Somewhere Between Luck and Trust. Emilie Richards
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We’ll walk you to the house and get our things.”
As the others chatted, Cristy kept to herself. All day she’d wished for silence and space, but now that they were leaving, she was gripped with fear. What would it be like to live here without company? There were locks on the doors, and a telephone. There was even a television set, although reception was nonexistent, but there was a DVD player.
Still she wasn’t home. She didn’t even know what that meant anymore. For a moment she yearned to be back in the quad surrounded by other prisoners. At least there she had known who she was. And in a perverse way she had known she was safe.
At the house she watched as everyone gathered their things. Harmony, Lottie and Velvet were the first to leave, followed by Georgia. Samantha and Edna lingered longest.
“My number’s right by the phone,” Samantha said. “And everybody else’s numbers are on the wall behind it. You can call any of us anytime, and we’ll be up the mountain as fast as we can get here. But you’re going to be all right. And if you’re not, we’ll find a better place for you.”
Cristy knew she had to sound confident. She managed a smile. “It might feel a little strange at first, but I know I’ll be fine. Thanks for letting me stay.”
Samantha hugged her before Cristy realized what she intended. Being enfolded, even briefly, in somebody else’s arms felt alien. She blinked back tears.
“You call,” Samantha said. “Nobody expects you to be a good soldier. If you need us, call.”
Cristy watched them leave. Samantha and Edna had been gone for almost ten minutes before she went inside.
She locked the door behind her, and turned on the living room lights because the room was beginning to darken. Then she stood in the doorway of the kitchen, where the telephone sat on a small end table, and considered what she was about to do. She’d planned this all afternoon, and as the day dragged on she’d been more and more sure she would make the call. But now that she could, she was hesitant and unsure.
In the end she picked up the phone and dialed the number she had carefully memorized. No one picked up on the other end. Cristy could imagine her cousin’s family enjoying the sunset view from their deck. She remembered doing just that with Berdine two years ago. Before her world disintegrated.
An answering machine picked up, and she waited for her chance to speak. Then she left her message.
“Berdine, this is Cristy. I won’t be coming tomorrow. I’m busy settling in, and I just don’t think it’s a good idea to leave so soon. I’ll call you and set up another time to see Michael. You all have a good night, now.”
She hung up and realized she hadn’t given Berdine her new phone number.
She wasn’t sorry.
Chapter Six
ON MONDAY GEORGIA and three teams of parents and students made rounds of BCAS classrooms to observe and give feedback. She had met with the parent-student teams for six weeks, devising and honing an evaluation form, but the form was a diving platform, and she hoped everyone would dive deeper and search harder for those who were drowning and those who were saving lives.
By the end of a long day, having sat in on as many of the sessions as she could, she was both exhausted and invigorated. Her instincts had been correct. The teams were already proving to be perceptive and thorough. Those teachers willing to listen would gain additional insight on how to become more skilled in the classroom. Those like Jon Farrell, who thought the idea of parents and students instructing the teachers was ridiculous, would, at the very least, learn their opinions might not be a good fit here. If she was lucky they would request a transfer without a sharp nudge from her.
As Georgia headed to her office for the first time since hanging her jacket on the coat rack that morning, Carrie Bywater fell into step beside her. Every time they walked by a classroom, Georgia could hear rain coming in waves beyond the windows—not a gentle spring shower but a sullen winter storm.
“I just wanted you to know I suggested the independent study to Dawson. He said he’d do it if he can study tattoos. He wants to get one.”
“Tattoos, huh? I was hoping for the French Revolution or maybe quantum entanglement theory.”
“I thought about it, and actually, it’s not as bad as it sounds. He can look into things like the history, cultural and anthropological significance, the specific graphic design elements, how tattoos related to fashion through the centuries.” Carrie sounded more enthused as she went. “The health aspects, like HIV infection, ink allergies. Psychological implications. I’m sure he’ll come up with more if he tries. I’m getting together with him tomorrow after school. I’m going to let him know we aren’t talking about a five-page report on the best tattoo parlors in Asheville.”
“Well, if the best way to a student’s mind is through the back door, maybe this time it’s the back door of the tattoo parlor.”
“It’s nice to work with somebody who doesn’t freak out every time we think a little differently.”
Georgia was warmed by the compliment and returned it before Carrie peeled off to head to the teacher’s lounge.
The praise carried her almost to the office. Once there she had to resist slamming the door and barring it with her body for a few moments of privacy.
The secretaries had gone home for the day, but Marianne came out of her office, took one look at Georgia and clucked maternally. “You’ve been gone almost all day, which is too long. Water’s hot. I can make tea, then you should brave the rain and go home.” She nodded to the table with a small coffeepot and an electric kettle.
“Thanks, but I’m just going to clear off the worst of my desk before it implodes and takes the building down with it.”
Marianne’s eyes flicked to something behind Georgia. Georgia turned and saw that a man had entered the office after her.
“May I help?” Marianne said, trying to head him off so Georgia could flee to her office, but the man shook his head and addressed Georgia instead.
“Are you Mrs. Ferguson?”
Georgia felt the long day tugging her down. She was tempted to say no. Sorely tempted.
“I am,” she said instead. “And you are...?”
“Lucas Ramsey.”
She tried to match the last name to a student. He was the right age to be somebody’s father—late forties, early fifties, about her age. His dark hair was turning gray, but not quite there yet. He had eyes of such a deep blue they were startling, and strong features to go with them. He’d dressed for this occasion in a crisply ironed, striped dress shirt and slacks. She liked what she saw and then put that brief flare of attraction swiftly behind her.
“Do you have a son or daughter here?” she asked, as pleasantly as fatigue would allow.
“No, but I’d still like to talk to you about a student. Can you spare a little time now, or would you rather I made an appointment?”
“Which student?”
“Dawson Nedley.”
Had it been anyone else, she would have turned the man over to Marianne, who would have been happy to make the appointment. But Dawson was of such immediate concern that Georgia knew better than to put this off.
“Let’s go in my office,” she said.
She led him there, then stayed on her feet until she could close the door. Her desk was piled so high she knew better than to sit behind it. There was no sense in trying to establish authority with a tower of paper between them.
She motioned him to a love seat in the corner and took the armchair beside it. Outside her windows the sky was gray, and she noted his umbrella was dripping on the carpet. “Before you say anything—I can’t give you information