Cutting Teeth(31)

“Darby,” Rhea begins, because it all comes down to karma and her chakras, those mysterious spinning wheels of power located along her spine that have been thrown completely out of alignment.

But Darby has started talking at the exact same time and, as usual, her words spill out faster and louder. “What would you do if Marcus went behind your back?” she says.

“What—what do you mean?”

“Like, I don’t know.” She seems frustrated to have to explain herself. “Something to do with Bodhi maybe. For example. What would you do? How would you handle it?”

Rhea rears back. Does Darby know? Has she somehow found out that Rhea has indeed gone behind Marcus’s back about Bodhi—worse than that even? She bristles. “I—”

“Shh, shhhh.” Darby pats Rhea’s hand and she stops talking.

“You ready to go?” Griff skulks up out of nowhere, doesn’t even acknowledge Rhea’s presence.

“Yeah, sure.” Darby pats her bag and her pockets, checking for her cell phone, her wallet, absentmindedly. “We can head out. Let us just grab the kids, okay?” She shoots Rhea a meaningful look.

Apparently Rhea gets no say in the matter.

Five minutes later, the adults ride home in oppressive silence while Lola and Bodhi point out an ambulance, a motorcycle, an old-timey truck. Lola is hungry. Bodhi is hot. Rhea wants out of the car before there are meltdowns. When she waves goodbye to the Mortons, she feels worn out, clear down to her bones.

At least, she’s learned one thing, all credit to her strong sense of womanly intuition, and that’s that Griff Morton is lying about something. She’d bet her life on it.

“Go change out of those clothes,” she tells Bodhi, once inside. “And make sure you put them back on hangers. Those are new.”

She crosses the kitchen and tips a ceramic vase. A tiny bit of silver skitters along the countertop like a tooth. She slaps her hand over it to stop it from falling into the sink. There, she holds it up to the light as she’s done every day since The Day, and on the right straight edge she checks, sure that when she looks hard enough she can still make out the orange-red hue of a few drops of sticky blood.





FIFTEEN




For as long as she can remember, Mary Beth has kept up a chatty rapport with God. She’s not one of those kneel-at-the-foot-of-her-bed Christians. She prefers to keep her Lord and savior up-to-date with the frippery of her daily routine:

Dear God, remind me to pick up fragrance fillers for our plug-ins at Target today while I’m in the store. Dear God, I’m struggling with whether to allow Angeline to get the Bratz dolls. I pray that you’ll speak to my heart and help me to make the right decision. Dear God, this weekend’s episode of SNL made me laugh out loud, thank you. Jesus as a best friend is actually true for Mary Beth.

But the conversation has dried up.

For the past week, it’s been radio silence and she can’t exactly blame God. It’s been five days since anyone set foot in Little Academy. What she hopes—if she dares to—is that a return to school might herald normalcy and a restoration of her silent blabber. She has a lot to catch God up on and it’s not all good, she’s afraid.

Today, the school issued an oblique message regarding the returning class of fours:

Parents,

If your children have exhibited biting behaviors, we ask that you please plan accordingly. The front office is available for questions and guidance. Don’t hesitate to reach out.

Welcome back in this time of grief and healing.

Yours Truly,

Mrs. Parker

On the day school reopens, she arrives early by design, clasping Noelle’s hand tightly on her way into the building. Today will be difficult, yes, but not insurmountable with the right mental outlook. I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me. Look! It’s coming back already.

“Do you remember what we talked about?” she asks as the door to the academy swishes shut behind them.

The most striking thing is how nothing’s changed, really. Children’s artwork has been left untampered with on the walls. There are all the usual signs to wash your hands before entering the class. Sneeze into your elbow. As if the scariest thing that could happen here is catching a cold.

“It’s not polite to speak about what happened to Miss Ollie,” Noelle recites with impatience.

“That’s right. Miss Ollie questions are Big Feelings questions and they should be handled by mommies and daddies only. Got it?”

“I know.”

Still, Mary Beth wants to hear her say it again. “Noelle—”

Mary Beth stops, not dead, nothing so dramatic as that, but she just sort of peters out along with all the words that were flowing right along with her.

“What, Mommy? What?” Tug. Tug. Tug. Will Noelle ever stop tugging?

Directly in front of Mary Beth, the door to the supply room stays closed. It’s almost as if she expected it to have vanished. Like the school would have demolished the place with a wrecking ball.

That would have been nice.

The industrial paper cutter sliced clear through the bone of two of Miss Ollie’s fingers, just like they always warned the children it could. Mary Beth tries to picture how this could have possibly unfolded. Why would two fingers have borne the brunt?