She does look happy. The girl in the photo is beaming at the camera, a beautiful, carefree smile that has the attention of more than one of the other guys—the boy to her left and the boy on the far right are both looking at her rather than at the camera.
“You could be twins,” I say. Even though the photo is black and white, I can tell that Nora’s hair is the same blonde as Juniper’s was when I was tutoring her. There’s something about Nora’s smile that reminds me of her daughter’s, too—an untamed, almost reckless quality that promises mischief or even trouble.?*
“Yeah,” Juniper says. “People told us that all the time.”
When I hear the thread of bitterness in her voice, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s too late to take it back, though, so I change the subject instead.
“Maybe these are the friends your brother’s dad mentioned?” I say, pointing to the guys surrounding Nora.
“They are,” she says. She points to the caption, reading out loud. “Laughter at lunch time for the Elite group of friends. Left to right: Cam Verido, Thomas Freese, Nora Bean, Lionel Astor.” She snorts, shaking her head and looking at me. “The Elites. What a stupid name.”?*
I nod. Then I frown as something she’s just said registers.
“Hang on,let me see that,” I say, leaning in.
She tilts the yearbook so that I can see it, and I squint, checking the caption to the photo. Sure enough, there it is:Lionel Astor.
“That’s Rocco’s brother,” I say, blinking in surprise.
“Rocco…” Juniper says slowly, like she’s trying to place the name.
“The gym teacher you met at the dance,” I say. I point at the boy in the photo. “That’s his brother. He’s a bigshot now, running for governor.”
“Oh,” Juniper says. She looks at me, her face displaying some of the same surprise I feel. “I knew Rocco looked familiar. He looks like this guy—Lionel.” She points. “I’ve seen Lionel’s commercials—theHome-grown Mancommercials. With the corporate hair? That’s this guy?”
“The black hair, yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s him. He lives here, over in the Heights.” I look more closely at the picture; Lionel is shown in profile only, his head turned to look at Nora. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t hear the name.
And holy crap.
If what Nora told her ex was true,Lionel Astorcould be Juniper’s father.
She seems to be coming to the same conclusion. “He—he could be—he might be?—”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. I gesture to the photo. “Any of them could, if your mom was telling the truth.”
We let that sink in for a moment, both of us silent as we stare at the four smiling students.
“You know, it’s weird,” Juniper says. She’s still looking at the photo, but something in her gaze seems lightyears away now. “I’ve never really thought about what my mom’s life was like before I came along. I mean, I asked her a few times—just random questions about growing up or whatever, but she neverreally answered.” She touches the picture, one pink-nailed finger resting on her mom’s beaming face. “She was never this happy when she was with me.”
They’re heavy words, the kind I can’t even begin to answer, and I have no business trying. Nor can I offer meaningless platitudes.
“I think…” she says slowly, still staring at the picture. “I think I’m actually feelingsorryfor her right now. It’s sad that she used to look like this and yet changed so drastically.”
“It is sad,” I say, and I mean it. I’m starting to think bringing Juniper here was a bad idea, though. She doesn’t look so good. “But I need to get going. I have a class in twenty minutes.” I pause, debating, then say, “Do you want to take a picture of this before I put it away?”
“Yeah,” she says, and she sounds more like herself now. She snaps a quick photo with her phone, staring at it briefly. “Very weird to think that my motherandmy father might be in this shot.” Then she closes the yearbook and replaces it on the shelf. “I’ll see myself out,” she says, turning her gaze back to her phone. “You go on ahead.”
I nod, mostly because I’m getting the feeling she wants to be alone. “I’ll see you later, then.” I don’t wait for her to respond; I just stand up, shaking my legs to get the blood flowing again and then heading back to my classroom.
The class hour inches by at a glacial pace, and I find myself in possession of significantly less patience than normal. It’s not even noon yet, but already I’m itching to get out of here. It could be because I’m running on decreased sleep, or it could just be because my head is swimming—with names and flashes of black and white photographs, with smiling faces frozen in time. With the note of hurt in Juniper’s voice as she questioned why her mother was never that happy when she knew her.
A pulse of shame hits me somewhere behind my bellybutton when I think about how good I’ve got it. My parents are alive and well, healthy and happy and living not thirty minutes from here, in Sunshine Springs. There’s nothing shameful about that, of course, but how often do I take it for granted?
I should go see them soon,I think grudgingly as I watch a senior in the front row sleeping soundly with his head nestled in his open book. Hemingway isn’t for everybody. And to be honest, I’d love to be sleeping right now.
At very least, though, he needs to be respectful.
“Macintosh,” I bark at him. I stroll over to his seat and tap him on his shoulder.
