Authors: John A. Heldt
"OK."
Michelle put an orange tray bearing a hot lunch on top of the table and took a seat. Once settled, she grabbed a fork and tore into the chef's surprise, an unfortunate union of ground beef, tomatoes, and macaroni that was probably the rage in Eastern Europe.
"It's nice out here," Michelle said. "This courtyard's perfect."
"Better than the faculty lounge?"
"Better than the faculty lounge."
Shelly studied the newcomer for a few seconds and chuckled.
"Do you know you look just like my mother?"
"I do?"
"You could be twins," Shelly said. "She wears her hair differently and puts on more makeup, but that's about it. You look just like her. You even have the same last name, or what used to be her last name."
"Is that so? She sounds like someone I should meet."
"Oh, you'll meet her sooner or later. She runs the PTA and just about everything else in this town. She'll probably stop in later this week to make sure you're doing your job correctly."
Michelle laughed.
"She can't be that bad."
"She's not, most of the time. But she likes to micromanage as a hobby."
Shelly took a bite of her sandwich and washed it down with a swig of cola. She looked at the woman who looked like her mother and smiled.
"Thanks for what you did the other day. That was so cool."
"Don't mention it."
"Won't you get in trouble doing stuff like that?"
"Probably. But that's OK. I think young people deserve a break once in a while."
Michelle picked up the snow globe, held it up to the light, and then returned it to the table.
"Looks like it's snowing in New York."
"It's a present from my friend April. It's my birthday today."
"What a coincidence," Michelle said. "I turned forty-nine today."
"No way."
"Yes way."
Shelly swallowed another bite of tuna and rye and scrutinized the woman in the blue dress.
Let me get this straight, lady. You look like my mom, you're the same age as my mom, you have her maiden name, and now you have my birthday?
Shelly scanned the faces of twenty or so students and faculty who sat at other tables, but she didn't see any telltale smiles. If this were a joke or a new episode of
Candid Camera
, the clues were not obvious. Still, this encounter was beginning to get weird.
She finished her sandwich, took another sip, and started to gather her things when she noticed that she could not find the card from April. She flipped through the pages of
Writers Market
but found nothing but listings of agents and publishers.
"Looking for this?" Michelle asked. "I found it on the ground. It must have fallen to the side when I plopped my lunch on the table."
Michelle handed Shelly the envelope containing the card and returned to her meal.
"Thanks," Shelly said.
"Who's Irene?" Michelle asked.
My evil twin.
"That would be me," Shelly said. She tucked the envelope inside the book. "Irene is my middle name. I loathe it and April knows it. She calls me Irene to get under my skin."
"That's what friends are for," Michelle said cheerily. "I'm sure she means well. And Irene's not such a bad name. I'm sure it will grow on you."
"Speak for yourself. It makes me think of old ladies with thick ankles who sell cosmetics door to door."
Michelle laughed.
Shelly smiled at the sight. Perhaps this wasn't so weird, after all.
"I guess it's not
that
bad," Shelly said. She got up from the table and picked up her belongings. "But I do wish my parents had been more creative. Anyway, I should probably get going or I'll be late for class. It was nice seeing you again, Miss Jennings."
"You too."
Shelly began to walk away. But she stopped when the principal approached the table from the other side and addressed the attendance secretary by name.
"Hello, Michelle. I've been looking for you," Wayne Dennison said. "There's a project that needs your attention and I want you to start on it as soon as possible. We have to get a couple of hundred letters in the mail before the end of the day. We have a chance to raise some funds for the speech and debate teams. Marsha can fill you in."
"I'll get right on it," she said. "I'm just finishing up."
"Wonderful. I'll see you back at the office."
Dennison did not acknowledge Shelly. He instead spun around and walked out of the courtyard the way he came in, stopping only to greet a social studies teacher on his way out.
Shelly turned to face her new acquaintance. She watched her take another bite of Hungarian goulash, or whatever occupied her plate, and put her silverware and glass on her tray before she stepped away from the table and glanced in her direction.
"You're still here?" Miss Jennings asked. "I thought you went to class."
Shelly stared at the woman as if in a daze and addressed her in a barely audible voice.
"Your name is
Michelle
?"
Michelle smiled and nodded.
CHAPTER 13: MICHELLE
Tuesday, September 18, 1979
Michelle watched raindrops collect on a window in the faculty lounge as she pondered eight days of silence. Shelly Preston had not said a single word to her since their enlightening lunch the previous week. She had not even said hello. She clearly wanted nothing to do with the lady who looked like her mom and had cornered the market on family names and birthdays and Michelle just as clearly knew why. She had overstepped her bounds.
She had replayed the encounter several times in her head over the past week and had itemized her mistakes. She should have exercised patience and tact and let things develop naturally. She should have offered information in drops and not buckets. She should have considered another meeting venue. She should have let the poor girl enjoy the start of her senior year.
The time traveler wanted nothing more than to make amends or at least share her frustration with someone who would listen and not report her to men in white coats. But who could possibly appreciate her situation? Allowing her mind to drift, she thought of the house on the hill and the family that had once called it home. Where was Roger Franklin at this hour? Had he found himself in the forties, just as his younger self was plowing through grade school and navigating the uncharted waters of childhood? Or had he and his family suffered a more distressing fate?
Michelle did not belong here. She did not want to
be
here. But returning to the comfortable, familiar environs of 2010 was apparently not an option. She would have to make the best of a bad situation and hopefully not make a mess of things as she went along.
"Depressing, isn't it?"
Michelle turned away from the window and saw Robert Land stand a few feet away with a cup of coffee in his hand. Dressed in brown slacks and a rumpled short-sleeved shirt, with a pair of pens protruding from a pocket, he looked every bit the tenured math instructor.
"It's not supposed to rain like this until the end of October," he said. "Yet there it is. Practice will be fun today."
"I'll bet," Michelle said.
"Do you mind if I join you?"
"No. I'd love to have company. Take a seat."
As Robert pulled up a plastic chair, Michelle surveyed the lounge and found it surprisingly free of faculty. Except for Brenda Brown, no one else occupied the room. The young library assistant sat at a table in back, near the pop machine, where she sipped a soda and flipped through the pages of a fashion magazine.
"Shouldn't you be in class?" Michelle asked.
"Not this hour," Robert said. "Sixth period is my daily respite from lines and numbers."
Michelle laughed.
"Don't you like teaching math?"
"I love it, as a matter of fact. I enjoy working with the tried and true, and I enjoy imparting knowledge that students will use the rest of their lives. But I also like coffee breaks."
Robert stirred his drink, looked across the table, and resumed the conversation.
"What about you? Do you like working in a school?"
Michelle smiled as she thought of the many answers to that question.
"I love being around kids. I never had any of my own, so this is a real rush."
Robert nodded and returned to his coffee. He glanced at the floor and then the window. Rain struck the glass like busy fingers tapping on a table.
"I'm very sorry to hear about your husband. I know the pain of losing a spouse. My wife, Linda, died last year of breast cancer. We had twenty-five years together."
Michelle was tempted to ask how he had learned about Scott but quickly decided that the information was not important. She had little doubt that Marsha Zimmerman, keeper of secrets and personnel files, had shared that fact with anyone who had asked.
"I'm sorry too. Do you have any children?"
"I have two daughters. Karen just started a job in Portland at an advertising agency. Susan is a junior at Washington State."
"That must have been tough for them, losing a mother at that age."
"It was. But we all managed to get through it. The experience brought us much closer."
Robert smiled sadly and looked at Michelle.
"That's enough about me. What brought you to our fair little town?"
Michelle didn't have to search for an answer. She had worked out a story days ago and had already shared it with a few of her peers. But she didn't like to lie. She had always tried to be straight with people, even with her parents during the rockiest moments of her adolescence. But her current situation didn't lend itself to an honest accounting of the past. She had a story, a new story, and she planned to stick to it.
"When Scott died in June I pretty much had to start over. I had no assets, no meaningful work experience, and no living relatives, save my siblings – and they had their own busy lives. I couldn't afford to stay in Seattle, but I didn't want to leave the Northwest. So I looked around. I looked for a town where people cared and little things mattered. I had spent summers here as a child, visiting my grandparents, and had many fond memories. Coming back made sense."
"I see. Well, you seem to have adjusted well. I've heard nothing but good things from faculty and staff and even students."
Michelle felt her stomach turn.
"Students?"
"Students," Robert said. "I hear from them all the time. You've made quite an impression on several – and one, in particular."
"Oh."
"Randy O'Reilly told me what you did the other day."
Michelle stared blankly across the table.
"Randy is a junior – a short, redheaded kid. He's our placekicker."
The stare continued.
"You apparently gave him some helpful advice on how to cope with his parents' divorce."
Michelle sighed.
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that."
Robert smiled.
"It appears that you are also quite the writing tutor."
"I am?"
"You are according to Sally Ewing. Sally is one of my algebra students and a statistician for the football team. She said you spent two hours, after school, helping her rewrite an essay for a literature class."
Michelle smiled.
"You know kids. They exaggerate."
"Sally also said that you convinced two of her friends to turn out for the debate team by telling them to, and I quote, "pump a little estrogen into that all-boys club."
Michelle reddened.
"She said that?"
"She said that."
"Is this where you report me?"
Robert chuckled.
"No. This is where I tell you that I admire you. I admire people who give a damn. The world needs more adults willing to spend time with kids, particularly teenagers."
"But . . ."
"But I know that you are new and I know how easily feathers can get ruffled around here. In the future you might want to leave at least a few of the therapy and tutoring sessions to the counselors and the English department."
Michelle beamed.
"I'll take that under advisement, Mr. Land."
Robert smiled and sipped his coffee.
"I know you will."
Michelle glanced at the wall clock and frowned.
"It looks like break time is over." Michelle let her eyes linger on the math instructor. "It was nice talking to you, Robert."
"The pleasure was mine."
Michelle took one last sip of her lemon lime soda, stood up, and walked toward an open door. As she left the room, she thought about the teacher she had always admired. She had enjoyed their little give and take. Robert Land was a thoughtful educator and a very nice man. He would make a good colleague and make a good friend – and maybe, just maybe, a little bit more.
CHAPTER 14: SHELLY
Saturday, September 22, 1979
With the grace of a dancer and the skill of a surgeon, the intruder worked his way past a lightly guarded perimeter, inspected the landscape, and moved straight for the valuables. As before, he encountered no resistance from the owner of the premises. But once again, he proved no match for the last line of defense.
Shelly shook her head and laughed to herself.
Six weeks of practice and he still can't unhook a bra.
"I think I might need some help," Scott Richardson said as he repositioned his six-foot frame on the spacious back seat of his father's 1977 Ford LTD.
Shelly withdrew from his grasp and sat up. She grinned and put her arms on her hips.
"Is the birthday boy having a little trouble?" she asked, pronouncing little like widow.
"As a matter of fact, I am. Where are Velcro bras when you need them?"
"They're on loose girls in Sweden, of course, where they belong."
Scott laughed, pulled her close, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
"I love you, Shelly Preston."
"I love you too."
Shelly started to slip off her cotton blouse but reconsidered when obnoxious passersby, probably football players brimming with 80-proof cheer, pounded the hood of the car like timpanists working their kettledrums. When they began rubbing the windshield for a look inside, she buttoned up. Even windows made foggy by heavy breathing and moist evening air eventually succumbed to the persistent.