Page 49 of The Perfect Rom-Com

His face clears and he nods.

Usually I just go by Teacher. Or Teacher Bryony.

“He claims,” Martha continues, “he’s not trying to get the GED. He doesn’t care that he’s passed the test.”

“He passed the test. He must move up,” Gran says.

“Right. But—”

“No matter how much fun he has learning from Ms. Page.”

“Okay then.” Martha starts to spin herself toward the door. “But?” she says shrilly after a pause, raising a finger. “You know, I do wonder—”

“He must move up—”

“Of course,” she says, again swiveling back toward the hall. Then her voice does a high-pitched warble yet again and she turns. “But just, you know, in this one very special case with his daughter in the same class, the convenience—”

“They are all very special cases, as you will soon learn once you have been here longer than a month, Martha. Everybody wants to stay in Ms. Page’s class, and if everybody stayed in Ms. Page’s class, we’d have three thousand students in her classroom and an absolute zoo.” Gran pauses, and when it’s clear Martha isn’t moved enough, she adds, “Which, incidentally, also means we’d have no more graduates. And with no more graduates, we’d lose our funding. And teachers’ employment. And close our doors.”

“Right, so as I was saying, Mr. Takahashi,” Martha says, grabbing him by the shoulders and wheeling him around and out the door, “Mr. Platt’s class at level four is a wonderful, lively classroom environment, where you will have your head positively bursting with fun—”

Well, that’s a stretch. Mr. Platt is a sixty-five-year-old man with sleepy eyes who reads directly from the GED ESL textbook and could take a job narrating for the sloth in one of those Zootopia movies. But c’est la vie.

I shut the door.

Turn to Gran.

Somehow she has managed to peer down at me with her blue eyes very seriously even while being the one sitting. “Bryony, let’s get to the heart of the matter quickly before we get bombarded again. I know you are the Anonymous Giver.”

Ah.

So I was correct.

She knows about that secret.

The Anonymous Giver has a reputation at The Bridge. Suspicions and rumors and interesting tall tales have been whispered among staff for the past few years about who this mysterious person is. Personally, I like the one about one of the students being in reality a prince from a distant land, of a wealthy family but small country, who came to America with humble motivations of learning the language and using the language to build relationships with politicians and create a mutually beneficial relationship with the United States. And in his time at The Bridge, he was so impressed that he pledged to donate silently for the remainder of his life.

The story of the Anonymous Giver has been fed like sourdough starter over the years, people adding interesting “clues” to it every now and then. Mrs. Platt remembered seeing one of her students stepping into the back of a tinted vehicle. Martha found a student’s registration papers with curious redacted information. I always enjoyed that particular theory.

“I know. It’s a letdown, isn’t it?” I say with a smile.

But to my surprise, she’s still not smiling. I mean, she’s not a smiler in general, but still. Nothing.

She takes a deep breath. “Sit down.”

“Good grief, Gran, you’re acting as if I’m in trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble. Of course you’re not in trouble. But we need to talk. Privately. And I don’t want this to get out.”

Ah. So words that are not conducive to paper-thin walls. Got it.

My teacup rattles in the saucer as I take a seat. I set it on the desk.

Give her my attention.

She leans across the desk and, in a surprising gesture, grips one of my hands. Gives it a squeeze. “I’m very . . . proud . . . and very surprised . . . to find out that you have given so generously the past two years. But the fact of the matter is, I want you to stop.”

“What?” I say, startled. “No. It’s fine. I want to.”