“Oh, that’s right,” Ava says. Ben the visiting art teacher was a real character with his beret and his goatee. He knew about matcha before it was a thing. Mitzi had loved Ben the visiting art teacher; that in itself spoke volumes. Before Ben, there was Moose, a bouncer at the Bar. Moose was six foot six, a man of very few words and of very simple tastes. That relationship had lasted only four months, just long enough for the novelty of his size to wear off. “It’s even worse than I thought. I haven’t been single in six years. I can’t remember who I used to be,” Ava says now.
“I bet you can’t make it to Christmas without getting back into a relationship,” Shelby says.
“I’ll take that bet,” Ava says with a bravado she does not feel. “Shall we say dinner at the Club Car? With caviar?”
“You’re on,” Shelby says.
Avoiding Nathaniel and Potter is one thing—they live elsewhere. But avoiding Scott is quite another matter. Ava has to see him every single day. She keeps the interaction to a nod of the head; if she has any administrative questions, she goes directly to Principal Kubisch.
Ava is amazed at how much leisure time she has without a boyfriend. She has her mountain bike serviced and goes on long, elaborate rides for her autumn Saturdays—up to Altar Rock and over to Jewel Pond, through the state forest to Nobadeer Beach. On weekend nights, she goes to Shelby and Zack’s house, where Zack makes braised short ribs or truffled mac and cheese and they drink red wine and tell stories about the students until they’re in stitches. Or Ava stays home with Kelley and Mitzi; they order Thai food and binge on Ray Donovan, and then always, before bed, they sit in Bart’s bedroom for a few minutes. The light is always kept on in that room as they wait for his return. Then Kelley and Mitzi retire to their bedroom. Ava has noticed how much older Kelley looks since his illness, and he has slowed way down. Mitzi looks older too, but in a more settled and relaxed way. She is more approachable than she has ever been, so approachable that one morning over coffee, Ava says, “How are you feeling about Bart?”
Ava would never have dared ask this question before; Mitzi was far too volatile, the shock and pain of Bart’s disappearance too raw, her psyche too fragile.
Mitzi shakes her head. “I know I should fall further into despair with each day that passes, every day there’s no news. That was what happened last year, when I was with George, and it nearly ruined me. I work very hard on my positive visualization and my faith. In my bones, in my gut, I feel that Bart is alive. That boy, Private Burke, when he regains his faculties is going to give the military the information they need.”
Ava would like to believe this. Private William Burke is conscious and making great strides every day, but he suffers from amnesia. Amnesia—Ava thought this was a fictional condition used as a plot device in the movies. But apparently, it’s real. Private Burke has no memory of the events that brought him to the hospital. He remembers landing in Afghanistan and climbing aboard the convoy. That’s it; the rest is a blank. The doctors aren’t sure if the memory loss was caused by the head trauma he sustained or by the things he experienced while in captivity; perhaps they were so grisly that his mind erased them as a defense mechanism. He sees therapists every day. Ava imagines these counselors as locksmiths trying to insert the key that will free his memory.
“Plus,” Mitzi says, “the DoD is still searching, every day. Eventually, they’re going to find those boys. They’re going to find Bart.”
Find Bart. Now that Ava is finished with men, she has more time to dedicate to thinking about Bart.
One afternoon following her bike ride, she slips into the five o’clock Mass at St. Mary’s. She’s wearing her yoga pants and sneakers and so she sits in the last row, hoping God will be happy she actually attended church of her own accord and so will forgive her attire. (When Ava was growing up, Margaret had two steadfast rules for church: no jeans and no eating an hour before Mass.)
She prays for Bart. She prays for Mitzi and Kelley. She begs for forgiveness; she has been so absorbed with the drama of her romantic life that she has, at times, forgotten that her brother is missing, ignored the fact that he is, most likely, suffering. He’s cold, he’s starving, he’d dehydrated, he’s emaciated, he’s being beaten or tortured, he’s worried about all of them worrying about him.
Bart!
Ava lights a candle after Mass. She imagines the flame warming Bart, igniting hope inside him. We will find you, she thinks. You will be returned to us. Mitzi practices positive visualization. She has done this as long as Ava has known her. Mitzi used to visualize parking spots in town; she visualized Patrick getting accepted to Colgate; she visualized Norah deciding to have her python tattoo removed. Sometimes her visualizations worked, sometimes they didn’t.
But why not give it a shot?
Ava visualizes a Special Forces team rescuing Bart. She sees him staggering forward and falling into the soldiers’ arms. He will be exhausted and hungry and injured. He will shed his first tears since he’s been captured.
And then, the trip home. From Afghanistan to Germany to New York; from New York to Boston; from Boston to Nantucket. Ava pictures her brother wearily climbing the front steps of the inn, opening the door, and flinging his rucksack down.
It’s me—Bart, he will say. I’m home.
The first week in November, Ava is due to have her second-grade class observed, and the person who does classroom observations and evaluations is… Scott. There is no way around this. Ava is going to have to endure forty minutes with Scott Skyler sitting in the back of the class with his clipboard.
Last year, Scott observed Ava with her most obnoxious class of fifth-graders. Ava had complained about this particular class all year long—all of the teachers had—but with Mr. Skyler in the back of the class, every student had behaved. Even Topher Fotea; even Ryan Papsycki. Ava remembered feeling in awe of the influence Scott had with the kids. He had power. He had always been Ava’s hero, but during that class, he had been a superhero.
She will not allow herself to feel that way this year. This year, she will teach an inspired lesson about keeping a beat, using wood blocks to demonstrate. She will pretend Scott doesn’t exist.
This is easier said than done. Scott enters the classroom and the second-graders—a darling, sweet group—all gather around him, clamoring for his attention, especially the little girls. Ava suffers an unfortunate image of Scott as the father of all of these children, the kind of magnetic, involved father that every child dreams of. She notices that he’s wearing the blue-checked shirt she bought him for his birthday, and his Vineyard Vines tie printed with cartoon images of fish tacos. Did he wear that shirt and tie on purpose? Of course he did.
The more pressing problem is that as soon as he sets foot in the music room, the air smells like him. Scott always smells deliciously of this certain maple soap that his mother sends him from Vermont. The scent is sweetly reminiscent of pancakes but also contains a tang of evergreen. It’s distracting. Ava claps her hands and asks the second-graders to please use their indoor voices and take their seats.
“Mr. Skyler is here to see if you’re better behaved than Ms. Colby’s class.”
“We are!” they say, and they sit and zip their lips, as Ava has taught them.
After Ava escorts the second-graders back to their classroom, she is to meet with Scott to go over the highs and lows of the lesson. This is the part Ava is really dreading—thirty minutes alone with Scott in her room, the door closed to preserve the confidentiality of his evaluation.
She enters the room and gives him a tight smile. She is wearing a black turtleneck, a black-and-white giraffe-print skirt, and high black suede boots. Since she gave up men and started riding her bike so much, she has lost twelve pounds.
“You look great, Ava,” Scott says. “I can’t get over how great.”
“Is that part of my evaluation?” Ava asks. “The Massachusetts Board of Education wants to know how I look?”
“Ava…”
“Please,” Ava says. “Don’t be unprofessional.”
Scott nods once, sharply, then proceeds to go over his notes. He has given her a five out of five in every category, and as an anecdotal, he has written: Ms. Quinn continues to offer her students a strong and engaging education in music by using innovative, hands-on lesson plans that not only teach students the basic elements of composition but allow them to make music themselves. Ms. Quinn’s classroom management is superlative. Her students respect her; they listen and obey classroom rules. I have no suggestions for improvement. Ms. Quinn would be well advised to, in the words of Bob Dylan, “keep on keepin’ on.” Her skills are obvious; her demeanor admirable. She is a credit to our school and sets a high bar for instruction.