“I don’t need your help.”
My heart burned. I was her only daughter. I was all she had. And she was all I had left. “Maybe I need you.”
My mother’s gaze met mine for a long moment. A twitch passed across her face, a…softening? I held my breath. I wanted desperately to turn the page, start a new chapter in our relationship.
“I love you, Anne,” she said finally. “But it’s time for you to grow up.”
7
Anne
Nothing made me feel morelike a grown-up than spending time with actual teenagers.
Most of my students had eight-second attention spans, honed on social media and video games. It was literally my job, as the only adult in the room, to keep them engaged. I’d been counting on Leonardo DiCaprio to hold their interest—or at least keep them quiet—on my first day back. But apparently Friday’s substitute teacher had seized on the same idea.
Which meant that instead of showing a movie to my restless seventh-period class, I was stuck with explaining color symbolism inThe Great Gatsby. “So, the green light on the dock obviously represents money. Gatsby’s dream. The American dream. Can you name another significant color?”
“Red?” Martina suggested from the third row.
“Very good. Can you give me an example?”
“Like your hair, Miss G.,” Lindsey said slyly.
Too late, I recognized the setup. “Thank you. An example from the book?”
“Did you use, like, henna?”
My students knew I could be distracted. I didn’t mindthem trolling for a bite. Sometimes it led to good class discussion. But today I resisted the bait. “From the book, please.”
Addison, in front, had her hand up. Addison always had her hand up. I smiled encouragingly at Colin, slumped behind her. “What does red signify?”
“I guess…anger?”
“Sex,” Martina said, provoking smirks.
“Blood,” Addison said.
“My mother says henna damages your hair,” Lindsey said. “I always get my color done at the salon.”
I didn’t blame them for trying to derail the class discussion. My teachers complained I had trouble paying attention, too. Which meant that I, of all people, should be able to turn this lesson around.
I looked at the clock. Thirty-five minutes to kill, er, go. “Okay, take out your notebooks. New assignment.”
Groans erupted from the room.
“I want you to create an Instagram profile and at least five posts, including a reel, for a character fromThe Great Gatsby.” I turned my back on them to write on the whiteboard. Like a lion tamer, showing no fear to the wild beasts in my charge. “Use at least one quote and one scene or interaction from the book.” I circled bullet points on the board. “Think about your characters. Who are they? How would they want to represent themselves on social media?”
“Can we use cast pictures? From the movie?”
“That’s the director’s vision. I want you to use your imaginations. What would be your character’s dominant color? Find your own photos. Or draw. Or…” My own imagination fired. “Dress up and take pictures.”
Doubtful looks peppered with a few flashes of interest.
“Let’s break into small groups,” I suggested, seized with inspiration. “You can help each other brainstorm. Maybe collaborate on posts.”
The volume rose as my students, seeing the opportunity to get out of work for the rest of the day, dragged chairs and desks into groups of two or four. I wended among them, matching the social outcasts with resigned or grateful partners, separating troublemakers, dividing cliques, prodding and moderating discussions.
“Not everybody can be Daisy,” I told Lindsey and her friends. “What about the tennis player, Jordan? Or Myrtle?”
