working up the nerve to look him in those intense eyes. “I know you're new to the area and didn't know if you maybe needed work. I have a lead for you if it would help.”

He steps inside as students stream past on their way out. “What is it?”

“I have a friend who works for a private security company. He says they hire guys like you. He'll pass your name along to his boss if you're interested.”

“Guys like me?” he repeats with a curious tip of his head.

I shrug an arm. “After they've come back from Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever. And also . . . my friend did a couple of tours in Afghanistan . . . you know . . . in case you wanted to talk to someone who understands what you've been through.”

His mouth drops open a little.

“I know it's really none of my business. It's just that this is a small town, and even though he's lived here all his life, he's having a hard time adjusting back to all the . . . nothing here, so—”

“I'm nobody's hero,” Rob interrupts, saving me from myself. “I've never been in the military.”

Oh, crap. Once again, I've made a total fool out of myself by making assumptions. “I'm sorry. You just seem—”

“But I might be interested in that job,” he cuts in.

“Okay . . . ,” I say, forcing my hand to stay at my side and not press my flaming cheeks. “Do you want me to write this down, or just forward the text?”

“Forward it.” He rattles off his number and a second after I press send, his phone vibrates. “Thanks,” he says, holding it up.

I watch Sherm as Macie steps up next to his desk and says something in his ear. Whatever it was gets a hint of a smile from him.

“Is Sherman a family name or something?” I ask Rob.

He gives me that wary eye again. “Not exactly.”

“It's just sort of an unusual name for a kid.”

He rests his hand on the doorframe and taps his ring absently as he contemplates that. “Our father was a Civil War buff.”

I clear my throat as Sherm and Macie make their way past us and out of the room. “There was a general Sherman, right? In the Civil War?”

He nods slowly. “And generals Robert E. Lee, and Ulysses S. Grant.”

I just look at him, struggling to follow his train of thought.

“My other brother's name is Grant, and my sisters are Lee and Ulie.”

I feel my eyes bulge in understanding. “Your parents did
not
name a girl Ulysses.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and it lightens my heart to see it. “They did.”