electronics. The students know I have an open-door policy, and they use it often.
And then more come out of the classroom across the hall, their voices rising in excitement, and the alarm I hear in them sticks my soles to the carpet. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you guys in class?”
Ben Wheeler looks up from his iPhone. “A plane just crashed. They’re saying it took off from Hartsfield.”
Terror clutches my chest, and my heart stops. I steady myself on a locker. “What plane? Where?”
He lifts a scrawny shoulder. “Details are sketchy.”
I shove through the cluster of students and leap behind my desk, reaching with shaking hands for my mouse. “Come on, come on,” I whisper, jiggling my computer out of its deep-sleep hibernation. My mind spins with what I can remember of Will’s flight details. He’s been in the air for over thirty minutes by now, likely roaring somewhere near the Florida border. Surely—surely—the crashed plane can’t be the one with him on it. I mean, what are the odds? Thousands of planes take off from the Atlanta airport every day, and they don’t just fall from the sky. Surely everybody got off safely.
“Mrs. Griffith, are you okay?” Ava, a wispy sophomore, says from my doorway, and her words barely cleave through the roaring in my ears.
After an eternity, my internet browser loads, and I type the address for CNN with stiff and clumsy fingers. And then I pray. Please, God, please, don’t let it be Will’s.
The images that fill my screen a few seconds later are horrifying. Jagged chunks of a plane ripped apart by explosion, a charred field dotted with smoking debris. The worst kind of crash, the kind where no one survives.
“Those poor people,” Ava whispers from right above my head.
Nausea rises, burning the back of my throat, and I scroll down until I see the flight details. Liberty Airlines Flight 23. Air bursts out of me in a loud whoosh, and relief turns my bones to slush.
Ava drapes a tentative hand across my shoulder blades. “Mrs. Griffith, what’s wrong? What can I do?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out half formed and breathless, like my lungs still haven’t gotten the memo. I know I should feel sick for Flight 23’s passengers and their families, for those poor people blown to bits above a Missouri cornfield, for their families and friends who are finding out like I did, on social media and these awful pictures on their screens, but instead I feel only relief. Relief rushes through me like a Valium, strong and swift and sublime. “It wasn’t Will’s plane.”
“Who’s Will?”
I brush both hands over my cheeks and try to breathe away the panic, but it fights to stay close. “My husband.” My fingers are still shaking, my heart still racing, no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn’t Will’s plane. “He’s on his way to Orlando.”
Her eyes go wide. “You thought your husband was on that plane? Jeez, no wonder you just melted down.”
“I didn’t melt down, I just...” I press a palm to my chest, haul a deep, cleansing breath. “For the record, my reaction was not out of proportion to the situation. Tremendous fear like the kind I experienced produces a sharp spike in adrenaline, and the body responds. But I’m fine now. I’ll be fine.”
Talking about it out loud, putting my physiological response into scientific terms, loosens something in my chest, and the throbbing in my head slows to an occasional thud. Thank God, it wasn’t Will’s plane.
“Hey, I’m not judging. I’ve seen your husband. Totally smoking.” She tosses her backpack onto the floor, sinks into the corner chair and crosses legs that are far too bare for uniform regulations. Like every other girl in this school, Ava rolls her skirt waistband until the hemline reaches hooker heights. Her gaze dips to my right hand, still pressed to my pounding chest. “Nice ring, by the way. New?”
I drop my hand onto my lap. Of course Ava would notice the ring. She probably knows exactly what it costs, too. I ignore the compliment, focusing instead on the first half of her reply. “When have you seen my husband?”
“On your Facebook page.” She grins. “If I woke up next to him every morning, I’d be late to work, too.”
I give her a reprimanding look. “As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, shouldn’t you be getting back to class?”
Her pretty pink lips curl into a grimace. Even frowning, Ava is a gorgeous girl. Painfully, hauntingly beautiful. Big blue eyes. Peaches-and-cream skin. Long, shiny auburn curls. She’s smart, too, and wickedly funny when she wants to be. She could have any boy in this school...and she has. Ava is not picky, and if I’m to believe Twitter, she’s an easy conquest.
“I’m skipping lit,” she says, spitting out the words in a tone usually reserved for toddlers.
I give her my psychologist’s smile, friendly and nonjudgmental. “Why?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Because I’m avoiding any enclosed spaces where Charlotte Wilbanks and I have to breathe the same air. She hates me, and let me assure you, the feeling is mutual.”
“Why do you think she hates you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Former best friends, Charlotte and Ava’s feud is long and well documented. Whatever sparked their hatred all those years ago is by now long forgotten, buried under a million offensive and tasteless Tweets that take “mean girl” to a whole new level. According to what I saw fly by in yesterday’s feed, their latest tiff revolves around their classmate Adam Nightingale, son of country music legend Toby Nightingale. This past weekend, pictures surfaced of Ava and Adam canoodling at a neighborhood juice bar.
“Who the hell knows? Because I’m prettier, I guess.” She picks at her perfect nail polish, a bright yellow gel that looks like it was painted on yesterday.
Like most of the kids in this school, Ava’s parents give her everything her heart could ever desire. A brand-new convertible, first-class trips to exotic locations, a Platinum Amex card and their blessing. But showering their daughter with gifts is not the same as giving her attention, and if they were the ones sitting across from me, I’d encourage them to set a better example. Ava’s mother is an Atlanta socialite with the remarkable ability to look the other way every time Ava’s father, a plastic surgeon touted around town as “The Breast Guy,” is caught groping a girl half his age, which is often.
My education has taught me to see nature and nurture as equal propositions, but my job has taught me nurture wins out every time. Especially when it’s lacking. The more messed up the parents, the more messed up the kid. It’s really that simple.
But I also believe that everyone, even the worst parents and the most maladjusted kids, has a redeeming quality. Ava’s is because she can’t help herself. Her parents have made her to be this way.
“I’m sure if you give it a bit more thought, you could come up with a better reason why Charlotte might be—”
“Knock, knock.” The head of the upper school, Ted Rawlings, fills up my doorway. Long and lanky and with a crown of tight, dark curls, Ted reminds me of a standard poodle, one who’s serious about pretty much everything except his ties. He must have hundreds of the hideous things, always school-themed and always ridiculous, but on him somehow they only look charming. Today’s version is a bright yellow polyester
