absolutely alone, because nobody made her feel protected the way he did back when he was protecting her. And the truth, Maggie knows, is that other girls can’t protect you. They will leave you the moment a man they like pulls them up, anoints them, and alchemizes them into princesses who don’t have to deal with the rabble outside the castle walls. There is a T-shirt for sale in a nearby store window that says, at least we’re not single.
Totally Lifetime! Or Oxygen? Is that the new Lifetime?
Maggie is drunk and worked up. Sammy and the girls have hung up. They are going out to make new memories. They will drink beer in scratched-up pint glasses that smell of eggs. The second they’re out in a bar with strung lights and loud music they’ll forget everything about her. They’ll worry over their own lipstick and the boys they’re seeing. Maggie’s ghost story is not important to them. Her story is important to only two people. Aaron and herself.
He is Teacher of the Year. He is the golden boy of the state. It’s just like the night of the basketball game at school: he’s scoring layups and fluttering down from the basket to cheers and children and a wife who would probably stay with him even if she knew what he said to Maggie about the way she tasted.
It’s been about two years since the last time she wrote to him. It’s January and for Maggie it seems that it’s always winter. She wonders if anyone anywhere has a good winter after the holidays are over. In Hawaii, perhaps. She opens her laptop. The thin blue light glows in her face.
She wants him to contradict what the girls on the phone said. She wants him to say that she wasn’t a victim, that she wasn’t a silly child with whom he had his way. She wants him to help her prove all those girls wrong. They didn’t understand. It’s funny with driftlove. One minute you’re sure of it. When you’re with him, the girls don’t know anything. They are jealous or don’t understand it. They date boys when you have been with a man. Then you don’t hear from him for days, weeks, years. And you talk to the girls. They ask you a number of questions and pass along their unsolicited judgment. He’s not good enough to you. He’s not doing enough to demonstrate that he loves you. Their boyfriends and husbands meanwhile are above reproach. Simply because they have stuck around for several years, changed lightbulbs, implanted babies. You know you wouldn’t be with any of their slobs. You wanted to tell them but instead you started to listen. Aaron has been gone for years, eating pizza and flossing his teeth without you. Once he brought you a small replica of The Thinker that he wanted to use as a trophy in the class. His previous service learner had tried to decorate it, but the execution was awful; the student had merely spray-painted over wood and there was zero detail. He asked if you would fix it, perhaps re-stain it. You squirreled it away for a week, you stripped it all down, stained the platform, painted over the tacky silver with a natural bronze. He asked you what was taking so long. Almost, he seemed annoyed. But the day it was finished, you knew he would be proud. Bringing it to him made you feel luxurious. You felt like a cruise liner, sailing into the classroom, carrying this strong, muscle-carved man on her bow. Here ya go, you said. His eyes lit up, the way you hope will happen to the eyes on everyone you ever hand anything to for your whole life.
Wow, he said, turning it over in his hands and admiring every detail. And he looked at you like Greek gods looked at mortal girls and breathed into them celebrity. You became what he saw in you. There was a fall and you came down like Icarus. You thought it was because of the Fates and the Furies and the children and so for years you wandered the earth, not loving nature, not advancing in school, drinking upstairs in your parents’ home. And now he is Teacher of the Year. And the Furies have spoken.
So now you write because you want to prove them wrong. You want him to say that he loved you then and loves you still. Teacher of the Year is a farce. He