“But then, years later, when I was newly married and a very young teacher here at The Wooden Barn, I came upon a poem in the New Yorker, and something clicked. It was her. I was so pleased that she’d come out of that dark time and done something with her life. Become a writer.” Mrs. Quenell pauses. “And then, several years after I first saw that poem, I read that she’d died, which made me quite sad. She was very young. Only thirty. That may not seem young to you now, but one day it will.”
Listening to Mrs. Quenell tell us this, I feel a stirring of recognition, but at first I think I’m just confused, and I tell myself to wait, to just try to take it in.
“And then,” she says, “after a while the details of her death came out—that it was a suicide—and over time the story got much more attention, and then so many people were affected by her life and her tragic death. And mostly, of course, by her work.”
“Plath,” Casey says quietly.
Mrs. Quenell nods and looks out the window again, into the snow-blurred distance and the lucid past. “Yes,” she says. She seems much older all of a sudden. “She was an extraordinary talent. As all of you are well aware.”
No one says a word. We’re shocked, thinking about how Sylvia Plath, the writer we so casually refer to around this table as “Plath,” was not only someone we’ve studied and feel like we know, but was also someone our teacher did know, at least a little, a long time ago.
“But she suffered from the disease of depression,” says Mrs. Quenell, “and they didn’t have the knowledge or the medication then that they have now. Though even now, so many people are still lost. Everything was different then, and the subject could barely be discussed in public. People thought it was a sign of weakness.
“Eventually her journals were published. And through them, it was clear that she believed in writing everything down. It was as if her motto was ‘Words matter.’ And I believe that to be true too. Anyone who becomes a Plath expert, as you all are, realizes that what she had, first and foremost, was a voice.”
Yes, that’s what Sylvia Plath had. I always hear it in my head when I read her.
But she couldn’t come back from what she went through; from where she went. And it makes me ache for her, this writer stopped in a long-ago time. This person whose voice I hear, even as I move away from what I went through myself.
“One year,” says Mrs. Quenell, “I thought to give my students their own journals to write in. I was off antiquing with my late husband, Henry, and I bought a box of them in bulk at an antique store near here that no longer exists. I hoped that writing their feelings down—in addition to all the reading and essay writing that I required—would help them.”
“And did it?” Marc asks.
“You know, it seemed to,” Mrs. Quenell says. “The students said the journals changed their lives. They burst into class and chattered on about how powerful the journals were. At first I thought they were just speaking metaphorically. But after a while I became convinced it was more than that. I took one of the empty journals home and wrote in it myself, to see.
“But nothing unusual happened to me, so I was confused. Perhaps I didn’t need the journal in the way my students did. In the way that you all did.
“I started to think that the journals only release their so-called power under the right circumstances. Of course, believing in any of this goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. The practical ways of the world.
“And yet, and yet,” she says. “One after another, my students tried to explain that something was happening to them. At first I was skeptical, and then I became afraid. But then I saw that they were getting better. Writing in the journals really did seem to be a form of release. And so what was the harm? I couldn’t quite understand what they were going through, but they all assured me the experience was life-changing, and in a good way. So I let it be.”
“Unfuckingbelievable,” says Griffin. He’s really pushing it here, but it hardly matters now. “How do you choose who gets into the class?” he asks.
“Every year,” she says, “I look over the students’ histories, trying to put together a group who all seem to have . . . similar kinds of stumbling blocks. And then I match them with a writer who might help them. One year we had a very anxious, alienated group, and we studied J. D. Salinger. That was a good class, though they all talked way too much, and no one really listened to anyone else.
“Another year, the students needed to be more self-reliant, so we read Ralph Waldo Emerson. And all of you were in the middle of a million things, and yet were isolated. Plath seemed a very good choice. But it’s never just been the journals that have made the difference, I don’t think. It’s also the way the students are with one another . . . the way they talk about books and authors and themselves. Not just their problems, but their passions too. The way they form a little society and discuss whatever matters to them. Books light the fire—whether it’s a book that’s already written, or an empty journal that needs to be filled in. You all know what I’m talking about, I think,” she says.
“Yes,” I say. And then I remember Sierra. “But sometimes,” I add tentatively, “the class—or at least the journal—isn’t safe for everyone.”
“You’re referring to Sierra,” Mrs. Quenell says, her voice suddenly weary. I nod. “That was definitely the journal?” And I nod again. “I was afraid that was the case,” she says.
“She’s stuck there, Mrs. Q,” I say. “See, she found a way to stay, and at first it was a choice we respected—”
“But now,” Casey says, “we can’t get her back to tell her that André’s safe.”
“No one has ever stayed before,” says Mrs. Quenell in the barest whisper.
It’s the first time I see that she truly does understand. She knows what it might mean to “stay.” She fully believes now that there’s another place, accessed only through the journals. She gets it.
“In the entire history of Special Topics in English,” Mrs. Quenell says, “everyone has handed back their journals on the last day, and has gone on to thrive.” She looks extremely pale as she speaks. “But this time, I’m afraid I’ve caused something terrible to happen. I should tell Dr. Gant right now.” She stands unsteadily. “Inform him of what I’ve been doing all these years while I was entrusted with young minds. I should turn myself in. There can be . . . a tribunal. Or whatever they want to call it.”
“No,” we all say. “Stop.”
Everyone is alarmed. Mrs. Quenell was all set to retire, to travel, and now her plans are potentially ruined. I can’t bear for her to feel guilty about what happened to Sierra. “It’s not your fault,” I say quickly. “You’ve been trying to do good. And you did do good, Mrs. Q. What happened to Sierra is a freak occurrence, I guess. You’re an amazing teacher. Don’t tell Dr. Gant. It won’t make a difference. It won’t help Sierra. He’s not part of this. This is . . . ours,” I say.
And it is. It’s our story and no one else’s.
Mrs. Quenell calms down and agrees that she won’t say anything to anyone. “You know,” she says finally, “I’ve always had an idea in the back of my head that I would teach Sylvia’s work to my very last class of students. I would teach it, and then I would be done. There were some years when I almost considered teaching it, but it wasn’t exactly right, and besides, I truly wanted to wait. And then this year, all of you came along, and I knew this was the right class, and the right moment.”
Special Topics in English is about to be over for good. I feel choked up, because I know that we will never all sit here together like this again, and that Mrs. Quenell will soon be gone. And I feel this way because of what’s happened to me, because I’ve let go of so much. Because I’ve changed.
And I also feel this way because of Sierra. Leaving her in Belzhar isn’t acceptable, but we don’t have a choice.
At the end of class, after we’ve eaten the red velve
t cupcakes, and handed back our own journals, including Sierra’s, and after we’ve even played a round of Sylvia Plath Jeopardy!—a slightly ghoulish thing to do, but fun—Mrs. Quenell checks her watch and says, “I’m afraid it’s just about time for me to release you.” She looks at each of us in turn. There’s that attention again, as though no one else exists other than the person she’s looking at.
“I want to say how proud I am of all of you,” she says. “I’m so sorry that you’re leaving here with a certain sadness. What happened to Sierra is my sadness too. But you’re leaving stronger than you were. And somehow, I think you know things you didn’t know before.”
What exactly do I know now? In my head I try to make a list, the way Marc would probably do.
I know the truth about Reeve; that’s one huge thing. I mean, I always knew it, but I couldn’t take it.
And I also know that pain can seem like an endless ribbon. You pull it and you pull it. You keep gathering it toward you, and as it collects, you really can’t believe that there’s something else at the end of it. Something that isn’t just more pain.
But there’s always something else at the end; something at least a little different. You never know what that thing will be, but it’s there.
I learned all of this in Special Topics in English. Mrs. Q taught it to me.
“And I also want you to know,” she says, “that despite what it says in that awful brochure the school hands out for reasons I cannot fathom, I don’t view any of you as ‘fragile.’ Highly intelligent, yes. Emotionally fragile, no. I think there are better words to describe you.
“You’re all equipped for the world, for adulthood, in a way that most people aren’t,” she continues. “So many people don’t even know what hits them when they grow up. They feel clobbered over the head the minute the first thing goes wrong, and they spend the rest of their lives trying to avoid pain at all costs. But you all know that avoiding pain is impossible. And I think having that knowledge, plus the experiences you’ve lived through, make you definitely not fragile. They make you brave.”
I wish I could go over and cry against her silk shoulder, thanking her and reassuring her. I wish I could tell her everything I’ve lived through this semester, and everything I’ve lived through over the past year. She’s read my file, but it’s hardly the whole picture. I want to tell her about Reeve. And about what I know now that I didn’t know then. But she’s an old woman who’s been teaching high school English for a very long time, and she’s tired, and proud of us, and so concerned about Sierra. She deserves a calm and dignified send-off.
So all I say is “Thank you, Mrs. Q.” And everyone else thanks her too.
“I want you all to have a marvelous vacation,” she adds as she slips on her gray wool coat, “and a marvelous rest of the school year. You’re all terrific young people. I look forward to seeing what you do with your lives.”
Then she clicks shut the brass fastener on her briefcase that now contains our journals, and stands up. She nods to us one final time, this gracious woman with the perfect white bun and the tiny gold wristwatch, and then she slowly walks out of the classroom. It’s the only time she’s ever walked out ahead of us, but somehow that’s the right move today.
We sit stunned for a few minutes, and then Marc says, “So I guess that’s that.”
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “What about Sierra? We’re just going to leave her there?” I know I sound kind of pathetic and repetitive. Nobody has any fresh ideas. Nobody knows what to say. Casey does that thing that girls do to each other to be supportive: She squeezes my hand. It’s like she wants to tell me, I’m here for you, Jam. And I appreciate it, but the only way she could really be here for me is if she helps get Sierra back. And neither of us knows how to do that.
Finally we all leave the classroom too. Casey reaches up from her wheelchair and swipes a hand over the light switch. Though we’re all going to be at The Wooden Barn for another semester, Special Topics in English will be over. The whole experience will close up like a fault line in the earth, and it will be as if this huge thing had never even really happened.
We’ll just be four kids who were in the same class first semester. Maybe we’ll get together once in a while, or we’ll pass one another and say things like “Hey, how’s it going?” “How’s history class?” “How are the Barntones?” “Are you trying out for the play?” But it won’t be the same.
Even Griffin and me—there’s no way to know what will happen to us. Everything is very new and tentative, and so much hasn’t been revealed yet. Are we good for each other? Are we compatible? Who knows? We just love being together, though; that’s indisputable right now.
On the path outside the classroom building, after everyone else is gone, he and I stand together a little longer, and I put my head on his shoulder. “You go on ahead,” I finally tell him. “I just want to walk a little.”
He doesn’t question this, but kisses me, then nods and heads off down the path. He still lopes when he walks, as if he might be about to break into a run. I could watch him for a long time. But there are things I have to think about right now.
Other than the list I’ve made in my head so far, what else did I get out of Special Topics in English? People are always saying these things about how there’s no need to read literature anymore—that it won’t help the world. Everyone should apparently learn to speak Mandarin, and learn how to write code for computers. More young people should go into STEM fields: science, technology, engineering, and math.
And that all sounds true and reasonable. But you can’t say that what you learn in English class doesn’t matter. That great writing doesn’t make a difference.
I’m different. It’s hard to put it into words, but it’s true.
Words matter. This is what Mrs. Q has basically been saying from the start. Words matter. All semester, we were looking for the words to say what we needed to say. We were all looking for our voice.
I stop on the cold path to squint up at the trees, which are thin and still against the bright sky. Uncovered, hanging out until their big budding moment, which won’t happen for months. It’s like they’re hibernating now, waiting for spring. Off in some kind of waiting place, just like Sierra.
She needs to be able to burst out too, to shoot out all green again, and have a life. She needs that as much as the rest of us. But how can I give it to her? How can I find the words?
I’d so much wanted it to work when I asked the nurse at the local hospital to go shout to Sierra to come out of Belzhar, just the way it had worked when Griffin called to me to come out of Belzhar, and then I’d tumbled out of that crazy, goaty version of the place and returned to him. But of course it hadn’t worked with Sierra.
I found what I needed to say at The Wooden Barn. But maybe it isn’t just the words that matter. It’s that other thing, which Mrs. Q was talking about today. The voice. It doesn’t just matter what you say. It matters who does the saying.
It matters whose voice it is.
Quickly, I pivot on the path and head back to the dorm as fast as I can go, my breath visible in the air, my feet thudding loudly. Luckily, no one is on the pay phone now. That same miserable phone I spoke into long ago, begging my mom to let me come home. I hadn’t known anything then. I hadn’t known that if you hold on, if you force yourself as hard as you can to find some kind of patience in the middle of all your impatience, things can change. It’s big, and it’s always incredibly messy. But there’s no way around the mess.
I have Sierra’s home number, which she’d written on a scrap of paper before Thanksgiving break. I press the numbers, and the phone rings for a long time before someone answers. A man. Tired, guarded. No doubt the Stokes family has been getting phone calls from reporters and crazy people constantly since André was found.
“Is this Mr. Stokes?” I ask in a rush. And then I plunge ahead. “I’m Sierra’s
friend Jam up at The Wooden Barn in Vermont. Maybe she’s told you about me?”
I hear a sigh. “Yes,” he says. “I know who you are. She liked you.”
“Mr. Stokes,” I say. “I am so incredibly happy for you about André; I mean, that is the best news in the world. But I know it’s like Sierra is gone now too. And maybe you think she’ll be gone forever. But I had a thought. I can’t explain it, it’d be too complicated, but I wondered if there’s something I could try. Something to say to Sierra, to see if it reaches her. Well, it wouldn’t be me saying it.”
“What are you talking about?” says Mr. Stokes.
“Can you put André on the phone?”
He pauses for a very long time, and I hear a murmured discussion in the background. Finally Mr. Stokes gets back on and tells me he knows Sierra thinks so much of me, so, okay, hold on.
And then the phone is put down, and a long time passes, and then it’s picked up again, and a flat teenaged male voice says, “Hello.”
“André, this is Sierra’s friend Jam, up at her school? I’m so unbelievably glad you’re home.” I’m speaking quickly, making sure I get a chance to say everything. “Listen, you don’t know me,” I go on, “but I have a very weird favor to ask you. It’s important. I know it’s going to sound crazy. But I need you to know I’m not crazy.”
“Wait,” he says, “don’t you go to the school they sent her to in Vermont? The crazy school?”
“Yes, I go to The Wooden Barn. But it’s just that most of us at the school have issues, that’s all. I had to call you because I know something. Something big that can maybe help.” There’s silence from him, and I keep talking over it. “You have to go to her, André,” I say, “and let her know some things. Please. She thinks that it’s best to just stay where she is. But it isn’t. It can’t be best just to . . . you know . . . stagnate. I mean, even if you hadn’t ever been found—and oh my God, thank God you were—she still could have come back and faced the world. It’s better that way. I know this for myself. If she comes back here, yes, I know it’s all uncertain and sometimes terrifying, but it’s other things too. And she has you. You have each other. And whatever else is there for her in the future.”