Page 6 of The Broken Heart Playlist
Fortunately, he comes to his senses and stays where he is.
“You ready?” I ask Joel.
“Ready,” he confirms.
I quickly retrieve a tampon from my kit and dunk it into a jug of steaming hot water, positioning it directly behind the burger, out of sight. Steam rises from the tampon, giving the impression it’s rising from the burger. It’s that last, masterful touch for the photo.
Some food stylists use cotton wool, but I find a tampon to be the most effective.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the look of horror on Phil’s face. I’m guessing he’s one second away from gagging. I heave an exasperated, internal sigh. Really? These are the men who sign up for war and then they fall apart when confronted with a tampon?
We need more men like Joel, cool and unfazed as he aims his camera lens at the burger.
The moment Joel takes over, we’re racing the clock. I’ve tried to buy him enough time to take the perfect shot before the burger starts looking completely inedible under the hot camera lights.
Being the professional he is, he manages to secure that gorgeous eye-level photo that has all our saliva glands going. Phil is ecstatic. Another satisfied client.
The call from Lisset’s teacher comes as I’m packing up my stuff. Surprise, laced with unease, churns inside me. Lisset’s in an afterschool program, which she loves and which should be safe, but my mind always darts to worst-case scenarios whenever the school calls.
“I need to talk to you about Lisset,” the teacher says after I brush aside her attempt at pleasantries and ask her outright what’s wrong. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”
Laura Bilson, Lisset’s blonde, blue-eyed teacher, leans forward in her chair, as though that will help me to understand her words better. “I’m afraid Lisset is refusing to read.”
I frown. Everything about that statement is wrong. “But she loves to read.”
“Sheusedto love to read,” Laura says carefully.
I process this for a beat before I say, just as carefully, “Are you sure this is my daughter we’re talking about and not some other child?”
It feels like a reasonable question. I mean, if you have more than twenty kids in your class, you’re bound to get confused sometimes. And Lisset’s teacher looks so delicate I feel as though a gust of wind will topple her. How does she handle a classroom full of energetic eight-year-olds?
Laura Bilson, however, looks not only taken aback, but also a little insulted, so I guess there’s no careful way to phrase that particular question. “I’m very sure, Mrs. Miller,” she says stiffly.
I stifle a sigh. I can’t afford to alienate her. “Call me Kate. Please.”
Laura Bilson is young, passionate, and earnest. Everything about her is earnest, from her lesson plans and progress reports to her fervent belief she’s changing the world one child at a time. Who knows, maybe she is. Only a couple of years out of college, she’s armed with ideals that haven’t yet been knocked out of her.
We’re currently sitting in her classroom, where the walls are peppered with life-affirming quotes, as well as various projects and colorful artwork the children have completed. It’s clear to me why Lisset adores her. Then again, Lisset adores most people.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
“I’d say about the last two weeks,” Laura replies. “I kept hoping it was a phase Lisset would pull out of, but it doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
Now that I think about it, it’s been a while since Lisset asked me to visit the library, usually one of her favorite places. And I can’t remember when last she grabbed a book from the bursting bookshelf in her room and curled up on the couch to read.
I look through the inner classroom window at the small figure of Lisset sitting in the adjacent tutorial room, playing a game on my phone while she waits for her teacher and me to finish up in here. Shame floods me. How could I have not noticed what was happening with my own daughter? What mother doesn’t notice when her child stops reading?
A negligent one, clearly.
My chest tightens with that all-too-familiar anxiety.
“Look, Lisset’s a great student,” Laura says reassuringly, evidently wanting to ease whatever expression she sees on my face. “She’s helpful and eager to learn, and she’s doing well in math and her other subjects. It’s mostly her reading. She flat-out refuses to read in class, either out loud or on her own.”
“This is so unlike her.”
