But the shooting—like the other acts of violence before it—would undoubtedly feed the unconscious bias simmering in so many brains, Maura was certain of that. The next time somebody met a short-stringer, would they pause, for just a moment? Would they wonder, Can I trust this person? With everything they’re going through? All that pain? All that baggage?
How could they possibly be . . . normal?
Fall
Amie
Some students didn’t return that fall.
A few parents moved their children out of private school, unable to justify the additional expense when a shorter string foretold a future loss of income. Several families fled Manhattan, now acutely aware that life was short and wondering if its quality might improve outside the city. A handful left the country altogether.
In fact, by September, six months after the strings’ first appearance, the Times had collected enough data to reveal that a very small but statistically significant percentage of the American population had departed since the boxes arrived. Many of the emigrants simply crossed into Canada, while some journeyed even farther north to Scandinavia, where the years of good press—ranking among the happiest regions in the world and the most dedicated to promoting equality—seemed to outweigh any fears of the endless winter.
Even long before the strings, Amie herself had toyed with the notion of moving, finding a new home where the everyday aspects of living were just a little less expensive and a little less difficult. But the city always managed to change Amie’s mind, pull her back in. For every matted brown rat that scurried past her feet, there was a neighborhood garden sprouting with color. For every late-night mugging on the news, there was a late-afternoon stroll in the park, where musicians and singers on every corner composed a different score. Some things even the strings couldn’t change.
If only her school were one of them.
Back in August, a week after the shooting at the congressman’s rally, the principal had sent a staff-wide email lamenting the ongoing violence across the country and offering his condolences to anyone who had been adversely affected by the strings’ arrival.
“I understand the compulsion that many teachers must feel to provide guidance for their students during this difficult era in our lives,” the principal had written. “However, given the increasingly incendiary nature of the topic and recent developments in our string measurement abilities, I am advising all teachers to refrain from any in-depth discussion of the strings in their classrooms this coming fall.”
The Parent-Teacher Association had apparently come to the conclusion that such a sensitive subject should be reserved for the parents alone.
Amie understood the challenges facing families, but she had never agreed with the new mandate, sidelining the teachers so completely. She believed the school had a real chance to add value by addressing the strings head-on, filling her syllabus with books on mortality and loss, on empathy and prejudice. Amie had even been planning to create a pen pal program between her students and a local nursing home, inspired by her own correspondence with “B.” She hoped that hearing from people who had survived so many decades of a changing world might provide a useful perspective for those coming of age now, but she feared the experience would feel stilted without any mention of the strings.
She had laid out her concerns to the principal at the end of the summer, to no avail.
“Do you have children, Ms. Wilson?” he asked her.
“Well, no, I don’t,” she said.
“Then, as much as I admire your idealism, I’m afraid you can’t appreciate how our parents feel. You know, I receive two dozen calls every year about our sex-ed class, some saying it’s coming too soon for the students, some saying it’s coming too late, and others taking issue with the content of the course itself. There’s no such thing as pleasing everyone. But the parents are the ones paying tuition. They need to decide when and where and how they discuss the strings with their own children.”
The principal paused for a moment. “When you’re a mother, I’m sure you’ll understand.”
Amie had simply nodded along, insulted, though not surprised.
A few weeks later, the numbers came out. The drop in enrollment was shocking.
And then, only four days into the fall semester, the first teacher was officially fired.
Amie arrived at the Connelly Academy that morning to see a group of her colleagues and a few displeased parents already gathered outside the principal’s office.
“This was a very difficult choice,” said the principal, trying to settle the crowd. “But we must abide by the new code of conduct that was agreed upon in August.”