Cutting Teeth(38)

Darby stiffens and a mere foot away Mrs. Tokem snaps to attention. The fact that Mary Beth was the one to utter—no—shout an obscenity seems to have short-circuited the hardwiring in Darby’s brain.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Darby can’t take one more bad thing.

“Shit,” Asher parrots, followed by a few of the other boys in class. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“That’s not a kind—” Mrs. Tokem scolds.

Mary Beth holds up her trembling hands. She’s cradling her right with her left, thumb pressed into the webbing of her opposite. Two thick streams of blood dribble out over her nail and slide down her wrist.

Darby’s molars press hard together. “You poor thing.”

Mary Beth’s nose wrinkles as she squeezes her eyes shut. “Is it bad?” she asks, turning her chin. “I can’t look.”

The whole scene unfolds in the most eerie silence save for the sound of Mary Beth sucking in air through her teeth like a beached fish. Darby won’t know how to describe it when she tries telling Griff later this evening—Creepy, menacing, my actual spine tingled. Absolutely one of those had-to-be-there situations.

Mary Beth seems to be exhibiting a gravitational pull on the children, so drawn are they, these small bodies, to her. Bex wears light-up sneakers that blink purple with each step; the peach fuzz around Asher’s lips glistens with fresh saliva; Zeke squirms.

Darby clocks the moment Mary Beth opens her eyes enough to register what’s happening before her. She pulls her elbows in, making her body into a tight package.

When Darby pushes inelegantly through to her dear friend, she takes her hands in hers, cupping the pulsating wound, and glances out at the gathered children. Their pupils are their own black holes. Lola’s breaths are shallow. Noelle’s nostrils flare.

“Class—it’s just a little boo-boo.” Mrs. Tokem’s voice strains. “Ms. Darby and Ms. Mary Beth have it under control. They are grown-ups.”

Darby surveys the kids—the straight edges of their Chiclet teeth—and tries to remember how many baby teeth are in a child’s mouth. Eighteen? Twenty? Now, there would be a useful science fair project. Multiply by ten. Two hundred little teeth.

She puts her arm around Mary Beth’s shoulder. “I think we better get you out of here,” she murmurs into her ear.

Mrs. Tokem taps shoulders and brusquely demands kids return to their seats or else lose Privileges.

Mary Beth nods once. Brushstrokes of artificial blush stand out on her blanched cheeks.

“We’ll just pop out,” Darby says, already hightailing with Mary Beth to the door amidst at least one or two howls of protest from the class.

In the hallway outside the room, the air feels at least three degrees cooler.

“Shhhh, it’s okay.” Darby hasn’t had a look at the hand yet, but chances are it will be okay. Between the two of them, it’s rare for Darby to be the one in charge. Once at a gymnastics birthday party, Lola threw up in Darby’s lap and Mary Beth jumped into action. She threw away Darby’s cell phone case and went to fetch paper towels from the bathroom before Darby even came out of shock. But this time, Darby’s pleased to find she’s rising to the occasion. She leads Mary Beth down the hall and tests a knob. It gives.

“That’s the—” Mary Beth protests, but they both fall silent. “It was locked before…”

The supply room is as clean as if nothing ever happened. A rainbow of construction paper, stacked bins of glue sticks, primary-colored finger paints, Popsicle sticks, ziplock baggies, latex gloves, and hand sanitizer await.

“I think it’s okay. We’ll just be a minute.” Darby eyes a bucket of gleaming grown-up scissor blades behind Mary Beth. “Here, let me take a peek.”

Mary Beth’s fingers are chilly to the touch.

“Oh, it’s not even that deep.” Darby leans down for a better look, turning Mary Beth’s hand this way and that.

“Ouch, that hurts.” Mary Beth retracts her hand, reproachful.

“Sorry. I did tell you to be careful. I think you can get away without stitches. I bet the nurse has some of that surgical glue or maybe a butterfly bandage. It’s in a tricky spot.” Darby turns to search the cabinets for a first aid kit, trying not to think about Miss Ollie, only able to think about Miss Ollie. Where was her body? Is she standing in the same spot?

“I’m an idiot,” Mary Beth groans.

“You’re not an idiot.” Darby’s voice is muffled within one of the cabinets, which has the comforting but tickly smell of dust. “You’re a distracted mother.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“It is?” Darby’s fingers close around the shiny red-and-white plastic of a first aid kit and she hauls it up. “Why?” Inside, she finds a coil of gauze. “Hold still,” she commands.

“Distracted mother means bad mother. They’re the same thing. Synonyms. Distracted mothers are the ones too busy playing Candy Crush and having affairs with their pool boys and popping Vicodin to notice her kid’s just wandered into oncoming traffic. Watch it.” She glances down to where Darby is sloppily wrapping her hand up in the white gauze, crissing and crossing with no particular pattern, displaying exactly the same level of skill as she had with the egg carton creatures. If nothing else, she’s consistent. “Is that me?”