“Nora, that’s not—”
“And anyone who came willingly, who actually chose this, would be brokener still.”
“This is a nice town—”
“Used to be.”
“We have some challenges but—”
I don’t get to hear what comes after Omar’s very mayoral “but” because Nora interrupts again.
“And whose fault is that?”
Omar nods, resigned, closes his mouth and every other part of him, sips his beer. He and Nora have had countless versions of this conversation countless times, but this is where they all end. Speaking of going nowhere.
One
In the morning, I wake up like usual, groan out of bed, pee, pad back to the bedroom still half asleep to get Mirabel up, take her to the bathroom. （Monday helps lift and carry, but she won’t do the toilet part because: germs.） While Monday gets dressed, I find clothes for Mirabel （Monday can, but Mirabel sometimes likes to wear clothes that aren’t yellow）， and then I get dressed while Monday helps Mirabel into the outfit I’ve picked out （no germs）。 When Mama’s appointments start early, sometimes she’s gone before we’re even up, but she always leaves coffee in the pot and breakfast on the table for us. Monday helps Mirabel （without touching her mouth） while I eat. If Mirabel’s head is steady, she can brush her own teeth, but this isn’t one of those mornings, so I brush mine, then hers （so many germs） while Monday eats. An ordinary morning.
But that is the last thing in my day—my life—that’s ordinary.
Mrs. Shriver is standing in front of the blackboard as we file in, twisting a piece of chalk in her hands. She looks nervous. It’s weird. “Good morning, everyone. Take your seats quickly this morning, please. I have some news.”
History teachers can’t be used to reporting news.
“Class, we have a new student.”
I can barely breathe. Mrs. Shriver either. She sounds like she’s repeating something she got from a book. She’s been teaching for almost two decades, but those words have never come out of her mouth before.
And it’s not just me and Mrs. Shriver. We’re all wiggly like when we were second graders. We’re all paying attention. Chloe Daniels is not falling asleep on her notebook. Evie Anders has pulled back the hood of the sweatshirt she wears so ubiquitously I’d forgotten what color her hair is. Rock Ramundi’s phone is nowhere in sight. Mrs. Shriver walks over to the door and opens it with a little bit of a flourish.
“Allow me to introduce—” The kid standing there looks embarrassed then alarmed as Mrs. Shriver suddenly stops talking and starts looking panicked. It’s her big moment, and she’s forgotten the kid’s name. I try to imagine day one in a new school where everyone already knows everyone but you. I try to imagine day one in this school, without having grown up here, and cannot. I consider what he sees. Bodily—like, as a body but also physically—we’re varied as a garden, one of those weedy ones where anything that grows goes. For a small nowhere town, we’re pretty diverse, I guess because not that long ago Bourne was on the rise, a good place for fresh starts and young families, open to anyone because not that many people were here yet. Mrs. Shriver, who is a Black woman married to a white man, says that’s why they chose it, so her family would belong, so her kids would fit in no matter what they looked like. But it turned out not to matter because Mrs. Shriver and her husband couldn’t have children. Maybe after six miscarriages, they gave up. Or maybe they realized having kids in Bourne wasn’t safe after all, no matter how diverse we are.
So we look different. But we’re all poor. We’re all poisoned. We’re all tired—of this place, each other, our options. Our sisters. We’re all here, and we’re all stuck, and we’re all stuck here. Not that you can tell any of that from looking.
The kid leans in from the hallway and stage-whispers his name to Mrs. Shriver.
“River Templeton.”
And at once, we all understand the look of panic on her face.
Petra’s eyes have doubled in size.
“No. Way.” I grab her hand under the desk.
“Phantasmagorical,” she whispers back.
Alex Malden stops sharpening his pencil mid-point. Peter Fabbelman’s squeaky felt tip falls silent mid-doodle.
Apparently, insanely, in all the flurry of the morning, it had not occurred to Mrs. Shriver when she saw it written down on the paperwork. Not until her lips were on the cusp of mouthing his name did she figure out exactly who River Templeton must be.