Page 85 of The Silent Note

Her nails are freshly done acrylics with French tips. She’s wearing a fancy First Lady-type blazer and skirt. I cringe to think about how much she spent on that two piece. Mom barely knows fashion brands; she just gets whatever has the most outrageous price.

“Miss Jamieson,” the Vice Principal absently motions for me to approach while his eyes never leave mom, “you’re here. Have a seat.”

I sink into the chair across from my mother, hesitant. “What are you doing here?”

Mom smiles primly.

It’s the Vice Principal who answers. “Uh, Miss Jamieson.” He tears his eyes away from mom. “Things have been so hectic around here that we haven’t had time to sit and chat.”

“Chat about what?” I eye him warily.

“About Principal Harris.” He pauses. “About your accident.”

I sit up rigidly. I didnotreport my accident to the school. I quietly asked for my sick days and the admin approved. I’m guessing they were glad to be rid of me while they picked through the rubble of Harris’s tenure.

“Your mother was just telling me that you haven’t officially been cleared to work again. Is that true?”

My eyes narrow on mom. This time, her smile wobbles.

I give her fancy outfit and curated hairstyle another once-over. She didn’t look like this when she was in the hospital with me. For that long period of recovery, her hair was tucked into a simple bun. No makeup. No fancy clothes. No image to uphold.

It’s funny.

The woman sitting next to the Vice Principal doesn’t look like my mother.

Because she isn’t.

Right now, she’s Jarod Cross’s wife.

“Your mother expressed concern about you coming back to teach too early and, frankly, I agree. There’s so much to parse through now that Principal Harris has… passed.” The vice principal clears his throat. “Even the parents are concerned. Our phones have been ringing off the hook.”

Before my conversation with Maisy, I might have naively assumed that parents were concerned about their children’s emotional state. Perhaps they’d push for counselors to walk the kids through grief and teach them the right coping methods. Maybe they’d insist on adding life skills classes focused on emotional regulation.

But that would be like a classic Greek hero getting to his happy ending by avoiding the monster of the tale. Ludicrous.

The parents are calling because I raised a stink and now the principal is dead. And wouldn’t that ruin their perfect images?

“Frankly, I think it might be a good idea to take a few more days off. Perhaps even a sabbatical.”

I sit up straight. “A sabbatical?”

“You’re the only teacher in our roster without her Master’s Degree, yes?” Vice Principal Vincent opens a file, taps it on the desk so the papers all level out and places round glasses on the edge of his nose. “Yes, it says it right here.”

I blink rapidly.

“Redwood offers several programs encouraging teachers to pursue higher education. As an alumni of Redwood and a dear member of our staff, you are more than qualified to?—”

“Was this your idea?” My nostrils flare.

Vice Principal Vincent looks at me, alarmed.

But I’m not talking to him.

Mom keeps giving me that blank stare. It’s frustrating. She’s not this poised. Never has been. All my life, mom’s worn her emotions on her sleeve. It’s why I learned to keep mine tucked away. One of us had to be rational, and it wasn’t going to be the woman who keyed the landlord’s car after he illegally raised the rent.

“Vincent?”

“Hm?” The vice principal leans toward mom eagerly.

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