At home, she struggled with her homework. Every subject was ten times harder than it had been at her previous school. Her papers bled from all the red ink her teachers used when correcting her work. Her grades plummeted.
In early February, Jill had to use another study hall period to seek extra help in math. When she got to the classroom, her teacher was packing her bag.
“Sorry, Jill, but I’m leaving early today.” She touched the soft mound of her belly. “We have a doctor’s appointment. Iknow the word problems are giving you trouble, but I see how hard you’re working. Why don’t you stop by before homeroom tomorrow? We’ll tackle those problems then.”
Jill nodded and her teacher left the room. From down the hall, someone shouted, “It’s snowing!”
Moving to the window, Jill put a hand on the cold glass and stared out at the snowflakes spiraling through the gray sky. The math classroom overlooked the garden. The spindly bushes and brittle grass were already dusted with snow.
“Hello,” said a voice from the doorway.
Jill turned to see her English teacher, Mr. Tippy, smiling at her.
“Hi.”
Joining her at the window, he peered down at the garden. His smile widened, and Jill noticed that his eyes were the samecolor as the sky. Tapping lightly on the glass, he said, “This reminds me of a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Have you heard of him?”
Jill shook her head.
“It goes:
‘Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven. . .’”
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Mr. Tippy said, “I get the feeling you like words more than numbers.”
Jill laughed softly. The noise sounded foreign to her own ears. “Yeah.”
“Your writing is a bit like this snow. It’s a little hesitant. It drifts here and there. But I can tell you have a gift. A special spark. Do you want to do more writing? Outside of class?”
“Like, for extra credit?”
Mr. Tippy shrugged. “Sure. But also because I think you have lots of stories in you. Stories that other people will want to read. Some folks are born storytellers. I have a feeling you’re one of them.”
Jill’s calcified heart cracked a little. A flicker of warmth stirred in her chest.
“What’s the last thing you wrote about that wasn’t for school?”
The word slipped out before Jill could stop it. “Monsters.” She swallowed hard, forcing the memories that threatened to pour out of her throat. “It was a story about monsters. But I didn’t keep it, and I don’t want to write that kind of stuff anymore.”
Still looking out the window, Mr. Tippy stroked the stubble on his chin. “Have you ever written about yourself as a monster?” Seeing that Jill was thrown by the question, he added, “It’s easy to paint ourselves as the hero of a story. Who doesn’t love a hero? But I think the villains are interesting, too. Why are they so angry? Why do they want to hurt those around them? What’s the story behind those emotions? That would be my first challenge for you. Write a poem—a short one—from the monster’s point of view.”
“I’ll try.”
Jill didn’t return to study hall. She closed the door and pulled a desk up to the window. As she watched the falling snow, she thought about her typewriter—the blue one she’d gotten for her birthday and had never used.
She touched the keys sometimes, when she felt grief roll over her like a boulder. She’d gently push theU, then theN, then theAkeys. She’d do this over and over, letting the tears fall.
Her parents said to put the past behind her.
Her minister said to trust in God’s plan.
For months, no one said anything that resonated with her.
