Everyone around the table nods. I look to Syd, fiddling with her eyebrow ring.
“Tough act to follow, kid,” I say.
Syd just smiles and slides a folded piece of paper across the table. There’s smudges and thumb prints all over it and when I reach for it, the paper is feather thin, soft from being handled, the creases so deep I could fall in them.
“What’s this?” I ask.
Syd shrugs and pushes her lips together while I unfold the paper that appears to have been ripped out of a binding. My sloppy cursive is the first thing I recognize.
Dearest Sydney Rae,
What a year. Girl, you went through it. But look at you. June 21st, and here you are in front of me, an 8thgrader for one more endless day, trying to peek at what I’m writing even though I told you to get away from my desk and go sit down.
You never listen. You were born to defy—in the most annoying but amazing way.
Whenever that voice comes back, Syd—whenever it tells you who you are or what you can and cannot be. I want you to defy. No more restrictions. No more stopping the world from giving you what you deserve. DEFY.
Because you deserve everything. All of it. All the love. All the food. All the fun. The best that life has to offer. And if you restrict yourself from any of it, you could miss out on all of it.
When you forget that, you just reach out. I’ll be there to remind you what a defiant pain-in-the-what you can be.
All my love,
Ms. G
I look up from the note that I wrote in her yearbook—the note that she ripped out and obviously has carried in her wallet/pocket/heart for the past four years. Syd’s smile widens and I press the words to my chest hoping they brand me.
“If you restrict yourself from any of it, you could miss out on all of it,” she recites.
I want to stand, fold her in my arms, but I don’t get the chance. Before I can even push back in my chair, I’m attacked by all of them in an epic group hug.
Through the heap of bodies and the smothering love, Tara’s voice reaches me from the phone sitting in the middle of the table.
“Ummm, guys. I’m still here…”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Devon
Lesson 50: Sometimes the only way forward is to grab that microphone—again.
I’m sweating like I’ve been sitting in a steam room for an hour. I’ve told myself repeatedly that this would be just like Back-to-School Night—that I would say my spiel, get my point across with a smile and some well-placed humor, then get the heck out. But the truth is, this is nothing like BTSN. This is nothing less than the most important thing I’ve ever done.
The cafeteria at our middle school is packed with parents and teachers and administrators. Seven school board members sit at a string of long tables on the stage, my superintendent, Dr. Franklin, amongst them. Five of them are bent over their cellphones looking particularly bored by the chatter and laughter bouncing off the metal walls of our auditorium. When Dr. Franklin approaches the microphone, the speakers flankingthe stage release an ear-splitting sound that I now believe is done on purpose to shut people up. It works. The crowd shuffles and slides into their seats and Dr. Franklin pushes his glasses up higher on his nose and begins.
“Hopefully, you all grabbed a copy of the agenda as you came in. Let me first start by thanking you for coming out here tonight in this awful weather.” He pauses and gives the audience a practiced smile. “You probably noticed that we’re starting with open microphone tonight, so that you folks can get home earlier and get warm.”
Bullshit. They start with open mic so the parents can miss the political nonsense they pass at the end of the meeting. If they aren’t here to hear it, then they can’t fight it.
“So, let’s take attendance and then open it up to you fine people.”
He begins to call the names of the remaining school board members, who barely look up from their phones in order to stand and give a small wave. He ends with the president, a middle-aged blonde woman who I recognize immediately when she stands from the president’s seat and looks out at the crowd for the first time. My pulse races. It’s Mrs. Stoner. And she looks tired. Defeated. My heart crumples a little for her. Jessica is doing well in her inpatient treatment, but she’ll be at the facility for weeks to come. And I’m not a mother, but I can imagine that none of this is easy for her.
The temptation to tuck tail and make a beeline for the double doors is so strong that I have to grip the edge of my seat.Remember who you are doing this for.
“Alright, all present and accounted for. The floor is officially open for concerns, suggestions, and questions,” Dr. Franklin tells us before he turns and heads back to his seat.
I stand—force my feet to move—as I whisper “excuse me” to the people I squeeze by, ignoring their curious and perhapsjudgmental looks as I make my way to the podium placed in the middle of the cafeteria floor that faces the board of ed. I have no notecards—no speech written on paper—just the words burned into my heart. The words my friends and family helped me find.
