Page 66 of What You Left Me

The timer beeps.

It’s over. I’m done. I walk up the aisle and turn in my final.

Ms. Hornsby hands me my phone in response. “You’re quite popular today. This has been going off all hour.”

I don’t know why, but I decide to tell her the truth. “It’s probably about Martin.”

Color drains from her face. Gone is her signature icy facade. She was on Martin’s case the entire ceremony, but I have a sneaking suspicion she was hard on him because she liked him. She knew, like I know, that he’s capable of being more. “Has there been any update? Administration’s been in contact with the hospital, but we haven’t heard anything in a while.”

I look at the new voicemails on my phone. One from Turrey and one from Cameron, as well as several missed calls from both. And lots of unread texts. “I’m going to guess those calls were with news.”

“I’m sorry I made you wait. I didn’t realize you two actually knew each other.” An idea comes to her. “I can run this test through the Scantron and let you know how you did if you’d like? Maybe you can listen to those voicemails while I do it. It will take only a minute or two.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’d really like to know. About both of you.”

Her desperation makes me agree. And my curiosity. Maybe if I did it—accomplished the seemingly impossible—Martin can do it too.

When Ms. Hornsby leaves the classroom, I sit in a front row desk and play Turrey’s voicemail.

“Hey. I just left Daniel’s, and you weren’t there. Mama D called me. Said the docs are saying Fly’s made a turn for the worse. He’s stable for now, but it’s been up and down all morning. Shit. Sorry if you can’t hear me. I have this on speaker ’cuz I’m driving. It’s—I don’t know. I felt like I had to call you. Hit me back when you can.”

Then Cameron’s.

“Hey, Petty. Hope the final is going well. You’re gonna do great. If anyone can pull it off without studying, it’s you. I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Turrey told us something. This is…I don’t know. I love you. We’re driving to the school now. We’ll be outside when you finish. I love you. I know I already said that. I love you.”

• • •

Spencer, I’m not trying to rush perfection, I swear. I need it to be your dream next. It can’t be Petra’s.

I’ve been seeing her a lot here. More than I’ve seen anyone else, actually. If it’s her before you, with her long pretty hair and her glow and her smart way of talking, she’ll make me ask more questions and force me to be even more patient until another answer presents itself. This Between—with the waiting in the blink and the idea of pain and the kinda, almost, sort of body—is the closest I’ve come to mastering the art of patience. But it’s been long enough. Helping you is an answer I like. Your life must be bonkers in the real world. This was the worst choice we’ve ever made in our lives, by far. They get to chew you out there. On my side, you’ve got to let it go. I’d rather sit in on a dream of us playing ukuleles on a beach. I’d even go to a Sox game with you. But we need to handle this crash dream, then call a truce. Okay?

Nothing is weirder than feeling like you’re right under the surface of yourself, and I say this as a formerly dead kid who’s spent three days climbing into people’s dreams. It’s like my body is the air above the pool, and I’m swimming toward it, and I know I’m about to break through, so I keep swimming, but I’m not breaking through.

So come on, Spencer.

I need it to be you next.

• • •

Ms. Hornsby comes back in the room, beaming. She hands me the Scantron. Seventy-four out of one hundred. The old version of me would’ve been mortified by that grade. This Petra is elated.

“I did it,” I say, feeling the weight of the words in my mouth. Something close to a grin almost creeps onto my face, but I bite it back, thinking of Martin.

“You did,” she confirms. “I’ll let admin know straightaway.” She sits at her desk. “How’s Martin?”

I choke out the details Turrey and Cameron left me in their voicemails. So much waiting. So many unknowns.

Ms. Hornsby chews over my update. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but after he transferred out of my class, I actually missed having him as a student.” She cuts her stare back over to me. “You better get down there and see him.”

I give her a hug. “Thank you, Ms. Hornsby.”

My gesture surprises her. She tenses up then surrenders to it. Once we break apart, she gives me this wise, all-knowing look. “Now that I’m officially not your teacher anymore, I can tell you what I know. You’re not the type of person who takes anything lightly. Whatever made you avoid this test was something big. I’m proud of you for coming here and doing it. I wish your grade was higher, but hey, I wouldn’t be a good math teacher if I said I was happy with a C.”

She gives me a significant look that I’m not sure how to decipher.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” she says, as if to explain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that earlier. I wanted you to learn a lesson. I’m big enough to admit that I could have handled it better. We all could have. We could see there was a real problem, and our solution wasn’t the best.” She leans forward to whisper. “I’ll tell you another secret. We teachers are still learning too.”

It’s incredible the power in having even one adult let me know she saw me struggling, and she handled it wrong too. Not just me. I spent my whole academic life crafting the image that I was willing to do whatever it took for my grades, most nights choosing studying over sleep, the rings under my eyes like badges of honor. You do it long enough, and eventually everyone accepts that it’s worth it to ignore your humanity in pursuit of helping you be thebest. Then something real happens to you, and no one knows what to do. They treat you like a malfunctioning machine. That’s how I treated myself too. I was assaulted, and I let myself believe it meant I was broken.

I’m not.