Chapter Text
The morning began slowly. A chipped bowl with yesterday’s spoon still resting inside. Devon’s backpack leaning half-collapsed against the wall, zipper unfastened, homework papers folded and escaping. Katie’s socks were left in a heap on the rug. The refrigerator was whirring low, like it had been up longer than any of them.
Helen Sharp, thirty-three, leaned both hands on the counter and let the grey light from the window wash over the kitchen. It made even the clean surfaces look dull, reminding her how old the tile really was. Outside, Thatcher Elementary sat four blocks down, a squat stretch of brick with long green trim that always seemed a shade too bright for its bulk. The parking lot lay cracked and tired, lined with weeds. Helen could see it from here, and it felt as present in her mornings as the milk jug and the jam jar.
The house smelt faintly of toast, the sweetness of strawberry jam mixed with the sharper edge of cooling coffee. Helen’s novel draft still lived inside her desk drawer at work, untouched for weeks, but she tried not to think of it. Today was modules, spelling quizzes, drop-offs, Devon’s shoelaces and Katie’s stubborn hair.
The girls hadn’t managed anything yet. Devon sat at the table, cereal untouched, spoon clinking idly against the bowl. Her hair fell across her face, and she blew at it instead of moving it. Eleven years old and already cultivating a kind of practised impatience. Katie, six, knelt cross-legged on the floor with both socks bunched in her hands, declaring one too scratchy, the other too loose. Her shoes lay open beside her, tongues sticking out.
“Devon, eat,” Helen said, without turning from the sink. The word dropped into the room but didn’t land anywhere. Devon kept circling the spoon, whilst Katie sighed dramatically and tossed a sock across the room, then looked at Helen to see if it had worked to provoke. Helen didn’t answer her probing. She had learnt that mornings were a slow negotiation.
On the rug, Katie picked at the nest of socks, two small heaps around her like discarded treasures. She was six, still small enough to fold into herself, and was holding one striped sock in her left hand and one plain in the other. Each was examined with grave attention, as though mismatched toes could ruin her day - which wasn't totally unprecedented; Helen found it hard to forget the after-school meltdowns of '25. Her hair, fairer than her sister’s, had tangled itself overnight, and her cheeks were round with the morning’s warmth.
Helen leaned against the counter, her weight resting on her palms. The kitchen was small, with linoleum curling slightly at the edges where it met the baseboards and the table too close to the back door so that pulling out the chairs left scuffs. The hallway beyond was lined with hooks for coats and bags, though half of them lay slumped on the floor anyway. A stack of unopened mail waited by the fruit bowl, bills and flyers jumbled together. Ernest had suggested once that she needed a better system, and she’d laughed it off, though she still sometimes thought about buying a proper organiser whenever she passed the hardware store.
She shook the thought away and crossed to Katie, plucking the striped sock from her hand and tugging it gently onto her foot. “This one’s not scratchy. It’s fine.”
Katie squirmed. “It is scratchy.”
Devon, the elder, carried herself with a seriousness that sometimes startled Helen. Teachers called her clever, and Helen agreed, though she also knew cleverness could tip easily into impatience. Devon had chosen drama as her main module this year and literature as her secondary, a pairing she had defended in August with surprising stubbornness.
Katie, meanwhile, had chosen nearly everything at once - dance, drama, science, and art. Her energy refused to narrow itself to one interest, and she had been heavily disappointed to learn she was limited to simply four choices. She was bright with movement, always testing, always trying, as though the world existed to be picked up and examined. Where Devon was measured, Katie was restless.
The clock above the stove read 7:21. Thatcher’s bell would not sound for almost an hour, but the pace was already uneven, already a preemptive rushing. Helen slid open a drawer and pulled a hairbrush free and set it on the counter. Katie eyed it suspiciously. Devon finally lifted her spoon, tapped it once against the bowl, and took a single bite.
The window above the sink let in a narrow slice of street. Brick fronts with iron stoops lined the block. A trash can dragged to the kerb. A man in work boots loading tools into a truck bed. The neighbourhood looked unchanged from day to day, as if preserved, yet Helen knew every small variation: the overgrown hedge trimmed back, the new bike chained to the railing across the way. All of it was background to this hour, where the real work was getting two girls out the door before the day turned on them.
Katie finally pulled on both socks, mismatched, one striped and one plain. Devon set down her spoon, though the bowl was still half milk.
"Mom, I'm full." She dragged the word out into a headache-inducing whine.
Helen pressed her palms into the counter again, steadying herself against the inevitable next steps: brushing hair, finding sweaters, tying laces, and herding bodies through the chill air toward Thatcher.
Helen picked up the brush and rapped it lightly on the counter. The sharp tap made Katie snap her head up, nose wrinkled. “That’s the signal, isn’t it?” she asked, as though daring her mother to deny it.
“It’s the sound of me losing patience,” Helen said, crouching down and catching Katie by the wrist before she could scurry under the table. The brush went through fine strands, catching twice. “Ow! “Ow-stop, Mom, you’re pulling all of it out!” Katie protested, loud enough to echo against the cabinets. Helen kept her grip steady, ignoring the dramatics. “If you still have hair left to complain with, I haven’t pulled it all out,” she answered. She smoothed the hair into a tail, cinched it with the elastic around her wrist, and released her daughter. Katie stomped one sneaker-less foot, rubbing her head as though she’d been assaulted. But at least she didn’t undo the ponytail.
“Shoes. Now.” Helen tapped them with her toe. Katie shoved her mismatched socks inside the sneakers and yanked the Velcro fasteners with exaggerated volume. “See?” she said, looking up at her sister. “Fast as lightning.”
Devon, still bent over the table, knees on the chair, pushed her cereal bowl away with one finger. “I don’t like this kind. It’s soggy, and it tastes like paper.”
“It tasted fine yesterday,” Helen replied, sweeping the bowl up before another declaration could stack itself. She dumped the milk down the drain in one smooth pour.
“I didn’t say it was good yesterday either,” Devon muttered, slipping down from her chair with resentment. She put the juice jug back in the fridge, shutting it with less energy than a Khapra. Still the postcard on it shuddered and slipped fractionally, getting caught above a magnet shaped like a pelican - a souvenir from some coastal gas station, mailed months ago by their father and signed in a rush. Katie had added crayon hearts around the stamp. Devon crouched to tie her laces, gripping the threaded pink ropes between her thumbs. She grumbled, fumbling the knot twice before sighing heavily. “It never works. Why can’t I just wear the ones with Velcro like Katie?”
“Because you’re eleven,” Helen said, kneeling to take over the laces. “At eleven, you know how to tie your shoes.” She looped and pulled, double-knotting them against Devon’s resistance. Devon crossed her arms and muttered something that could have been agreement or dissent.
Katie darted off to grab her sweater from the radiator, returning with it held high like a prize. “It’s warm!” she announced, shoving her arms in with a grin. Devon collected hers from the bannister, dragging the sleeves as though the sweater were a punishment. Helen tugged each collar flat, smoothed shoulders, and checked zippers. The girls stood side by side by the door, one twitching with energy, the other drooping like a jacket left too long on its hook.
“What are you forgetting?” Helen prodded, eyeing the coat rack. Katie hummed before realising with an ‘oh!’ and tugging it until it fell. Devon rolled her eyes but slid hers on. Katie continued to spin in a circle with hers until Helen caught the sleeve and shoved her arm through.
“Backpacks.” Helen pointed. The six-year-old swung hers on backward first, giggling when it bumped her chin. Devon sighed, adjusted hers properly, then tapped Katie’s until she fixed it, smacking Devon’s hand. “We’re supposed to look like people, not turtles,” Devon said, turning to fix her own strap.
Helen shouldered her own bag, checked the clock - 7:42 - and nudged the girls into motion. At last they were aligned, uneven heights but packed and layered at the very least.
The door opened onto the street’s cool air. Bus brakes hissed in the distance, a dog barked three houses over, and the faint scent of yeast drifted from the bakery two blocks north. Katie bounced down the stoop two steps at a time, yelling, “Race you to the lamppost!” Devon followed, slower, but with a practised long stride that nearly caught her by the second step. Helen locked the door, slung her bag higher on her shoulder, and watched them race ahead.
She took each girl by the shoulder when they reached the sidewalk, steering them east.
The school sat low at the end of the street, brick-red, the green around its windows already peeling after a damp summer. It looked squat and permanent, like a box set down too heavily. Sunlight hit the façade in a way that flattened it and dulled the glass so the panes reflected back only pale smudges of sky. The flag at the front pole sagged with no wind to hold it up. Helen felt both girls shift at her sides, one pulling close, the other pulling away.
The school had been standing on the corner of Denton and Larch since the early 1950s, a squat rectangle of brick. The houses there were narrow and stoop-fronted, their iron railings painted and repainted through the decades, while Thatcher sat apart, as though it had been dropped in from another town. The greenery along its windows had been a cheerful choice once, chosen by some long-retired superintendent to brighten the bulk, but by now it only seemed to emphasise the building’s age. Summers left the paint bubbling, winters left it cracked, and spring rains drew faint streaks down the façade. Yet it endured, as permanent in the landscape as the bakery’s yeast smell or the bus brakes at the corner.
Helen had chosen this district years ago. It was within walking distance, which meant no bus schedules, no long commutes across the city. The Sharp girls could be ushered out the door and shepherded on foot, four blocks straight. The school itself had a reputation for steadiness. In a city where private academies glittered with promises, Helen’s parents had insisted she place the girls at Thatcher, footing the expense themselves. For all its modest name, the school was unpretentious, functional, and quietly prestigious - enough to satisfy both Helen’s pragmatism and her parents’ standards.
The modules programme was one of its few quirks. Introduced a decade ago as part of a half-hearted educational pilot, it had stuck here longer than anywhere else. The children rotated between drama, science, literature, dance, and art - some for weeks at a time, some for a year’s stretch - while parents muttered about whether it distracted from maths scores. Helen hadn’t minded. Devon needed the structure and the chance to test herself against performance and books. Katie thrived on the variety, the promise of something new each week. In this, Thatcher had suited them better than Helen had expected.
Katie clung to Helen’s hand, palm damp, the weight of her backpack tugging her backwards as though she could stall time by dragging her heels. She chewed her lip and darted looks up at Devon, who walked several steps ahead, stiff-backed, pretending to be in command. Her chin was up, her eyes forward, but her stride wasn’t as steady as she meant it to be. Every few steps, she turned just enough to check if Helen was still behind, then corrected herself with an exaggerated sigh or eye-roll.
“Don’t hang on, Mom, like that,” Devon said over her shoulder. “You’re not in preschool anymore.”
Katie straightened but tightened her grip. “I know I’m not. I’m in first grade now.”
“Then walk by yourself.” Devon made a loose sweep of her arm toward the schoolyard. The movement was grand but hollow, her steps slowing so Katie could keep even with her.
“Don’t boss her, Dev,” Helen said, her voice even but carrying. “She’ll get there. The first days are hard. Remember yours?”
Devon didn’t answer right away. Her mouth pinched, then she muttered, “Yeah, but I didn’t hang on like that.”
“You had a death grip on my coat sleeve,” Helen replied, smiling at the memory. “Nearly pulled me down the stairs.”
Devon blushed under the correction, glancing sideways at her mother before squaring her shoulders again. Katie giggled before almost tripping on a crack in the pavement.
The sidewalk ahead funnelled into a tangle of children and parents: kids shuffling backpacks higher, ponytails bouncing, and boys dragging their sneakers to make lines in the dust. Car doors slammed, horns honked once in goodbye, and mothers called instructions about lunches and jackets. The air carried both the sour note of exhaust and the sweet drift from the bakery two blocks up.
Katie lowered her voice, tugging gently on Helen’s hand. “What if nobody talks to me?”
Helen leaned down enough so Katie could hear her clearly. “Someone will. And if they don’t right away, you smile at them first. That usually works.”
Devon groaned, loud enough for Katie but low enough to escape the ears of the crowd. “Someone will. They always do. First grade’s easy. You just sit next to somebody, and then you’re friends. Done.”
Katie nodded, whispering the rule to herself as if committing it to memory. “Sit next to someone. Be friends.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Devon hissed, eyes flicking nervously toward a trio of older girls already clustered by the gate. Her thumb picked at the seam of her sleeve. “You just do it. Quietly.”
Helen straightened. “Dev, don’t snap. She’s allowed to be nervous.”
“I’m not snapping,” Devon said, though her jaw tightened.
Katie nodded again, quick and obedient, her eyes still trained on her sister. Every movement Devon made was copied in miniature - shifting her backpack strap higher, adjusting the hem of her sweater, even the way she stepped up onto the kerb. Devon noticed and glared but left the fight for the time being.
Helen saw it and pretended not to, only saying, “That’s better. Both of you. Look how close we are now.”
They reached the wrought school entrance, green paint flaking around the edges, and Katie gave a little skip to keep pace with her sister. Helen continued behind, watching Devon disappear into the current of children, the doors yawning wide, teachers’ voices rolling out in low threads.
Helen followed the surge through the iron gate, one hand anchored on Katie’s small shoulder. Devon had already slipped ahead, absorbed into the tide of older children who marched with the careless assurance of veterans. Her stride was brisk, but her eyes betrayed her, darting back now and again, unwilling to fully sever herself from the tether of family. Katie clung close, her backpack thudding against her hip, the elastic in her hair already loosening, strands escaping in stubborn wisps.
Inside, the air sharpened. The cool sting of disinfectant mingled with the waxy tang of freshly scoured floors. Voices ricocheted down the corridor: roll calls barked, children’s names echoed against metal lockers, and the frantic squeal of sneakers on linoleum. Helen felt Katie falter beneath her hand, her steps hitching as the stream of bodies pressed them forward.
“First graders down this hall,” Helen murmured, steering her past the glass-fronted office, past the gunny-backed bench where children waited to be scolded or excused, past the trophy case with its brass dulled to a lifeless umber. Katie’s wide eyes gathered every detail: the bulletin board framed in a gaudy scallop of construction paper, backpacks slung on pegs like collapsed bodies, posters shrill with cheer - WE ARE READERS! BE KIND! - their corners curling where the staples had worked loose.
At Room 1B a young woman stood sentinel with a clipboard. Her smile was fixed, practised against the surge. She called each child by name, ticking boxes, stooping to rescue a boy tangled in his own coat sleeve. Katie’s fingers cinched tighter around Helen’s, her thumb pressed hard into the groove of her mother’s palm.
“Sharp? Katherine?” The teacher read, her tone light and trained. The pen hovered, ready to inscribe.
Katie nodded, mute. Helen crouched until their eyes met. “This is your room,” she said. “You’ll be fine here.”
Katie peered past the doorway. Desks already filled, small bodies in motion, voices clattering in tight little knots. Workbooks stacked at the front waited in a neat pile, each cover scarred by a first name inked in marker thick as tar. The air was laced with pencil dust, glue, and the faint sweetness of wax crayons.
Helen smoothed the hem of Katie’s sweater. “Remember what we said. Choose a seat. Sit beside someone, and a friend will follow.”
Katie hesitated, then whispered, “Will you come in for a minute?”
Helen’s eyes lifted to the teacher, who gave a permissive nod. Helen straightened. “Of course.”
Together they crossed the threshold. The room expanded with a hollow gravity, swallowing them whole. Windows climbed high and narrow, glass veined with the greasy residue of countless hands, dulled by storm-wash streaks. The walls were a palimpsest of instruction, their layers brittle and overworked: alphabet strips curled into brittle scrolls, number lines staggering like troops on an endless march, and construction-paper borders faded to the shade of old bruises. Above, a sagging paper clock presided, its warped plastic hands forever bent, its face thumb-blotted and scarred by decades of children proving their hours. The space hummed with artefacts - weather charts speckled with peeling stickers, calendars plastered until their squares sagged, and bulletin boards bloated with dozens of dog-eared notices. Helen guided Katie toward a desk midway down the row, where a girl with a precise centre part arranged coloured pencils in obedient ranks.
“This seat is open,” Helen said, brushing her hand against the chair back. Katie slid into it, gaze locked on the girl beside her. Helen placed her palm on her daughter’s shoulder, firm and reassuring. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Katie nodded, her fingers grazing the desk’s rough edge, as though testing the grain of her new world. Helen bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead, running her hand through her youngest daughter's hair.
Helen paused long enough to press a soft kiss to the top of Katie’s hair. “Have a good day, sweetheart,” she said, voice warm but brisk. Katie blinked up at her, then watched her mother leave, the door clicking shut behind her.
The classroom swelled around her: new, stinging red and ugly bulletin boards, tiny cubbies lined with backpacks of every shade, squirming shoes, and gum-spotted floors. A rainbow of pencils and crayons jostled in their cups, leaning, chipped, and twisted, some sharpened to fine points, others blunt and stubby. A spilt stack of notebooks bulged with loose pages, edges curling and smudged with last year’s ink. The faint tang of glue lingered under the fluorescent lights, mixed with the dust of paper and the sweetness of wax crayons.
Children moved in curious patterns: a boy tapping sneakers on linoleum, a girl spinning a pencil between tiny fingers, someone sniffing a crumpled tissue. Hair of every imaginable shade and curl bounced; socks were mismatched, shoes were scuffed, and sleeves were rolled unevenly. One child chewed a pencil like it might sprout a tree; another hummed, high and fluttering, over their work. Katie noticed the frayed thread of a sleeve brushing the desk, the slight smear of marker on a classmate’s cheek, and the glint of light off a stubborn glue stick.
Katie nudged her backpack under the desk; it was heavy and padded, and the smell of lunch and morning was still clinging to it. Her chair squeaked, a tiny, panicked sound, and she laughed quietly at it, pushing her feet against the floor like a boat against a current. She lined up a row of pencils, blue, red, green, and purple, some shorter and stubby, others taller and keen, and watched them lean precariously.
Around her, whispers, giggles, clicks, scratches: a collage of noise. Katie planted her feet, straightened her back, and adjusted her sweater. She snapped her pencil case shut, smooth and hard, and tucked it neatly at the corner of the desk. A boy leaned over, brown hair sticking up at odd angles, freckles dotting his cheeks. “Do you like dinosaurs?” he asked, voice urgent and slightly squeaky.
Katie’s eyes widened. “I have a T-Rex at home! It’s huge! It roars really loud!”
“Really? Mine eats people,” he whispered, leaning closer. “I saw it on TV.”
Katie gasped, tapping his arm with tiny fingers. “No! That’s scary! Mine’s friendly, mostly. Sometimes it trips over trees.”
He frowned, thinking. “I think mine would be nice if it had cookies.”
Katie tilted her head, considering. “Cookies make everything nice! Chocolate chip or peanut butter?”
“Chocolate chip. Definitely chocolate chips,” he said, grinning.
Katie nodded solemnly. “Okay. We’ll make them together. Dino cookies.”
The bell rang faintly in the distance. Other children shifted, some calling names, others scooting chairs. Katie whispered, still to the boy, “What’s your name?”
“Eli Thomas. Thomas is the last one. You?”
“Katie. Uh, Sharp. But you can call me Katie!”
Eli grinned. “Katie. Okay. Wanna share my crayons?”
Katie’s cheeks flushed, excitement making her wiggle in her seat. “Yes! But I have markers too.”
Devon drummed her fingers on the desk, careful to look bored instead of nervous. The teacher, Ms Rourke, was smiling too widely at the front, clipboard hugged to her chest as though it might shield her. “Welcome, sixth graders. New year, new room, new faces.”
Devon’s lips pressed into a line. School wasn’t new. She’d been here three years already and had survived spelling bees and winter concerts and the awful Valentine’s party where Jason McKee spilt juice on her shirt. But she let her shoulders slump, chin tilted down just enough to look unimpressed, like she’d seen middle schoolers do.
“Why don’t we start with introductions?” Ms Rourke said. “Name, favourite subject, and one thing about your summer.”
Groans rose like a low tide. Devon didn’t join them. She crossed her ankles neatly beneath her chair, smoothing the hem of her skirt. When her turn came, she would not mutter. She would not giggle. She would speak clearly, because that’s what older kids did. Beside her, a girl with tight braids and a notebook already open leaned closer and whispered, “I hate this part too.” The girl had her fist pressed into her cheek, resting her elbow weightily on the desk. Devon allowed herself the smallest nod, filing the girl away as a possible ally.
“Ethan,” a boy two rows up muttered. “Maths is cool. I, uh, went camping.”
The next child barely looked up. “I'm Sophie and I like reading and I got a dog.”
The dog part set off whispers and squeals. Ms Rourke beamed and clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Who’s next?”
Devon’s chest tightened. The line of introductions was inching closer. She practised under her breath - Devon Sharp, Drama, I went to the lake. Simple. Mature. Not silly. Devon Sharp, Drama: I went to the lake. Devon Sharp, Drama: I went to the lake. Devon Sharp, Drama: I went to the lake-
“Devon?” Ms Rourke’s eyes landed on her.
Her chin jolted up. “I’m Drama Sh- Devon Sharp. I like drama. And this summer, I… rehearsed a play. For my cousin. A real one.” She paused, then added quickly, “She said I was good at projecting my voice.”
A boy in the back snorted. “Projecting what?” Laughter rippled.
Devon’s face burnt, but she forced her smile not to flicker. “My voice,” she said evenly, turning in her seat to glance at him the way she’d seen her mother glance at waiters who got her order wrong. Calm, unimpressed.
The teacher gave a brisk clap. “That’s excellent, Devon. Drama’s a wonderful choice.”
The attention slipped on. Devon sat straighter, heart hammering, pretending she wasn’t listening as the circle continued. She traced a finger along the grooves of her desk, muttering under her breath with a crooked glare, “Yeah, projecting’s real cool,” just low enough that only she could hear it.
Helen descended into the city with her daughter's similarly practised resignation. Morning thickened around her in layers: the stale iron of the subway rails, the bakery’s yeasted exhale lingering at the corner, and the wet paper smell of discarded newsprint crushed beneath commuters’ shoes. By the time she reached Lexington, the crowd had sorted itself into its usual categories: men with navy suits and lapels creased to a blade’s edge, women balancing phones and lattes with impossible precision, and interns still apologising with every step. Helen walked at her own steady pace, her boots clicking against the pavement, her canvas satchel tugging against her shoulder.
The building itself was neither glamorous nor historic. A mid-rise, twelve-storey, stone façade lined with soot, built in stone the colour of dishwater. Inside, the lobby smelt faintly of lemon polish and elevator grease. The security guard nodded, his attention fixed on the crossword folded beside him. Upstairs, the publishing house spread in uneven wings. The carpet was worn down to its backing in the busiest places and patched in others. The air was heavy with printer heat, the dry rasp of paper, and the faint perfume of ink still damp from galley proofs.
Helen’s desk lived in a row of others, a long partition that offered no privacy beyond a half-wall. Manuscripts hunched in stacks around her computer, their paper-clipped corners bent and fraying. She had learnt to keep them neat only in appearance; the contents were another matter. Marketing blurbs that promised far too much and memoirs already indistinguishable from the pile beside them. No one here spoke of her own manuscript, especially not Helen. A drawer at home held it, fat and inert, the last rejection letter folded inside the cover page. She had stopped mentioning it after the second year. Editors were not supposed to harbour their own unfinished books - it was ‘desperate’. Better to let it suffocate in private.
Her ex-husband had once promised to read it. Promised many things. He drifted in and out with the season, surfacing just long enough to declare custody, then vanishing when permanence was required. Well. Her ex-husband had not fought for custody so much as been pushed into the courthouse by his sister. Helen remembered the first afternoon clearly: the waiting room with its hard plastic chairs, the scuffed tile floors, and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. He slouched two seats away from her, smelling faintly of both cigarettes and soap, eyes on the ceiling while his sister rifled through a folder thick with forms.
“Sign here,” she told him, tapping a line with her pen. He rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat. “Why? They’ll just tell me it’s wrong anyway.”
“Because that’s what the judge needs. Just write your name.” He bent forward, scrawled a crooked signature, and shoved the papers back. Whole sections remained blank. Helen stared at the empty boxes: medical providers, emergency contacts, visitation preferences. As to be expected, the questions that mattered were left untouched.
At the first hearing, his chair stayed empty. The judge called his name twice, then moved on. His sister showed up instead, hands wrapped tight around a manila folder, lips pressed together. Helen’s lawyer, Margaret Delaney - small, trim, with a silver bob cut as sharp as her tongue - leaned close, whispering, “This happens all the time. Cases stall like this.” Margaret always smelt faintly of eucalyptus and carried a leather folio thick with sticky notes. She wore square-heeled shoes and carried a battered leather briefcase, its brass latch polished but chipped. Helen nodded but kept her eyes on the bench, unwilling to give away anything.
The second hearing had brought him in at last. He had shuffled through the metal detector, shirt half-tucked, hair damp. When asked if he intended to share custody, he’d answered, “Of course. I want to see my girls.” His tone had been flat, like he was reading off of a teleprompter. The judge pressed: How would he handle school pickups? Doctor visits? After-school modules? He’d paused, scratched his chin, and muttered, “We’ll figure it out.” His sister whispered reminders that bled across the quiet room. Helen had felt her jaw tighten but said nothing.
By the third hearing, he didn’t appear at all. No call, nor excuse. His sister sat alone in the back, folder clutched against her chest, avoiding Helen’s eyes. After that, the calls dwindled.
Ernest Menville, by contrast, occupied her life in measured increments. He texted her articles with little commentary, bought wine he assumed she would like, and folded himself into her evenings with practised ease. He was careful, solicitous, and almost professional in affection. Sometimes Helen wondered if that steadiness was a blessing or a vacancy. She thought back to their first meeting - at a colleague’s book launch, the room sweaty with cheap prosecco and casual chat of advance sales. Ernest had found her standing by the hors d’oeuvres table, studying the bruised cheese cubes and carrot sticks. “You look like you’re grading the catering,” he’d said. She smiled despite herself. He wore a dark jacket that fit just a touch too well, though he stood stiffly inside it. He asked her what she was reading, not what she edited, which felt like a small kindness.
She booted her computer, the screen glowing with its usual cold light. Across the partition, voices tangled in the air: copyeditors arguing over a comma, assistants laughing too hard at a typo, and the editor-in-chief repeating his excitement for another launch. Helen drew the top manuscript closer. Its title looked too enthusiastic. Eager? She pressed the first page flat beneath her palm and scribbled it out.
Mark Green’s voice came low and flat over the partition. “That one’s a mess.”
Helen raised her eyes. He leaned there with a palm spread against the cubicle wall, tie sagging sideways, shirt still showing a crease across the stomach where it had folded overnight. He pointed with two fingers at the stack nearest her elbow. “The author thinks he’s a heavyweight. It reads like an operations manual.”
Helen clicked her pen shut and set it down. “So he’ll fit right in.”
The publishing house occupied the eighth floor of a building that had once been leased to an insurance company and still looked like it. Beige stone darkened with soot. Windows narrow, lined in aluminium frames pitted from decades of heat and salt. The lobby’s brass directory listed names long since vanished, their lettering ghosted on plastic inserts. The elevator groaned every rise, floor numbers flickering with a lazy unreliability.
Inside, partitions walled off every available inch. Cubicles built in grids, panels scuffed at the corners, fabric bubbled where the glue had let go. The carpet flattened into grey paths where shoes dragged the same trails day after day. Fluorescents hummed with insect persistence, their light never changing, never kind. The air was an unsettled mix: scorched coffee burning on its ringed hot plate, toner sting drifting from the copy room, and a faint cling of lemon floor polish left by the night crew.
Each desk carried its own archaeology. Curling photographs pinned at eye level by conference badges hanging by forgotten lanyards, with ceramic mugs decorated by hairline cracks and dark stains etched in the bottom. Manuscript stacks tilted in uncertain towers, margins scarred with pencil lines, and fluorescent flags jutting like serrated teeth.
Helen’s space differed only in volume. The piles grew taller and heavier, each one marked with slips from meetings above. Names scrawled, deadlines crossed, instructions added in tight shorthand. Some manuscripts sat thick with promise, others thin and already abandoned, but all demanded her attention. She placed a hand briefly on the topmost, like the contact might remind her what order she had promised herself to keep.
Mark Green carried the office in his clothes. Shirt collars browned to the stitching. Elbows rubbed to a sheen. Trousers softened to the shape of his chair. His tie hung perpetually off-centre, not loosened but forgotten. The man’s shoes were dulled to a chalky matte where polish had surrendered. He leaned into partitions, palms flats, arm braced, taking up space by habit. His jaw bore permanent stubble, not cultivated but uncut, and his mouth pulled taut, twitching only when irritation pricked.
“Family money,” he said now, words clipped. “The committee upstairs already has their eye on it. Doesn’t matter what we say. Pages could be blank; they’ll print it.” His gaze swept the floor where assistants hurried with folders pressed against their chests. “That’s the real trick. Readers don’t matter if the checks are clear.”
Helen kept her face neutral. “Noted.”
He tapped the cubicle wall once, knuckle sharp on particleboard. “Drink tonight, Miss Sharp. The intern wants to celebrate her survival week. Champagne’s been promised.”
“I’ve got my girls.”
Mark tilted back, head angled, as though he’d expected the refusal. “Mm. You always do.” He shifted his weight, shoulders rolling, but lingered a moment longer. “One of these days, Helen, you’re going to miss something because you’re too busy being responsible.”
Helen arched her brow. “And one of these days, Mark, you’re going to regret betting on the wrong manuscript just because it came with a free dinner.”
His mouth twitched - half grin, half sneer. “At least my dinners come with wine, not apple juice and bedtime stories.”
Helen set her pen across the page, not looking up. “How many of those dinners turned into rewrites you had to fix in copyediting?”
“Less than the ones where you played saint and carried some broken genius for six months before upstairs killed it anyway.”
“You call it carrying, I call it editing.”
Mark leaned his knuckles on her desk now, close enough that the papers shifted. “Editing doesn’t save anyone when accounting’s already sharpened the knives. You know that. We get one or two slots a year. Those go to the names who pay back the advance in the first week.”
Helen’s voice stayed level. “So what do you suggest? Stop reading altogether? Just print checks until the ink runs out?”
“Suggest you stop wasting weekends on manuscripts no one’s going to back. Spend that time where it counts - schmoozing, keeping your seat warm at the bar, letting people remember your face when decisions get made.”
“I’d rather they remember my pages.”
Mark gave a short laugh, more breath than sound. “That’s cute, how noble. Dangerous. Suicidal, maybe. But noble.” He straightened, brushing a finger down the stack nearest her elbow. “That one won’t make it past next month. I’ll bet you lunch.”
“Save your money. You’ll need it for your interns’ champagne.”
This time he did step back, drifting down the row of cubicles, tossing over his shoulder, “You’ll thank me when you’re still here in five years, Helen. Or curse me. Hard to say.”
The drama module met in the gym annexe, a draughty space that always smelt faintly of varnish and sweat. Devon shifted her script from one hand to the other, already annoyed by the bent corner that kept catching on her sleeve. She pressed it flat against her thigh, hard, as if that would keep it in line. Around her, kids talked too loud, dragging chairs without bothering to lift them, the squeaks deafening her.
Devon tapped her foot against the metal leg of the chair, pretending she didn’t notice how long they’d been sitting there. First day of the new year, and already drama felt off - different room, different teacher, everything shuffled around. She still remembered Mrs Carr from last year, who never raised her voice and always gave them a second try when they flubbed a line. Now she was gone - moved to English, someone had said - and Devon wondered what this new teacher would be like. Strict? Boring? Fun? Nobody knew yet.
She kept pressing down the bent corner of her script, annoyed that it wouldn’t stay flat. Last year she’d barely gotten to do anything - holding a fake tree, muttering one line while the older kids took the stage. This year the packet spelt out everything already: the fall play would be A Midsummer Night’s Dream, auditions next Thursday, rehearsals three afternoons a week, and performance in late October. Even the rehearsal schedule was printed in neat columns. Devon wanted more this time. Not just standing in the back as part of the forest. She wanted her name up in the casting chart with a real part beside it, something with lines she could practise and repeat until they sounded sharp coming out of her mouth.
Her chest gave a tight squeeze when she thought about it, but she sat up straighter anyway, making herself look ready. She pushed the script flat again and stared hard at the cover. If the new teacher was paying attention, Devon wanted to be the kind of kid who looked serious, like she could handle whatever they handed her. Smart. Collected. Yes, Devon, nailing it.
“Where is she?” someone whispered from the back. Another kid leaned over his desk. “Do we even have a teacher? Maybe they forgot.”
“They didn’t forget,” a girl said, hugging her knees to her chest even though she was perched on a chair. “She’s just late.”
“How late?” a boy asked, checking the clock even though he couldn’t really see it from where he sat. “We’ve been here, like, forever.”
“It’s been ten minutes,” someone corrected, rolling their eyes.
“That’s still a lot.” The boy stretched his arms across the desk. “Bet she’s lost. Or stuck talking to the principal.”
Devon kept her eyes on the packet, but her ears caught everything. She realised it had been a while since they’d all been left waiting like this... where was the teacher?
The chatter had that restless edge that came from waiting too long and too much space for kids to fill with noise. One kid started drumming on his desk with two pencils. Another whispered, “First day and we’re already free period,” and got a couple of snickers in response.
“Maybe she’s, like, testing us,” a girl suggested. “To see if we’ll be good while she’s gone.”
“That’s dumb,” the boy said immediately. “Nobody does that.”
“Well, maybe she does.”
The dean finally spoke up. “Settle down. She’ll be here soon enough. Eyes on your packets.”
Finally, the door swung open, and in came a blonde woman with curls lacquered into place, each one coiled and glossy. Her eyes were large, blue to the point of being gaudy, wide and assessing as she scanned the room. A rose blazer hugged her shoulders, taut across the arms, and a cream blouse shone faintly under the lights. Her heels clicked in strikes, crisp, echoing against the linoleum. On one arm she carried a square white handbag, rigid and boxy, its hardware glinting like cheap jewellery. In her other hand was a stack of stapled scripts, edges curled, pages peppered with yellow tabs. She held it high against her side.
Finally, the door swung open, late enough that the room had shifted into restless fidgeting. A blonde woman entered, curls arranged in rigid spirals that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Her eyes were round and bright blue, snapping quickly across the rows of desks as though she were already cataloguing them. A sharp blazer the shade of crushed rose sat tight on her shoulders, sleeves tugged to exact length. She carried a glossy white handbag, square and stiff, with gold fixtures that caught the light with every swing. In her other hand, a stack of scripts teetered, pages bent at the corners, yellow slips marking passages.
The room stilled, pencils frozen mid-tap. She dropped the handbag down on the desk, tossed the scripts after it, and beamed, wide and unapologetic. “Yes, I’m late. But look, we’re all here, so we’ll pretend I wasn’t.”
A few kids giggled. Others shuffled straighter in their seats. Devon pressed her palms hard against her desk, trying not to lean forward. The woman smiled and paused. “I’m Madeline Ash - uh, Miss Ashton.” She tapped the script stack with her left hand. “Names. No dull roll call; I want to hear them.” She strode down the first row, hips swaying, bracelets chiming. She pointed at a boy. “You.”
The boy shifted in his seat. “Um… Ben.”
Madeline barked it back at him, louder. “Ben!” He jumped. “Again, and project this time.”
“Ben!” he shouted, voice cracking. The room snorted. Madeline flinched, then flashed teeth. “Better. Next.”
She jabbed a finger toward a girl with a braid. The girl mumbled. “Sophie.”
Madeline cupped her ear. “Sorry, darling, can’t hear you.”
“Sophie,” the girl said again, louder, cheeks burning.
“Good. Why is your face red? Are you embarrassed? Why is everyone looking at you? Can everyone see her blush? Hm.” The girl slunk lower in her seat. “Smile, darling; attention is half the fun.”
From the back, a boy muttered, his tone half-bored, half-mocking, loud enough for his neighbours to snicker and elbow each other, “Those shoes look painful.”
Madeline whipped her head around. “I haven't felt my feet since October 8, 2004, so no, they don't hurt. They are gorgeous, though, aren’t they.” She giggled, then, bright and rich, which immediately caught Devon off guard.
Devon was used to teachers in pressed suits and dresses, voices curbed into tidy little announcements. At Thatcher the faculty liked to keep order polished, mouths drawn thin, and words clipped into efficient syllables. Her father reinforced it most of all, reminding her she was the eldest and must be composed; Ernest, polite but distant, seemed to echo the same expectation whenever he spoke to her; even her mom, though kinder, often slipped into treating Devon like a small deputy rather than a child. A laugh like Madeline’s had no precedent in these corridors. Devon’s spine stiffened, unsure if the room would punish her for joining in. A few children tittered behind their palms; others giggled openly. Devon stayed rigid, palms damp on the varnished desk, eyes fixed forward.
She stopped at Devon’s desk. “Name.”
Devon’s voice came steadier than she felt. “Devon Sharp.”
Madeline repeated it back. “Devon Sharp,” she said, popping the ‘p’. She grinned as though she’d just discovered a celebrity in her classroom. “Drama kid, I can see it already.”
Heat rushed up Devon’s neck, and she ducked her head quickly, pretending to smooth her script.
Madeline had already spun to the next desk, bracelets jangling like a wind chime. She made every name sound like a newspaper headline, clapping her hands when someone managed to speak without mumbling. At one point she leaned over a desk, stage-whispering, “If you can’t say your own name, how on earth will Shakespeare trust you with his?” which made the room ripple with agreement - although Devon strongly doubted her classmates were fully understanding what Madeline was saying rather than following her lead.
Madeline clapped once, loud, making half the class jump. “There! Now I know who you all are. Names are powerful, darlings. Say them like you matter, because you do. Rule one of drama.” She tossed her curls back with a flourish, then reached for the stack of scripts she’d abandoned on the desk. “Rule two, we don’t whisper lines. If I can’t hear you in the back row, nobody can.”
She dropped the scripts onto the first desk in the front row, the sound sharp as a starter pistol. “Pass these back, don’t wrinkle them - yes, I can see you about to wrinkle them, stop it - good. Everyone’s holding one? Fabulous.”
Devon flipped hers open, pulse beating hard in her throat. The title glared up at her in thick black type.
Madeline perched on the edge of the desk, but her heel slipped slightly on the metal frame, and she caught herself with a quick laugh. “We’re going to do Shakespeare this term,” she announced, smoothing her blazer sleeve as if the stumble hadn’t happened. “Now, I know you’re all thinking it’s boring, or hard, or… whatever. But it isn’t. It’s about love, and fights, and… magic, and people making complete fools of themselves.” She looked pointedly at a boy in the front, chewing glue from his blue stick off his finger. She grimaced.
A few kids snickered. Someone muttered, “Sounds like middle school,” which set off another round of laughter.
Madeline pointed like she’d just found her star comedian. “Exactly! Shakespeare predicted middle school. That’s why we’re doing it. So, next week, auditions. Today, we’re going to read. Any questions?”
She hopped down from the desk, nearly dropped her handbag, and muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake,” before catching it under her arm again. A few kids giggled. Madeline rolled her eyes at herself. “As I was saying - any questions?”
A hand shot up in the second row. A boy with hair sticking out in every direction asked, “Do we have to do accents?”
Madeline blinked, then tilted her head. “Accents?”
“Like… British,” he said, exaggerating it on the last word so it came out as Bri’ish. His friends snorted.
Madeline sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down her face. “Absolutely not. Unless you’re secretly from London, in which case, fine, show off. Otherwise, no accents, just voices I can hear. Clear?”
The boy nodded, still grinning.
Another hand. A girl with a braid wrapped twice around her head, looking genuinely nervous. “Um, what if… what if we mess up?”
“You will mess up,” Madeline said bluntly. “All of you. Constantly. That’s the point. If you were perfect already, I’d be out of a job.”
That got a couple of laughs. The girl smiled faintly and looked down at her desk.
“Additionally,” Madeline added, “if you mess up utterly and horrendously, we will all point at you and chant ‘shame.’”
The class blinked.
Madeline clapped her hands together once, sharply. “Alright! Let’s ruin Shakespeare. Page one. I need…” She squinted at the script. “Hermia. Who’s brave?”
Silence. Chairs squeaked. Pages flipped too quickly.
Madeline pointed, at random, at Devon. “You. What’s your name again?”
Devon’s stomach dropped, even though she knew she’d already said it. “Devon.”
“Devon,” Madeline repeated, decisive. “Perfect. You’re Hermia. Congratulations. Loud voice, please.” She tapped her ear. “I’m practically deaf in this one from a stage light explosion - I beg, don’t ask - but it means you have to project.”
Devon’s throat tightened. Her eyes scanned the lines, letters swimming. Her palms were damp against the stapled edge of the script. She cleared her throat once, twice, then read:
“Belike for want of rain, which I could well
Between them from the tempest of my eyes.”
Her voice wobbled on the first line but steadied on the second. A couple of kids tittered, but Madeline snapped her fingers sharply without looking away from Devon. The sound cut the laughter.
“Yes!” Madeline said, bright and sudden. “That’s it. Gorgeous. Feeling it already. See? Easy.” She swung her gaze to the next row. “Alright, who’s up for Lysander? Don’t all faint at once.”
For Helen, the rest of the day dragged in increments. Pages turned, marked, stacked again. Phones rang, clicked off, and rang again. The copier jammed twice before noon, the machine’s flashing error light casting a steady pulse across the hallway.
Helen worked through it in silence. Her pencil shaved margins with notes, queries, and corrections. Ink bled faintly from the paper where she pressed too firmly. By the time lunch arrived - brown bags opened, plastic forks clicking against plastic containers - the room felt airless, the recycled hum of vents pushing the same tepid current from desk to desk.
At one o’clock the department meeting assembled in the glassed conference room. Folding chairs scraped against carpet. Paper cups sweated water rings onto the table. Notes were read aloud, directives issued, and names volunteered for projects absolutely no one wanted. Helen spoke when called on, voice steady and clipped, unwilling to offer more than required. Across the table Green sprawled in his chair, arms crossed, tapping a foot against the leg of the table until someone hissed for quiet.
The afternoon thickened. Editorial packets circulated, deadlines shifted by half-weeks, and schedules rewritten on the fly. A junior editor slipped a folder onto Helen’s desk with a muttered “They want a rush read” and fled before she could respond. The manuscript inside smelt faintly of cologne, a slick submission that had been handled far too many times for comfort before ever reaching her hands.
By four the office buzz lowered. Coffee gone cold. Fluorescents were harsher as the sky dimmed outside. Helen adjusted her glasses, rubbed at her temple, and pressed through another chapter.
When the clock neared five, chairs creaked back, bags zipped, and voices rose again with relief. Plans for drinks, plans for dinners. Helen stacked her pages into ordered piles, slid them into folders, and shut her drawer with a firm click.
She checked the time again. The girls would be well out of their modules by now - Devon from drama, Katie from dance - and already tumbling toward the end of the day. On Mondays and Thursdays they went to the school’s aftercare programme, all noise and glue sticks and the faint chaos of dodgeballs in the gym. Tuesdays and Fridays, though, were different. Those afternoons Ernest usually collected them, folding them into his quiet apartment a few blocks away.
It was still new, this arrangement. Him with two small backpacks slung over his arm, Katie chattering the whole walk, and Devon holding herself stiff and polite beside him. They had only been dating a handful of months, long enough for Ernest to stock apple juice in his fridge and keep extra socks in a drawer, not long enough for Helen to stop second-guessing if she was asking too much of him.
She pulled her coat from the back of her chair, fingers brushing the worn fabric. She could already picture it: Katie sprawled on his couch with markers scattered everywhere, and her eldest perched at the table with her script in her lap. Ernest would look up from his laptop, bemused, and send Helen a short text - All good here.
Helen locked her drawer, slipped her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out into the crisp bite of late afternoon. The sidewalks were already crowded with office workers streaming toward the subway, cars inching through the bottleneck at the corner light. She walked the few blocks to Ernest’s apartment, coat tight around her, the faint ache of the day settling into her shoulders.
The building was ordinary brick, three floors, the kind with mailboxes jammed against the wall in the entryway and a smell of dust mixed with someone’s overcooked dinner. Helen buzzed herself in. The door gave with a reluctant clank, and the stairwell creaked underfoot as she climbed.
By the time she reached the second floor, she could already hear Katie’s voice. A high, sing-song chatter spilling out into the hallway through Ernest’s slightly open door. Helen paused a moment before knocking, letting herself listen - Katie narrating something about a cat, or maybe a drawing, her words tumbling too fast for clarity. Ernest’s low voice interrupted now and then, quiet, even, and impossible to catch.
She knocked anyway. The door opened almost at once. Ernest stood there in his usual button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He wasn’t a tall man, but he carried himself in a way that filled the doorway, with neat hair, a neat expression, and tired eyes softening when he saw her.
“Hi,” he said simply.
“Hi.” Helen smiled, a little breathless from the stairs. Katie barrelled past Ernest and flung herself at Helen’s middle, arms tight.
“Mom!”
Helen bent down to squeeze her. “Hello, sweetheart.” Over Katie’s curls she caught Ernest’s quiet, almost tentative lean forward, and she let him kiss her cheek hello, quick and warm.
“Everything alright?” she asked.
He nodded and stepped back to let her in. “Come see.”
The apartment smelt faintly of coffee and paper. Ernest’s desk sat against one wall, laptop open, documents stacked in unnervingly precise piles. But the neatness ended there. Katie had claimed the living room rug, markers spilt in a rainbow halo, her notebook fat with half-finished drawings.
Helen crouched beside her. Katie immediately thrust a sheet of paper upward. “Look-this one’s you, but you’re a princess.”
Helen laughed softly, taking it with genuine care. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked so regal.”
Katie leaned closer, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial whisper that was definitely not quiet: “Devon was doing her drama homework at the table. Out loud. In real life.”
Helen’s head snapped up, startled. “Was she?”
Katie nodded vigorously, eyes wide. “She was saying the lines and everything. Like a play!”
Helen blinked and shook her head a little in mock disbelief. Devon? Voluntarily, and in front of people? She glanced across the room.
Sure enough, Devon sat at the kitchen table, script open, pencil still in her hand. She wasn’t speaking now, just scowling faintly at the page, but the fact that she’d done it at all was enough to make Helen’s chest squeeze. She brushed Katie’s hair back with a smile. “Well. The teacher must be good.”
Katie had already lost interest, diving back to her markers. Helen stood, drifting toward Devon. She touched her shoulder gently. “How was drama?”
Devon shrugged, trying for casualness. “Fine.” Her eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “The teacher’s… different.”
“Different good or different bad?” Helen asked. She threaded her hand through Devon’s hair, twisting the silky strawberry locks around her pinky.
Devon mumbled, “Just different,” and bent back over her page.
Helen let it go, finally smoothing down Devon’s hair before stepping back. She did, however, have a smirk on her face. She caught Ernest watching from the kitchen doorway, leaning on the frame with his mug. He offered her a small, knowing smile.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“No, no more today.” She set her bag down beside the couch, finally loosening her shoulders. “How were they?”
“Pretty easy, actually,” Ernest said. “Katie drew, Devon read, and I answered some emails.” His tone was flat, but there was fondness in it.
Helen glanced again at Devon, who was muttering half a line under her breath before catching herself and clamming up. Katie hummed a nonsense tune, completely immersed in her rainbow world.
For all the newness, it felt nice.
Ernest set his mug down, tugging his sleeves higher. “They can stay a bit longer, if you need.”
Helen shook her head. “No, we should get home. School again tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “Thank you. Really.”
He leaned close again, a brief kiss goodbye, almost shy. Helen smiled as she straightened her bag.
It took ten minutes to coax Katie into packing her markers and another five for Devon to tuck her script carefully into her bag. Ernest helped herd them toward the door, lifting Katie’s forgotten sweater from the back of a chair and handing it to Helen.
In the hall, Devon muttered a quick, polite “Thanks” without meeting his eyes. Katie threw her arms around his waist in a dramatic goodbye hug.
Outside, the air had turned cool. Helen held her daughters close as they crossed toward the car, one on each side, the rhythm of their steps slowly falling in line with hers. Finally, she felt the press of work loosen at the edges, the faint beginnings of ease returning.
Yeah. The year seemed to be off to a good start.