“It was hiding, I guess,” I say, laying it across the arm of the chair. I take its mate from Penny, and put the pair back together. “And now you’re all set. Want me to stay with you until the alarm goes off?”
Penny’s head is already nestled on her pillow; her hands, palms together, tucked under her cheek. Her eyes are closed. I lean down and give her wayward hair the briefest of kisses. “It’s going to be great,” I whisper. I hope I’m right.
She doesn’t even open her eyes. “I know, Charlie Mac,” she says.
I have Maysie on speed dial. Just in case. She’s done this with Molly and Max, and in a few years, will be such an old hand that she’ll probably ship baby Maddee off to her first day of school with a casual wave and an envelope of lunch money.
But as Penny and I walk through the oak front doors of Main, I’m as unsettled as I was on my first day at Public School 11, home of the Anthony Wayne Blue Devils. We middle-schoolers were the Baby Blues. P.S. 11 had grungy lockers along the walls, recalcitrant padlocks that I still dream about battling, yellowing linoleum and hallways full of people who were taller than I was. I hardly remember smiling. Though I could be wrong about this.
One thing haunting me more than my own past this morning. Bexter is hiding some secrets.
“Your dad says he’ll see you at lunch, in the cafeteria,” I remind Penny. I’m determined to keep this day normal. “He had to be in extra early to-”
“I know,” Penny interrupts. “But I told him, no way. I mean, the other kids do know he’s my dad, and they know he’s a teacher. So it’s cool if I catch him later. No biggie.”
The lobby has the air of a small-town British train station at rush hour. Chilly. High ceilings. Identically dressed students, carefully diverse. A few hovering parents. There’s the low-key buzz of hellos and goodbyes. Everyone bustling, everyone determined, everyone with a destination. And all keeping to schedule.
It all appears peaceful, probably as it’s been every new semester since 1923. But I know how much has happened over winter vacation.
I see Dean Kent Bishop and the bursar, Aaron Pratt, standing in one corner, observing the morning chaos. The Head, arms crossed, watches regally, hovering outside his corner office. Harrison Ebling gives me a nod. I recognize a few of the teachers, stationed strategically. They might as well be plainclothes cops. And maybe they are.
I wonder who knows what and how much. I wonder if Talbott and Lexie Dulles are here. And Nancy Kindell. I wonder if Harrison Ebling has addresses for me.
But Penny comes first. I can’t let anything ruin her first day.
“Your dad really wanted to come with you, you know.” I hope Penny’s not having some permanent life-trauma moment, where she’ll someday tell some therapist how her mother deserted her, and then her father wasn’t there on the first day of school, and how he sent some interloper as substitute parent.
We arrive under the two-story timbered archway that connects Main’s lobby to the branching hallways lined with classrooms. I look down at Penny, checking for terror, and reach for her hand.
Penny stops. Looks up at me with that Penny face.
“Are you freaking out, Charlie Mac?” Then she actually winks at me and tucks her hand through the strap of her backpack instead.
“You’re going to be my mom,” she says, solemn. Pronouncing the rules. “I’m too old to hold hands.” This time, she’s wearing the headband, unnecessary to control her inch-long hair, but apparently required for preteen fashion. She’ll hang her navy pea jacket in her new classroom. Underneath, her new uniform is starched and pleated and pristine. She has two socks. And she’s smiling.
“Then you get that cute fanny to class,” I say, giving her a pat. “No throwing chalk. No sticking your gum under the desk. No passing notes.”
“Huh?” Penny says. “We text.”
“Hey, Penny,” two Penny clones speak in unison as they arrive, in identical uniforms, lugging books. I wonder again how their backpacks don’t tip the little girls heels over head.
They all perform some elaborate handshake thing that seems to include elbows and forefingers. They look up at me, register my bafflement, then remember their Bexter manners.
“I’m Tenley Eisenberg. And this is Eve Nillsen. We met Penny at orientation.” Tenley moves her bangs out of her eyes, then holds out a hand. Then she stops. Hand in midair. And looks at Penny. “Is this-?”
“Told you,” Eve says, cocking her head knowingly. “The one on-”
“The news.” Tenley finishes the sentence. Reverent.
“She’s Charlie McNally,” Penny says. Her nose tips up the slightest bit and an unmistakable note of pride tinges her voice. “She’s going to be my new stepmother, and I’m going to be her junior bridesmaid. In the wedding. She’s already brought her cat to our house. And Charlie Mac’s going to live there, too. With me and my dad.”
“Cool.”
“Totally.”
“So nice to meet you both,” I say, reaching out to shake hands. “How lovely of you to-”
Penny holds up her tiny wrist, interrupting. It’s weighted down by the pink-and-black plastic watch Josh presented her last night. “Time for class,” Penny announces. “See you at home, Charlie Mac. You guys ready?”
The plaid-and-backpacked trio sashays down the center hallway, hunter-green pleats swinging under their matching jackets, heads close together. Penny already has friends. Parents are forgotten. Is this how mothers feel? About a hundred years old? And happy to be so?
“Take care,” I whisper to their backs. “See you at home, Penneroo.”
Home. New York is a million miles away. And maybe? Should stay that way.
I know I should get right back to the station. Franklin may have heard more from Saskia about the blue Mustang offered for sale on the Drive Time show. He may have dug up the info about who owns Beacon Valet. And right after the noon news, we’re scheduled to meet with Kevin and regroup about tonight’s stakeout. We’ve decided not to start tonight until ten or so, theorizing cars that could be at the Longmore Hotel overnight are more likely to be taken. It could be a pivotal evening.
I’d watched Penny until she was out of sight. I’d traipsed back to my car. Even turned on the engine.
Then I couldn’t resist. Grabbing my phone, I leave Franklin a vague voice mail explaining that I’ll be there soon but have to do one little errand. I turn off the car, slam the door, head to Landman Hall and down the corridor to Josh’s classroom. I have several more-than-reasonable excuses if anyone stops me. I’m engaged to the teacher and I’m a parent. But the main door to the building is not yet locked. The halls are empty all the way to room 418. Not such great security, but it’s making my goal very easy. I want to see Josh in action.
If the amount of e-mail he gets and the sign-up sheet for his office hours are any indication, the kids adore him. And I’ve always been curious how he handles his students in class. How they react to him. His expression. His posture. His demeanor. I’ll be undercover tonight at the Longmore. Might as well be undercover this morning, too.
At this time of morning, classes in full swing, the hallway is empty. No kids clutching late passes, no bustling administrators carrying clipboards. The lacquered oak door to 418 is closed, like all the other doors down the hardwood corridor. A brass plaque, at eye level, is engraved “Professor Gelston. English Literature.” A four-paned window, beveled glass with brass edging, is positioned just high enough to be out of reach. Tiptoe height.
Tiptoe it is. I put down my purse and make myself as tall as possible. And I get a surprise. I know this is Josh’s room, but I don’t see him. I stand on my toes as long as I can, calves straining and balancing with two fingers on the doorjamb. I don’t see him. I peer through the frustratingly small window, ready to duck out of sight if anyone looks up.