As I pull out my Washington driver’s license, he casually says, “I know who you are, Imogen. You’re good.”
I don’t have the mental capacity to go through Mom’s room yet, and surely not alone, so I do as Amelia asked and begin with the office. Inside is an exercise bike, a file cabinet, and a small wooden desk by the window. I spend the next couple hours making sure I don’t toss any important documents, like tax filings, or anything for her job they may need back.
As I sift through the last of the beige file cabinet, one folder strikes me as odd. It’s haphazardly shoved in the bottom drawer, toward the back, sitting out of its organizer.
In black Sharpie, the tab reads IMOGENINCIDENT—2003.
What the hell?
Strangely, the folder is empty. I turned seven in the spring of 2003, and I certainly don’t remember any sort of “incident” that was important enough to create a folder for. I take a photo of it and text it to Amelia.
I write:
Do you know what this is about?
It takes about a minute for her to reply.
If you don’t know, how would I?
Another text comes in almost immediately.
I hope you’re actually getting things done over there!
I want to tell her she isn’t my mom, but that seems like a poorly timed joke. I fire off a cheeky middle finger emoji and shove my phone back into my jeans pocket, tossing the mysterious folder in the KEEP stack.
5
AMELIA
Oh god. There’s a folder about it?I think, racking my brain as to why Mom would have kept any physical proof of the incident with Imogen. Had I known, I never would have asked her to start packing up the office. At least, not until I peeked around myself and got rid of any evidence that could fracture Imogen’s world as she knows it.
I stare into the swirling wood of my desk, as if the details of the folder’s contents might surface there. Maybe Mom had already destroyed whatever was inside and simply forgot to throw away the folder itself.
I quickly change the subject to packing and hit Send.
“Miss Bly?”
A small gasp escapes my throat. I didn’t hear the boy approaching my desk. I drop my phone between my legs like I’ve been caught by apolice officer at a red light. One of my students stands in front of me, a piece of paper clasped proudly in his hand.
“Yes, Bodhi?” I say, startled, hoping I got his name right. I quickly spot the name tent on the only empty desk in the classroom and seeBODHIscribbled messily in blue crayon. I smile softly in confirmation.
“I finished my test,” he whispers, handing it to me.
Right, the test.
“Great job.” I beam.
It’s a little test called Mighty Math that will help me assess the class’s general level of skill as we continue our lessons on multiplication. I check the final question on the sheet, which is the only one that tests the multiplication we’ve learned this month. It asks,What is 3 x 3?
Bodhi put 6. I try not to take it personally.
“Are you sure you don’t need some extra time? You finished pretty quickly,” I say quietly so the other kids don’t hear me.
I want to get back to my text with Imogen, but I’m worried Bodhi sped through his test.
“I’m sure,” he says with a slight lisp, sweeping long hair from his eyes. He leans in closer. “Can I play on my Nintendo Switch now?”
Sigh.
