Misconduct

“Okay, so . . . ” I started, slowly stalking between the rows of desks and smiling at the printout of a Facebook post in my hand. “The question posed in the Facebook group yesterday that received the most responses was ‘Why did men ever stop wearing tights? I would’ve rocked that,’” I read to the class.

The freshman boys broke out in snorts while the girls giggled, remembering the lengthy conversation some of them had carried on last night.

Marcus Matthews popped up and jumped onto his chair, holding his hands up in the air and smiling as he soaked in the praise and taking credit for his question last night.

I shook my head, amused. “Sit down,” I ordered, shooting my pointed finger from him to the chair. “Now.”

He laughed, but quickly jumped down and took his seat, the rest of the class still voicing their amusement behind him.

During the three weeks since school had started, we’d moved quickly through the curriculum and had been studying the independence of America, the founding fathers, and the Revolutionary War, hence the men-in-tights question.

Out of all the activities I’d planned to engage them, the social media requirements were the most successful. The parents had all received a lengthy letter after the first day, explaining the rhyme and reason to social media in the classroom. The students—per school rule—were already required to have laptops, which made it even more convenient to jump online anytime we wanted without the need for a computer lab. And it fit in perfectly with my goal of educating students to live in the digital world.

Social media was a necessary evil.

There were certainly dangers, and there had been a lot of apprehension from parents at first, but once I’d called and e-mailed to smooth over any resistance, all was well. They eventually understood my position, and most parents found great enjoyment in seeing the class’s interactions online, given that they weren’t able to see the students’ engagement in the classroom.

Parents and students were invited to join our private Facebook group, where I posted assignments, discussion questions, and pictures of what happened in class or videos of presentations. Over the days and weeks, participation grew exponentially as parents were able to take a bigger role in their children’s education and see not only their children’s work but others’ as well.

Not that students should be compared, but I found it a great motivator when parents saw the work of students who held the bar higher.

We also had Twitter accounts and a Twitter board in the classroom, as well as private Pinterest boards, where students and parents could brainstorm and collectively gather research.

Only a few parents were still uncooperative—I glanced at Christian Marek, seeing him slouch at his desk—so I did my best to make accommodations.

But I knew those students still felt left out. I had considered the possibility of abandoning the entire method, because I didn’t want anyone hurt, but once I saw the participation and benefit, I refused. I’d simply have to get through to the parents.

I allowed myself a small smile, grinning at Marcus’s pride in himself. But the silence off to the back where Christian sat was almost more deafening than the students’ excitement.

He stared at his laptop screen, looking half angry and half bored. I couldn’t figure him out. I knew he had friends. I’d seen him eating with other kids at lunch and playing on the field, laughing and joking.

But in the classroom—or my classroom, anyway—it was like he wasn’t even here. He performed well on take-home assignments, but he never participated in discussions and he did poorly on quizzes and tests. Anything that took place in the classroom was unsuccessful.

I’d tried talking to him, but I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I was going to have to come to terms with the options I was left with to help him.

Like calling his father, which I should’ve already done but hadn’t found the guts.

I turned back to the class, refocusing my attention. “Congratulations, Mr. Matthews.” I nodded, teasing Marcus. “While your question was meant to be funny—no doubt—it did spark some interesting comments about the history of attire.”

I rounded the front of the classroom and leaned back on my desk. “Since fashion is a very popular topic, we also delved into the history of women’s fashion, and that led to a debate on feminism,” I reminded them. “Now, of course, fashion wasn’t a topic I was supposed to teach you this year.” I smiled. “But you were critically thinking and you saw how topics like these are interrelated. You were discussing, comparing, and contrasting . . .” I sighed, eyeing them with amusement before I continued. “And it certainly wasn’t boring to read your responses, so good job.”

The class cheered, and Marcus shouted out, “So do we get Song of the Week?” He lifted his eyebrows in expectation.

“When your team has earned fifty points,” I reiterated the rule. I rewarded them individually, but I also had a team incentive, which allowed their group to pick one song to play in class once they’d reached fifty points, if all work was turned in and they demonstrated good citizenship online and in the classroom.

I walked to the Smart Board—today’s version of a chalkboard—and picked up a stylus, tapping the board to activate it. The projector fed the image from my computer, and all of the students’ numbers appeared on the board, ready to receive their responses.

“Don’t forget”—I glanced up as I replaced the stylus—“group five is sending current-events tweets before seven p.m. this evening. Once reviewed, I will retweet them for you,” I told them, seeing Christian talking to the girl next to him out of the corner of my eye.

“You are to pick one, read and reflect, and turn in your one-page, typed assignment—twelve-point font, Times New Roman, not Courier New,” I specified, knowing their trick of using a bigger font, “and have that to me by Friday. Any questions?”

Mumbles in the negative sounded from around the room, and I nodded. “Okay, grab your responders. Pop quiz.”

“I have a question.” I heard someone speak up. “When are we going to use the textbooks?”

I looked up, seeing Christian’s eyes on me as the other students switched on their remotelike devices, which I used to record their multiple-choice answers instead of paper and pencil.

I stood up straight, inquiring, “Would you prefer to use the textbooks?”

But Marcus blurted out a response instead. “No,” he answered, turning his head to Christian. “Dude, shut up.”

Christian cocked an eyebrow, keeping cool as he ignored his classmate. “The textbooks are provided by the school. They have the curriculum we’re supposed to learn, right?” he asked almost as an accusation.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“So why aren’t we using them?” he pressed.

I inhaled a long, slow breath, careful to keep my expression even.

Kids will challenge us, test boundaries, and throw us curveballs, I was told. Keep your cool, treat every kid like they’re your own, and never let them see you falter. Christian certainly challenged me on all those levels.

Not only was he not performing up to his potential in class, but he also challenged me on occasion. Whether it be tardiness, flippant behavior, or distracting other students, he seemed to have a penchant for disobedience.

And as much as he tried to hinder me from doing my job, the person I was outside of the classroom couldn’t help but admire him a little.

I knew from experience that misbehavior came from a need for control when you lacked it in other venues. And while I sympathized with him—and whatever he wasn’t getting at home or elsewhere—he clearly thought he could get away with it here.

“That’s a good question,” I told him, walking around my desk. “Why do you think we don’t use the textbooks?”

He laughed to himself and then pinned me with a look. “What I think is that you give me more questions when I just want answers.”

I stiffened, my smile falling as students in the room either tried to cover their laughs with their hands or stared between Christian and me wide-eyed and waiting for whatever would happen next.

Christian had a self-satisfied look on his face, and my blood heated with the challenge.

I swallowed and spoke calmly. “Everyone open up to page fifty-six.”

“Ugh.” Marcus groaned. “Nice job,” he shot over his shoulder, not looking at Christian.

Everyone dug their books out of the compartments under their desks, and the sounds of pages flipping and students grumbling filled the classroom.

I picked up my teacher’s manual and cleared my throat.

“Okay, this chapter covers the contributions of Patrick Henry, Benjamin Franklin, and Betsy Ross,” I went on. “I’d like you to read—”

“But we already learned about them!” Jordan Burrows, the girl sitting next to Christian, called out.

I pinched my eyebrows together, cocking my head and feigning ignorance. “Did we?”

Another student jumped in. “We did the book study in groups two weeks ago and the virtual museums,” he reminded me.

“Oh.” I played along. “Okay, pardon me,” I said, moving on. “Turn to page sixty-eight. This chapter covers the presidencies of George Washington through Thomas Jefferson—”

“We already learned that, too.” Kat Robichaux laughed from my right. “You uploaded our campaign posters to Pinterest.”

I looked up at Christian, who hopefully was getting the idea.

We had been learning everything in the textbook, even though we hadn’t learned it from there. Students absorbed more when they sought knowledge themselves and put it to practice by creating a product instead of merely reading from a single text.

“Ah,” I replied. “I remember now.”

Christian shifted in his seat, knowing full well the point had been made.

“So,” I went on, “on page seventy-nine, there are twenty questions to help us prepare for our unit test tomorrow. We can spend the rest of class answering them silently on paper, or we can take ten minutes with the responders and then move on to start researching slave ships online.”

“Responders,” the students cut in without hesitation.

“We could take a vote,” I chirped, not really trying to be fair but to drive the point home for someone in particular.

“Responders!” the students repeated, this time louder.

The class picked up their remotelike devices. For the next ten minutes, I displayed multiple-choice questions on the board, giving them about a minute to answer on their devices, and then, once their responses had been recorded in the program, I displayed the bar graph showing how many students answered a certain way.

Afterward, we jumped on our laptops while I continued to project on the Smart Board as we dived into the next unit with some questions and research online before the end of class.

As the students walked out, moving on to their next class, I watched Christian inching slowly along and peering out the window as he made his way out the door.

“Christian,” I called as he passed by my desk.

He stopped and looked at me like he usually did. With boredom.

“Your questions are important,” I assured him. “And very welcome in this class. But I do expect you to use manners.”

He remained silent, his eyes staring off to the side. I knew he wasn’t a bad kid, and he was certainly smart, but the curtain over his eyes lifted very rarely. When it did, I saw the kid inside. When the curtain was drawn, he was unapproachable.

“Where is your phone?” I asked. “You need it for class, and you haven’t had it.”

He’d also failed to return my battery.

Not a big deal, since we used the same brand of phone, and I was getting by with his, but the students were allowed to use their phones in class—kept in the corner of their desks on silent and facedown—to access their calculators, random number generators for our activities, and other apps I’d found useful for engagement.

I’d found the more you allowed them their technology, the less they tried to sneak it. And since all of these students carried phones, I didn’t worry about anyone feeling left out.

“If there’s a problem, I can speak to your father,” I offered, knowing Christian probably wouldn’t choose to be without his phone himself.

But Christian broke out in a smirk, meeting my eyes. “You will speak to him.” He jerked his chin toward the window. “Sooner than you think.”

And he turned, walking out and letting the heavy wooden door slam shut behind him.

What had that meant?

I twisted my head toward the window, and stood up to head over to the window to see what he’d been referring to.

But I stopped, hearing the intercom beep.

“Ms. Bradbury?” Principal Shaw’s voice called.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Would you please come to my office?” he asked, the fake nicety in his voice turning me off. “And bring your lesson plans, as well.”

I raised my eyebrows, my legs going a little weak.

“Uh,” I breathed out. “Of course.”

It didn’t matter if you were fourteen or twenty-three, a student, a teacher, or a parent—you still got nauseous when the principal called you down.

And he wanted my lesson plans? Why? They were online. He could see them anytime he wanted to.

I groaned, slipping off my jacket and tossing it over my chair—which left me in my slim-fitting black pants and long-sleeved gray blouse. I grabbed the hard-copy plans we were instructed to keep on our desk in case of an impromptu observation.

Thankfully, I had second period free, so I wouldn’t have students for close to another hour.

I walked down the hall and through the front office, past the students either waiting for the nurse or waiting to be disciplined. My heels fell silent as soon as they hit the carpet in the hallway.

I tucked the binder under my arm and knocked twice on Mr. Shaw’s door.

“Come in,” he called.

I took in a deep breath, turned the knob, and entered, nodding at Mr. Shaw with a small smile as he stood up from behind his desk.

Turning to close the door, I immediately halted, spotting Tyler Marek standing in the back of the office.

I looked away, closed the door, and turned back to my superior, tensing against my racing heart.

What the hell did he want?

“Ms. Bradbury.” Mr. Shaw held out his hand, gesturing to Christian’s father. “This is Tyler Marek, Christian’s—”

“Yes, we’ve met.” I cut him off in a stiff voice, stepping forward to stand behind one of the two chairs Shaw had in front of his desk.

Marek stayed behind, hovering like a dark shadow in the corner, and I knew what I was supposed to do. Shake hands, greet him, smile . . . No, no, and no.

Shaw looked uncomfortable, and it was my fault, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what was going to happen.

He regained his composure and cleared his throat, gesturing. “Please sit down,” he suggested, looking to both of us.

I rounded the chair and took a seat, but Christian’s father continued to stand instead of taking the seat next to me.

“Mr. Marek has some concerns regarding Christian,” Shaw told me, “and his performance in your class. Can you enlighten me as to what problems you’re having?”

I blinked, sensing Marek stepping forward and approaching my back.

Suddenly I felt as if all of our roles were reversed. Shaw was the concerned, neutral parent, Marek was the displeased teacher, and I was the student being put under the microscope. How dare he treat me as if I didn’t know my job?

“Sir, I . . .” I tried to rein in my temper before I said something I’d regret. “Sir, this is the first I’ve heard that Mr. Marek has concerns. I’d like to know what they are as well.”

I couldn’t hide the discomfort from my voice. I was far from friendly, but at least I hadn’t sounded curt.

Christian was having problems, but it was still early in the year, and I was still trying to create a relationship with him. I’d sent home—even mailed on one occasion—reminders about the social media groups and highlighted copies of the syllabus with important dates. I may not have called, but it wasn’t as if I hadn’t done anything.

Shaw looked up, offering Marek an uncomfortable smile. “Mr. Marek, your support of this school has gone above and beyond, and we are so grateful to have your son here. Please, tell me your concerns and how we can help.”

I let my eyes drop as I waited, his presence making my back tingle with awareness.

He stepped up to my side and lowered himself into the seat next to me, unbuttoning his suit jacket and relaxing into the chair, looking confident.

“On the first day of school,” he started, looking only at Shaw, “my son came home and informed me that he had to have his phone in Ms. Bradbury’s class. Now, I purchased an expensive laptop, like many of the parents in this school, because we knew what tools were needed for a school of this caliber. Those expectations are very reasonable,” he pointed out, and I braced myself, knowing where this was going.

“However,” he continued, “my son is fourteen, and I’m not comfortable with him on social media. I’ve gone into this Facebook group the students frequent, and I don’t particularly like where some of these discussions venture. Christian is expected to maintain three different social media accounts, and he’s conversing with people I don’t know,” he stated. “Not only is his safety and those who influence him of greater concern now, but also the amount of distraction he contends with. He’ll be doing his math homework, and his phone will be going off due to notifications for Ms. Bradbury’s groups.”

I bit my tongue, both figuratively and literally, not because his concerns weren’t valid, but because this had all been addressed if he’d cared to take interest weeks ago.

I cleared my throat, turning to look at him. “Mr. Marek—”

“Call me Tyler,” he instructed, and I shot up my eyes, seeing the devious amusement behind his gaze.

I shook my head, annoyed that he kept working that into our conversations.

“Mr. Marek,” I continued, standing my ground, “on the first day of school, I sent home a document explaining all of this, because I foresaw these concerns.”

His eyebrow shot up. I was calling him out as an absentee parent, and he knew it.

I kept going, straightening my back and feeling Shaw watching me. “I requested that parents sign it and return it—”

“Mr. Shaw,” someone called behind me from the door, and I stopped, grinding my teeth in annoyance.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but there’s an issue that needs your quick attention in the front office.”

It was Mrs. Vincent, the secretary. She must not have knocked.

Mr. Shaw gave us an apologetic smile and rose from his desk. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

I let out a quiet breath, frustrated, but thankfully no one noticed. Shaw walked around his desk and across the room, leaving me alone with Marek.

Wonderful.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I couldn’t ignore the feeling of Marek’s large frame next to me—his stiffness and silence telling me he was just as annoyed as I was. I hoped he wouldn’t talk, but the sound of the air-conditioning circulating throughout the room only accentuated the deafening silence.

And if he did say anything that rubbed me the wrong way, I couldn’t predict how I would react. I had little control of my mouth with my superior in the room, let alone with him gone.

I held my hands in my lap. Marek stayed motionless.

I looked off, out the window. He inhaled a long breath through his nose.

I checked the cleanliness of my nails, feigning boredom, while heat spread over my face and down my neck as I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t his eyes raking down my body.

“You do realize,” he shot out, startling me out of my thoughts, “that you don’t have a union to protect you, right?”

I clenched the binder in my lap and stared ahead, his thinly veiled threat and tensed voice not getting by me.

Yes, I was aware. Most private school teachers were hired and fired at will, and administrators liked to have that freedom. Hence, no benefit of unions to protect us like the public school teachers enjoyed.

“And even so you still can’t stop yourself from mouthing off,” he commented.

Mouthing off?

“Is that what this is about?” I turned, struggling to keep my voice even. “You’re playing a game with me?”

He narrowed his eyes, his black eyebrows pinching together.

“This is about my son,” he clarified.

“And this is my job,” I threw back. “I know what I’m doing, and I care very much about your son.” And then I quickly added, “About all of my students, of course.”

What was his problem anyway? My class curriculum didn’t carry unreasonable expectations. All of these students had phones. Hell, I’d seen their five-year-old siblings with phones in the parking lot.

I’d thoroughly reviewed my intentions with the administrators and the parents, and any naysayers had quickly come around. Not only was Marek ignorant, but he was late to the game.

He’d been well informed, but this was the first time I’d seen hide or hair of him since the open house.

“You’re incredible,” I mumbled.

I saw his face turn toward me out of the corner of my eye. “I would watch my step if I were you,” he threatened.

I twisted my head away, closing my eyes and inhaling a deep breath.

In his head, we weren’t equals. He’d put on a good front last Mardi Gras when he’d thought I was nothing more than a good time, but now I was useless to him. His inferior.

He was arrogant and ignorant and not even the slightest bit interested in treating me with the respect I’d earned, given my education and hard work.

I liked control, and I loved being in charge, but had I told my doctor how to do his job when he’d ordered me off my ankle for six weeks when I was seventeen? No. I’d deferred to those who knew what they were talking about, and if I had any questions, I’d asked.

Politely.

I gnawed at my lips, trying to keep my big mouth shut. This had always been a problem for me. It had caused me trouble in my tennis career, because I couldn’t maintain perspective and distance myself from criticism when I thought I’d been wronged.

Kill ’em with kindness, my father had encouraged. “Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?” Abraham Lincoln had said.

But even though I understood the wisdom of those words, I’d never been able to rein it in. If I had something to say, I lost all control and gave in to a rant.

My chest rose and fell quickly, and I gritted my teeth.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He laughed. “Spit it out, then. Go ahead. I know you want to.”

I shot up, out of my chair, and glared down at him. “You went over my head,” I growled, not hesitating. “You’re not interested in communicating with me as Christian’s teacher. If you were, I would’ve heard from you by now. You wanted to humiliate me in front of my superior.”

He cocked his head, watching me as his jaw flexed.

“If you had a concern,” I went on, “then you should’ve come to me, and if that failed, then gone to Shaw. You didn’t sign any of the documents I sent home, and you haven’t accepted any invitations into the social media groups, proving that you have no interest in Christian’s education. This is a farce and a waste of my time.”

“And have you contacted me?” he retorted as he rose from his seat, standing within an inch of me and looking down. “When I didn’t sign the papers or join the groups, or when he failed the last unit test”—he bared his teeth—“did you e-mail or call me to discuss my son’s education?”

“It’s not my responsibility to chase you down!” I fought.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” he retorted. “Parent communication is part of your job, so let’s talk about why you’re communicating regularly with Christian’s friends’ parents but not with me.”

“Are you serious?” I nearly laughed, dropping the binder on the chair. “We’re not playing some childish ‘who’s going to call first?’ game. This isn’t high school!”

“Then stop acting like a brat,” he ordered, his minty breath falling across my face. “You know nothing about my interest in my son.”

“Interest in your son?” This time my lips spread wide in a smile as I looked up at him. “Don’t make me laugh. Does he even know your name?”

His eyes flared and then turned dark.

My throat tightened, and I couldn’t swallow. Shit. I’d gone too far.

I was close enough to hear the heavy breaths from his nose, and I wasn’t sure what he would do if I tried to back away. Not that I felt threatened—physically anyway—but I suddenly felt like I needed space.

His body was flush with mine, and his scent made my eyelids flutter.

His eyes narrowed on me and then fell to my mouth. Oh, God.

“Okay, sorry about that.” Shaw burst into the office, and Marek and I pulled apart, turning away from each other while the principal twisted around to close the door.

Shit.

I smoothed my hand down my blouse and leaned over, picking up the binder of lesson plans.

We hadn’t done anything, but it felt like we had.

Shaw walked around us, and I glanced at Marek to see him glaring ahead, his arms crossed over his chest.

“While Mrs. Vincent practically runs this school,” Shaw went on, amusement in his voice, “some things require my signature. So where were we?”

“Edward,” Marek interrupted, buttoning his Armani jacket and offering a tight smile. “Unfortunately I have a meeting to get to,” he told him. “Ms. Bradbury and I have talked, and she’s agreed to adjust her lesson plans to make accommodations for Christian.”

Excuse me?

I started to twist my head to shoot him a look, but I stopped, correcting myself. Instead, I clamped my teeth together and lifted my chin, refusing to look at him.

I would not be adjusting my lesson plans.

“Oh, wonderful.” Shaw smiled, looking relieved. “Thank you, Ms. Bradbury, for compromising. I love it when things work out so easily.”

I decided it was best to let the issue lie. What Shaw didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and Marek would most likely zone out of his parenting responsibilities for another few weeks before I would have to deal with him again.

“Ms. Bradbury.” Marek turned, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I met his eyes, noticing how one was not quite as wide as the other, giving his expression a sinister look as it pierced me.

Two things could be assumed about Marek: He expected to get everything he wanted, and he thought he just had.

Idiot.

—

The chilled pint glass was a welcome relief in my hand as I took a sip of the Abita Amber, the local favorite brew. It was mid-September, and the evenings still hadn’t cooled down enough to be pleasant. If not for the humidity, the city might feel more comfortable instead of like a stuffy, packed elevator with no room to move.

I fingered through the container on my table, counting all of the sugar packets as I sat at Port of Call, waiting for my brother to join me for dinner.

Seven Equals, six Sweet’N Lows, five regular sugars, and seven Splendas. What a mess.

I twisted around, grabbing another container off the table behind me, and picked out what I needed. The little packages crackled as I pulled them out and fit one more Equal, two more Sweet’N Lows, three regular sugars, and one more Splenda into the uneven container on my table.

Leaving the rest in the borrowed container, I replaced it on the table behind me and then recounted all of the packets. Eight, eight, eight, and eight.

Perfect.

I took a deep breath and set the container back along the edge of the table with the condiments and napkins, and . . .

And I stopped, looking up to catch my brother standing at the table with a drink in his hand, watching me.

Shit.

I rolled my eyes and waited for him to sit down.

We hadn’t seen each other in four days. I’d offered to help with student council after school this week, and he’d been buried in research and papers.

His white oxford was wrinkled and open at the collar, but he still drew women’s eyes as he approached the table. He leaned back in his chair, giving me the eye that said he was thinking and he had things he wasn’t sure he should say or how to say them.

“Out with it,” I relented, shaking my head and looking at the tabletop.

“I don’t know what to say.”

I shot my eyes up, tucking in my chair. “Then stop looking at me like I’m Howard Hughes,” I ordered. “It’s a nondestructive disorder that’s very common. It soothes me.”

“Nondestructive,” he repeated, taking a drink. “Was it five or six times that you went back into your apartment to make sure your stove was off today?”

I shifted, straightening my shoulders as the server came by, setting down waters on our table.

“Well, how am I supposed to remember if I shut it off after cooking the heroin?” I joked, and my brother broke out in a laugh.

I knew he thought my obsessive-compulsive bullshit was baggage that I needed help getting past, but the truth was, it was something I felt I needed.

Ever since I was sixteen anyway.

When someone you trusted steals your sense of security and holds your life in the palm of his hand for two whole years, your mind finds ways to compensate for the loss of control.

I felt safer when things were in order. When I had dominion over even the most trivial of matters.

My entire family—my parents and sister, now gone, and my brother—had paid a hefty price for letting someone we thought we could trust into our lives all those years ago.

In comparison, my little compulsive disorder was of no concern to me.

If I didn’t count the sugar packets or make sure the stove was off four times this morning or brush my teeth for a count of one hundred twenty seconds, something bad would happen. I didn’t know what, and I knew it was ridiculous, but I still felt safer carrying on with my day.

Normally, during work, when I was busy, it didn’t concern me as much, but when I was idle—like now—I tended to fiddle, arrange, and count.

It was a false sense of security, but it was something.

Control over anything, even if it couldn’t be everything, calmed me.

“So how’s school?” he asked.

I leaned my elbows on the table and took a sip of beer. “It’s pretty good. I like the kids.”

The kids were actually the easy part. Keeping their attention was hard and energy-consuming, but keeping up with all of the side duties was more frustrating and a huge time suck.

“You look tired,” he commented.

“So do you,” I shot back, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m fine, Jack. I’m on my feet all day, and by end time I’ve hit the wall, but it’s a good kind of exhausted.”

“Like tennis?”

I paused, thinking about that one.

“Kind of,” I answered. “Only better, I guess. I used to feel like I went out there on the court and gave my all. I used every muscle and every ounce of perseverance to fight through the struggle.”

“And now?” he pressed.

“And now I do the same thing, but I know why,” I answered. “There’s a reason for all of it.”

He watched me, a thoughtful look crossing his face. He seemed to buy what I told him, and why shouldn’t he? It was true.

Tennis had been my life. It was fun at times and nearly unbearable at others, and while I hadn’t known what the purpose of working and competing were, I went to bed with the satisfaction that I’d pushed my body to the limit and fought hard.

But I also never felt compelled to do it.

“Avery would be proud,” Jack said in a low voice, giving me a small smile.

I looked away, sadness twisting my stomach.

Would she? Would my sister be proud that I was living her dream?