“How about we get an ice cream cone on the way home from school?
“Yes. I want ice cream!” Henry yells.
I smile because he’s happy. It means I did something right.
Ten minutes later, both kids are licking drippy ice cream cones in Rhett Dawson’s backyard. It was a good thing I remembered which house was his because I was wrong about the reporters. They must have seen him leave and taken a break from their usual watch post.
It comes as no surprise to me that it looks like an English garden back here. What I don’t know is if he hires a team of gardeners to keep it this way or does it himself. Rows of green hydrangea leaves preparing for their blooming season line the back fence. Clusters of bright yellow daffodils spot the garden beds. Black metal is almost entirely hidden by a wall of ivy. Even the spacious back patio catches my eye.
“I brought a surprise!” I pull out the bucket of chalk from behind my back. Quinn’s face lights up. Henry cringes. Quinn stuffs the remaining third of her ice cream cone in her mouth all at once as I open the lid. She reaches inside and pulls out a green stick of chalk. Minutes later, squiggly lines frame her crossed legs.
“Those look like beautiful vines. Should we add some flowers to them?” I offer.
Quinn gives an enthusiastic nod, and I do my thing. Whoever said chalk is for children has never tried it as an adult. Maybe it’s the kid in me, or more likely it’s the chance to be creative without any set rules. I try to squash the voice in my head that tells me how immature I am for being someone who actively enjoys coloring outside of the lines.
After Quinn and I transform the cement into a mosaic of color, I say, “I heard they’re doingThe Rainbow Fishstory for the play at your school this year. You get to dress up and sing and everything! That might be kind of fun, huh?”
Quinn claps. Henry shrugs.
“Not a big play guy?” I tease him.
“I don’t know,” he says.
When Rhett mentioned his invitation to Miss Amy, I didn’t get a good read on whether he’s considering participating, but I hope so based on his daughter’s reaction. I bet she’d love it. Speaking of things she might love…
“What do you say we make a fort next?”
Technically, it was a milk bottle stacking contest I won at the fair, not the fort story I fed Rhett. But I thought it was sweet that he does that with his daughter, and I didn’t want him to feel guilty for missing it.
Quinn squeals, “Yes!” at the same time Henry says, “No thanks.”
“Come on, Henry. It will be fun!” I spot a heap of boxes in the corner. I have no idea if they’re being saved for anything, but this could be an act-now-ask-for-forgiveness-later sort of situation.
After an hour, I’ve cut apart and taped together a dozen boxes. They dome at the top with a window on each side and a movable door. To finish it off, I scribble Query Lab across the front with a Sharpie I found in the kitchen.
“What’s a Ca-ree lab?” Henry asks.
I snort. “Query Lab. Ya know, like Quinn and Henry put together. It’s a science lab for your bugs.”
Both of their faces brighten as I hoped they would.
“Can you take a picture to show Mom?” Henry asks.
Quinn pokes at the door. “Side?”
“Yes! You can go inside. How about I take a picture of you both through the window?”
Quinn reaches for his hand. This time he lets her take it. He helps her pull the cardboard door back, and it brushes through trimmed blades of grass as they disappear inside. When I peek through the window, they’re pointing at the little counter and two box seats I made for them.
I snap a picture and then look up just as I hear Caroline say, “What’s going on here?”
9
EVERETT
Itip my head back, taking in the towering red brick building before me. Be the Brave Elementary was not a place I ever planned to see again. At least, not up close. Yet here I am, with a daughter attending my very own alma mater. In the two weeks I’ve been dropping her off, I’ve managed to keep enough distance to avoid going inside the main building. Until today.
I cross the parking lot and follow the sidewalk that wraps the boxy exterior to the front entrance. Not much has changed about this place in the last two and half decades since I was a student here. Same clock tower and flagpole by the street corner. Same weathered playground equipment faded from the sun. Same pair of pine trees I’d spend recess under as a kid. And when I press the button to be let into the building and step through the front door, I’m reminded of why I avoided ever coming in here in the first place. It’s not just the school that hasn’t changed. Ifeelthe same when I’m here trapped in a prison of memories I don’t like being reminded of.
