Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

Copyright Page

      For Steve, who adored his own children, but didn’t get to see them grow up

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      From those early days when I was finding my way through this story to the final days of production, there were many who contributed to bringing this story to print. A heartfelt thank you to all of them:

      My friend Brent Taylor (who squealed over my idea); my agent, Stephen Fraser; and my editor, Peter Senftleben—their enthusiasm for these characters and their brilliant suggestions made this story so much better than it might have been otherwise. And all those at Kensington Publishing who lent their talents to this work.

      My sister-in-law, Dr. Teresa Guerrero, who’s always generous with her medical expertise and rarely raises an eyebrow at my offbeat questions.

      Don Stirman, who answered my legal questions, provided me with some interesting plot details, and shared his own story of falling in love with one of his students while never crossing that line. (He and Marie have been happily married for . . . well, a long time.)

      My colleagues: Nancy Smith for giving her time and talent to excising my excess verbiage; Holly Walsh and Shelley Racca, whose classroom-management skills and dedication to their students inspired many elements in this story; Aimee Felio and Antoinette Sherman for their painstaking proofreading; and Sue Cox, my steadfast friend and head cheerleader.

      The librarians of LM_NET who responded to my query and suggested Robert the Rose Horse, and thus led me to one of my favorite scenes.

      And finally, my kids, Danny and Anna, whose pride in my accomplishments means more to me than anyone else’s. You are my world.

      They say, write what you know. And while, as writers do, I have drawn liberally from my own experiences to bring these characters to life, this novel is in no way a memoir.

      Chapter 1

      Andrew

      You still here?

      I’m giving a makeup test.

      Crap! Stop by when you’re done.

      I close Jen’s e-mail and check the time in the corner of my computer screen—ten minutes—then glance up at Robert Westfall again. He’s resting his cheek on his fist now and absently doodling in the margins of his test. My heart breaks for him, and I find myself wondering what’s showing at the cinema in his head. Memories of hanging out with his dad—maybe playing catch in the backyard, learning to swim at a neighborhood pool, pushing a lawnmower for the first time. Or maybe it’s the moment he got the news yesterday, an endless loop of shock, terror, sadness. Or is it some future flick about life without a father?

      I pick up my red pen again and straighten the stack of tests in front of me, but I don’t grade any of them. I just watch him.

      I knew something was going on. It was just a feeling, this sense that he was off balance and couldn’t quite get his feet under him. And now as I watch him struggle with a calculus test that he’d methodically tear up any other day, I’m struck with the desire to reach out to him; I’m just not sure how.

      It’s funny really. I’m not usually this intuitive. While I’d like to believe that I’m in sync with my students, that I know when they’re having a bad day or when their hormones are raging and they’ve chosen to indulge their impulses instead of doing their homework or studying, I’m not.

      My freshman Algebra kids are so squirrely that all my energy goes into maintaining order and keeping those classes moving forward. My senior AP Calculus students, on the other hand, have a laser focus on that end-of-course exam. I challenge them academically; they challenge me. If anybody’s having a bad day in that class, I guess they keep it to themselves.

      But with Robert, I knew. He still turned in his homework. He paid attention. He even answered questions when I asked them. But he’s been quieter. More introspective, I think. Just not himself.

      He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand and attempts to focus on the problems again, but he looks perplexed, as if I’ve written the test in hieroglyphics and he just can’t quite translate the problems.

      Yesterday, his absence, that empty desk in the front row, pricked at my conscience. I thought about calling to make sure he was okay. I even retrieved his phone number. But I didn’t call. Kids are absent—they get sick, they oversleep, they skip. The motivation to make that phone call seemed pretty thin. But Robert’s not one of those kids. His absence was noteworthy and it bothered me more than it probably should have.

      I turn back to my computer and scroll through the day’s e-mail—notices of meetings scheduled and meetings canceled, an it’s-still-not-too-late-to-sign-up invitation to Saturday night’s school Christmas party (No, thank you.), a few eleventh-hour pleas from parents for extra-credit work, and a reminder that grades are due at three o’clock Friday afternoon. The high priority makes Ms. Lincoln’s e-mail easy to spot.

To:	Fabiola Cortez, Bob Benson, Annet Nguyen, Richard Gorman, Susan Weatherford, Andrew McNelis, Bette Flowers
From:	Lynn Lincoln
Subject:	Robert Westfall

      Teachers—

      As you may already know, Robert Westfall’s father has been battling brain cancer for the past ten years.

      Yesterday the family received some devastating news.

      Mr. Westfall’s illness is terminal. According to Mrs.

      Westfall, the doctors estimate that Robert’s father may have only three to four weeks. Understandably, this is a difficult time for the family. It is likely that Robert’s attendance may become intermittent during the next few months. Please be flexible in your expectations and offer him whatever accommodations are necessary to get him through this time. If you see that he is struggling emotionally, or if you have any concerns at all, please contact me. Thank you as always for all you do for our students.

      Lynn Lincoln

      Twelfth Grade Counselor

      Poor kid. I check the time again. Fifteen minutes now. I push back my chair and get up. It’s my day to pick up Kiki, and I have a feeling that I could sit here with Robert for another fifteen hours, and he’d still be doodling in the margins.

      In fact, he’s so caught up in his head that he doesn’t notice me approach or say his name. When I place my hand on his shoulder, he jumps.

      “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

      His eyes fall on the test in front of him and he seems surprised that he’s only addressed a couple of the questions. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. Then immediately follows that with an apology for his language.

      “It’s okay.” I pull a desk up close to his and sit. “A rough day yesterday?”

      “Yeah. Pretty rough,” he says quietly.

      “Anything I can do?”

      He looks up at me, and his eyes seem to search mine like he’s measuring the sincerity of my question. Suddenly I have a feeling the one thing this kid needs is the one thing I can’t give him—a hug or maybe a friend he can really talk to.

      “No,” he says, palming the back of his neck. “But thanks.”

      “You look tired.” Depressed is what I’m really thinking. When he doesn’t respond, I decide to make one of those accommodations Ms. Lincoln spoke of. “You know, you don’t have to take this test,” I say, reaching for it. “I’m not worried about your mastery of this unit. You’ve mastered it. I can just double your last—”

      “No. I can take the test,” he says, flattening his hand on the paper to hold it in place. I notice he’s not wearing a class ring.

      “Okay. But,