Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,138

lurked on the fringes of my seventh-grade cafeteria.

“You’re the speech therapist,” Emma says, her smile easy.

“Yes,” I say, allowing a small smile.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Emma says. I let the silence extend past what is socially acceptable. I take a sip of coffee from my mug—now stained with pink lipstick and palpable fear.

“You two have met, I see?” Jill asks. Her face has that look, the one that threatens to reveal all my closely held secrets. All it takes is a simple well-placed smirk from a close friend who knows exactly what you’re feeling and thinks it hilarious when your carefully constructed disguise is threatened. I won’t look at her.

“Jill Fleming, this is Emma Dunham. Jill is the other speech therapist here at Markham. Emma’s the new head of school,” I say, averting my eyes from Jill’s omniscient gaze.

“Sure. Jill and I met earlier. We’re all certainly going to miss Mrs. Kim,” Emma says, her white teeth momentarily blinding me.

“Kali is doing just fine, I’m sure. She finally got her dream job at Choate,” I say, rebelling slightly by not formalizing an old friend’s name.

“Of course with Mrs. Kim gone there will be an opening as the head of the speech therapy department,” Emma says with a smile.

“Will there?” Jill asks transparently.

Headmistress Dunham merely sniffs and tightens her mouth into a prim line.

Jill continues. “Any thoughts you’d like to share with Ms. Reid and I on your hiring process for that position would certainly be welcomed.”

“In time, Mrs. Fleming. In time,” Emma says. I look past Emma’s alabaster skin and beautifully tailored suit as teachers and administrators of Pasadena, California’s Markham School for the Criminally Wealthy stream into the library for this year’s back-to-school orientation.

“Lovely meeting you, Headmistress,” I say, excusing myself from Emma Dunham and her lipstick that never smudges. She gives me what can only be described as a royal nod and quickly falls in with a pack of eager upper school faculty.

“I’m not looking at you or speaking to you for the next ten minutes,” I say to Jill as we find a seat in the back of the library. I straighten up and tell myself that my enviable posture is on par with any of Emma’s myriad accomplishments.

“Why are you sitting like that? What’s wrong with you? Do you have to fart?” Jill asks, her voice dipping with the word fart.

I immediately slouch, plummeting back to reality. Even my mimicked perfection looks like I have gas.

“No . . . no, I don’t have to fart,” I say, clearing my throat.

Jill continues without missing a beat. “She’s thirty-four. Originally from Michigan, moved to San Francisco in college. Married to Jamie Dunham— she took his last name. He’s a professor at UCLA. I’m humiliated I don’t have a picture of him. A wedding picture would have been nice, but there just wasn’t any time . . .” Jill shakes her head in frustration. “No kids. This is her first time as headmistress.” I “ignore” Jill—meaning I inventory every piece of information relayed to me yet act like I couldn’t be bothered.

“Why does it not shock me that you’re far more concerned about Emma’s marital status than the head of department opening?” I ask.

“It really shouldn’t,” Jill says, taking a bite of her bagel.

“Is this seat taken?” Debbie asks, motioning to the empty seat just next to mine. Debbie Manners: school librarian and self-proclaimed welcome wagon.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, forcing myself to look apologetic. Debbie walks away in search of another empty seat, preferably next to some unsuspecting fool to whom she’ll propose an innocent back-rub. A seemingly chaste request that’ll ensure you never let her sit next to you again.

“What are you going to do when the orientation starts and that seat remains empty?” Jill asks. Debbie sits down next to the new lacrosse coach. He instinctively leans away from her as she whispers in his ear that he looks tense.

“Be relieved,” I say.

“I want to thank you all for being here this morning. On time and ready to work, just the kind of orientation I can get used to,” Emma Dunham says. Her delivery is relaxed and sincere. I adjust my sweater for the umpteenth time. I can’t get comfortable.

Emma continues. “I am Headmistress Dunham and am your new head of school. I am originally from Michigan and no, I’m not as young as you think I am.” The crowd laughs and nudges each other. She’s funny! She’s beautiful! She’s humble! She makes me