“You will be soon enough,” she said, hoping she sounded enthusiastic. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it later.” She walked into the kitchen and braced her hands against the kitchen sink and closed her eyes. Inhaling deep breaths didn’t seem to help.
Trey was going back to Montana, where he belonged—where she belonged, too. Only she was too proud to admit it, too stubborn to throw in the towel. For three years she’d given all that she had, looking for a chance to prove herself. All that effort, all her talent, had gotten her was a job as a singing waitress in a two-star restaurant.
Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on the kitchen counter and pushed the hair away from her forehead. She tried taking in short breaths, followed by deep ones. Nothing seemed to help.
Damn it all, she was going to cry. Trey would see, and then he’d want to know what was wrong. She didn’t know what she would tell him.
If Michelle came home, perhaps her friend could distract him until Jenny had collected herself.
She felt the first tears slip from the corners of her eyes. She’d held them back for so long that it was as if a dam had burst inside her. The tears marked more than Trey’s return home. They represented the frustration, the disappointment, of three hard years of her life. Three long, fruitless years.
“Jenny, is something wrong?” Trey stood directly behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body so close to her own.
“I’m fine,” she answered in a strained voice. She straightened, wiped the telltale moisture from her face, and reached toward the bread box.
“You don’t sound fine. Turn around.” His hand fell gently on her shoulder.
She might have been able to pull it off if he hadn’t been so tender with her. The moment he touched her, she knew she was lost. The sob was a painful tightening in her chest that worked its way up to her throat.
She turned in his arms and let his torso muffle her cry. Her shoulders shook as he wrapped her in his embrace.
“Jenny, my heaven, what is it?”
She didn’t answer him; she couldn’t.
His hand stroked her hair, and Jenny was confident he had no idea what to do with her. She feared her tears embarrassed him as much as they did her.
“Oh my,” she said, breaking away from him. She smeared the traces of tears away from her cheeks and from some hidden reserve of strength offered him an apologetic smile. “I wonder what that was all about.”
Trey didn’t respond. Instead he tucked his finger beneath her chin and lowered his mouth to hers. They’d kissed before, and the hot sensation between them had shocked Jenny. He kissed her again and again, each kiss gaining in intensity and momentum until she was struggling for control.
“Jenny, sweet Jenny,” he whispered, his voice husky and low. “I don’t think you know what kissing you does to me.”
“I do know, because you do the same thing to me.” She ran her tongue along the underside of his jaw and felt his body tense against hers. She’d never experienced such a powerful sense of control over a man.
He cupped her face between his hands for another deep, breath-stealing kiss.
“Tell me why you were crying,” he whispered.
Jenny closed her eyes. Her hands bit into the material of his shirt, her hold so tight that her fingers lost feeling. “I . . . I’m going to miss you, Trey.”
He stiffened, and she wondered if she’d said something wrong. “You don’t need to worry,” she hurried to assure him. “I’m a big girl, really.”
He led her into the living room and sat her down in the chair, then he started moving around as though he needed to sit himself but couldn’t find an available seat.
“Trey?”
He held out his hand. “I’ve got something to ask you. I was going to wait until tonight at dinner, but now seems as good a time as any.”
“Ask me what?”
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I’m not sure how to do this. I’ve never done it before, and hell”—he paused and dragged a deep breath through his lungs—“I damn well never plan to do it again.”
“You’ve never done what?”
“Propose,” he snapped, then seemed to realize what he’d said. He ceased his roaming and stood directly in front of her. “I love you, Jenny Lancaster. I’ve loved you from the time you were fifteen years old. . . .”
“Fifteen? But you never let on . . . you never told me.”
He frowned. “If I’d said anything, your father would have had me arrested, as well he should have. I never wanted you to leave Montana, but you deserved your chance. You’ve had it, and now it’s time to come home. With me, with the promise you’ll be my wife.” His eyes grew dark and serious as he got down on one knee in front of her. “Come home with me, Jenny. Marry me, and mother my children. I don’t have a lot to offer you, except a heart that will always be yours.”
Jenny was too stunned to respond. She pressed her hand over her mouth and battled down a fresh batch of emotion.
The front door opened and Trey stood up abruptly and, irritated, glanced over his shoulder.
“Hello, everyone,” Michelle greeted as she whirled into the room like a prairie dust storm. She hesitated and looked from Trey and Jenny. “I’m not disrupting anything, am I?”
“Yes,” Trey answered before Jenny could.
“Oh, sorry. Do you want me to discreetly disappear for a few moments?”
“That would be much appreciated.” Again it was Trey who responded.
Michelle had just started to tiptoe from the room when the telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, and then tossed Trey an apologetic look. “I’ve been waiting for a call all week.”
Trey rubbed his hand along the back of his neck and gave her an impatient nod.
Michelle answered on the second ring, and her gaze swiveled automatically toward Jenny. She placed her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” Jenny asked.
“It’s Irene.”
Jenny leapt off the sofa and hurried to the phone. “Irene,” she said eagerly, unable to hide her delight. When her agent phoned it was generally with good news.
“Jenny.” Irene sounded excited. “I just got off the phone with John Peterman. He’s wants you for the second lead in his new play. This is it, kiddo. All your hard work has finally paid off. We couldn’t ask for better money or better terms. You’re on your way now.”
Dumbstruck, Jenny listened while Irene relayed the details of her contract. When her agent had finished, Jenny replaced the receiver and turned to Michelle, who stood beside her expectantly.
“I got the second lead,” she whispered, her voice revealing the extent of her shock. “John Peterman wants me.”
Michelle let out a wild scream and hugged her enthusiastically. Then the two of them did a dance about the room, laughing, crying, their joy spilling over like champagne poured too fast from the bottle.
A good five minutes passed before Jenny remembered Trey, and then she couldn’t find him.
“Where’d he go?” Jenny asked her roommate.
Michelle gave her a blank look. “I don’t know. He must have left.”
The minute Brynn walked into the school she knew something was very wrong. One of the secretaries sat at her desk, weeping silently. A handful of teachers stood in the corner of the office, talking in whispers. The tension in the room was thick enough to slice and butter.
Not knowing what was wrong, Brynn walked over to her cubicle and cleared out the space. As she suspected, there were a number of printed sheets detailing information about the winter break. The teachers’ Christmas party was scheduled for that evening. Since her surname began with a C, she was responsible for supplying a main dish. Another paper detailed the period schedule for the last day.
Brynn slipped the papers into her bag. A white envelope fluttered from her space and landed on the floor. It was addressed to her personally, and she wondered who had put it there. On closer inspection, she realized
the handwriting was familiar. It took a moment to recognize it was from Mike Glasser.
“Did you hear?” Doug Keast asked as he reached for his own papers.
“Hear about what?” Brynn had never been particularly fond of Doug. Not since the day he’d been so eager to have Emilio hauled off to the office. She had no problem with the school’s policy regarding fighting, but she questioned the other teacher’s attitude. It seemed Doug had welcomed the opportunity to see Emilio expelled.
“Mike Glasser.”
“What about him?” she asked.
“He blew his brains out.” Doug pointed his finger to his temple and pulled an imaginary trigger. “His mother found him late yesterday afternoon.” Doug hesitated. “Say, isn’t he one of the kids in your program?”
Mike, dead? A suicide? It was as if Doug had pulled the floor out from under her. The information came at her like a fist in the dark.
Brynn gasped and slumped against the wall. It demanded every ounce of strength she possessed to remain upright. Involuntarily she started to hyperventilate, and she reached out and grabbed hold of the back of a chair.
“Brynn?” Doug’s arm came around her. “Here, sit down. Do you need something?”
“Water. Could you please get me a glass of water?” A shocking, total numbness shrouded her.
“Of course. Listen, I’m sorry.” Doug steered her to a table and sat her down. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you like that.” His voice was full of apology.
Brynn was too numb to respond.
Dead. Mike, the young man she’d tried so hard to reach, was dead. There would be no more tomorrows. No dreams for Mike. No future.
The letter. Mike had written her a letter. A suicide note. No. No, please, please no. Had he written it to her as a desperate cry for help? Dear God, please no. She hadn’t collected her messages in two days.
Her hands shook so badly that Brynn was barely able to retrieve the long white envelope from inside her bag. She ripped it open and pulled out a single sheet.
Miss Cassidy,
By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. I’m not going to go into the reasons why I’m doing this because that wouldn’t solve anything. For me death is the only solution. This is what I want. Life is simply too fucking painful.
I imagine you’re wondering why I’m writing you.
There’s someone I care about, and she’s going to take this hard. I don’t know anyone who can help Suzie through this, except maybe you.
Suzie’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love her. She tried to help me, but she couldn’t. No one could.
My dad killed himself when I was a kid. I used to get upset about it, but now I understand why he did it. Dying is easier than living.
Unable to continue because her eyes had blurred with tears, Brynn paused long enough to search for a tissue, then returned to Mike’s letter.
You don’t owe me any favors, but I know you like Suzie.
Talk to her for me, would you? Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her . . . Shit, you’ll know what to say. It isn’t her fault. It’s no one’s fault. Not Suzie’s. Not yours. Not mine. It’s better this way for everyone.
I know I don’t have any right to lay this on you, but there’s no one else I trust. If you would, I’d appreciate it if you said something to my mother, too. You’re good with words and you’ll know what to tell her.
Since this is the last thing I’ll ever write, there’s something I’d like to know. I wish I could have traded places with Anne Frank. She wanted to live, when all I could think about was dying. You’re a good teacher, Miss Cassidy. You made me care.
Mike
Doug Keast returned with a paper cup filled with water. Brynn thanked him with a brisk nod as she folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.
Brynn nodded. She wanted nothing more to do with Doug Keast and was grateful when the first bell rang.
“Brynn,” her fellow teacher pressed, “do you want me to call someone? You don’t look so good.”
“I’ll be fine.” But she wouldn’t be. It would be a long while before she would feel right again. Brynn couldn’t keep from thinking that she should have known something was wrong. She should have been able to reach Mike. Should have realized the depth of his despair.
And Suzie. Poor Suzie. Brynn was certain the teenager had never told Mike she was pregnant. Suzie had loved him and tried to protect him. Mike had loved her enough to ask Brynn to help her through her grief. Brynn didn’t know what she could possibly say that would comfort Suzie and Mike’s mother.
By some miracle, she made it through the morning, teaching by rote. Not everyone had heard about Mike’s death, but then only a handful of her morning students knew him.
At lunchtime, still numb, still in shock, Brynn returned to the office to ask about Suzie Chang. As she suspected, Suzie was absent. She wrote down Suzie’s home address, tucked it inside her pocket, and returned to her classroom.
Her heart ached. Her body ached, and she wondered if she would emotionally survive this day. The burden of explaining and comforting seemed beyond her.
When it was time for her afternoon class, Brynn sat at her desk. One by one, her students paraded single file past her. Mike’s desk in the center of the room sat empty. Brynn found she couldn’t look at it without experiencing a tremendous sense of loss.
Everyone appeared to be watching her, waiting for her to say something. Brynn walked to the front of the room. The silence was deafening.
“By now I’m sure you’ve all heard about Mike,” she said, and was shocked at how thin her voice had become. She struggled with her composure. “Talking about it might do us all some good. Perhaps you can help me understand why Mike would take his own life?”
“It’s stupid,” Pearl Washington said.
“But Mike wasn’t stupid,” Brynn insisted. “When I could get him to express his feelings, I found his essays to be full of insight.” She realized as she spoke how dark his writing was, how bleakly he saw the world. Then and now. Guilt swamped her senses. She should have seen it coming, should have realized how much pain he was in.
“He should have told someone,” Emilio suggested.
“Who?” Brynn asked. “Told them what?”
“We weren’t exactly his friends,” Yolanda reminded everyone sadly.
“He didn’t want no friends,” Denzil insisted.
“Okay, so he wasn’t Mr. Personality, but he wasn’t so bad, you know.”
“Are you sorry he’s dead?” Brynn asked.
A chorus of regrets chimed back, and Brynn knew that the class was suffering just as she was. Mike had asked her to talk to Suzie, to help Suzie. What he hadn’t realized was that they were all going to need help dealing with his death.
“He never let on, you know?” someone complained.
“I don’t think he knew how to share his pain,” Brynn suggested.
Yolanda started to cry. “It makes me mad.”
“What does?” Brynn questioned, struggling not to weep herself.
“That he didn’t give any of us a chance to tell him goodbye. When Modesto was shot it was bad, but this is worse because I feel like there was something I should have done, something I should have said. Maybe if I’d been friendlier, it would have helped.”
“I don’t think any of us had a clue how much emotional pain Mike was in,” Brynn told them solemnly. “Death was obviously something Mike had been entertaining for a long time. It was wrong, and now each one of us is left with recriminations.”
Brynn paused at the sharp pain in her chest. “I can’t blame Mike, but I wish I’d known how much he was hurting. I might have been able to help him. Like Yolanda said, we never got a chance to say good-bye.”
“I want to get in his face and make him listen to reason,” one of the girls shouted. “He’s hurt so many people.”
“He was in pain himself.”
&nb
sp; “I wish I could talk to him.”
“You can,” Brynn whispered.
“But how?” Denzil asked. “It isn’t like we can write him a letter.”
“Why can’t we?” Brynn asked, remembering how much writing had helped her deal with the death of her beloved grandmother five years earlier. “It’s true Mike won’t be reading it, but writing Mike might help each of us deal with the shock of what he did.”
“Miss Cassidy’s right.”
Binders opened and spiral notebooks appeared as her students automatically reached for a fresh piece of paper. They did this without Brynn so much as asking.
The remainder of the time was spent writing Mike. Brynn wrote her own letter and found herself struggling to hold in the emotion as she placed feelings of doubt on the page. When she glanced up, she found several of her students were weeping.
Afterward, those who were willing read their letters aloud.
Emilio volunteered first. Looking shaken but determined, he faced the class. “Mike, don’t do it, man. Don’t do it.” Then he slid back onto his seat.
Pearl stood beside her desk. “Why do I hurt so bad? I barely knew you, and yet I feel some responsibility for your death. You sat three desks away from me. Three desks and you couldn’t reach that far? Three desks and I couldn’t see your pain? I’m sorry, Mike. Forgive me.”
Yolanda, tears streaming down her face, volunteered next. “Thank you, Mike, for what you taught me. I wasn’t your friend, but I wish I had been. I never took the time to talk to you. But you touched my life. Never again will I sit in a classroom and not look around me. I wish I’d known how much pain you were in. I’d like to think you would have told me had I asked. Only I never asked. Next time will be different. Next time I’m going to look.”
When the bell rang her class filed out of the room with little of the enthusiasm they generally showed at the end of a day.
“Will you find out about Mike’s funeral?” Emilio asked.
The other kids stopped and waited for Brynn to respond.
“We want to know,” Yolanda said.
“I think it would help if we went.”