The Truth About Pretending

i.

Miss Moon has been teaching in this high school for almost a decade. She has spent nearly ten years in the same tiny classroom in the same tiny town.

When she first started, she promised herself that she would make a difference in her students’ lives, but now, Miss Moon thinks the only thing she has done is drive herself crazy. No one listens, no one learns, no one wants to hear her talk, and the kids are the same every year. There are the ones who sometimes pay attention, the ones who talk over the lectures, the ones who sleep during class, and the ones who are horrible to her, throwing paper wads and insults like grenades.

She stands in front of the blackboard, making a half-hearted attempt to lecture about the effects of World War Two on the home front. Looking around, she can see a grand total of one person paying attention, but Miss Moon doesn’t blame the students – not really, not anymore. After all, how can she expect them to care, when all she really wants is to go home and make herself a vodka and tonic?

“Please, will you all be quiet?” Miss Moon asks over the clamor, her words more of a question than anything else. They ignore her completely.

She swallows a sigh as a paper airplane zooms across the classroom and lands at her feet. She reaches down, picks up the sheet, and opens it. Shut up! is written across the page in neat print. Carefully, she folds the paper in half and tucks it into her coat pocket.

And as Miss Moon walks to her desk and sits down, she tries to pretend she still gives a damn.

ii.

Beth Austin sits in class and tries to listen. She doesn’t throw airplanes, sleep, or particularly care that much for her teacher, but she keeps her brown eyes focused on Miss Moon all the same.

She doesn’t want to learn as much as she just wants a distraction, because lately, she has been the sort of tired that transcends her inability to fall asleep before two in the morning. She is always cold, always shaking, which – as she has recently discovered – isn’t only caused by the winter temperatures.

Beth is well aware she is the only one bothering to pay attention, and in fact, she is well aware of a lot of things. She also knows, for instance, that her boyfriend is cheating on her. She flinches slightly as she thinks of how Tommy, and the way he says he still loves her. He tries to tell her the calls to Kristen mean nothing, but she knows he’s lying, though, because he’s terrible at pretending otherwise.

And that’s true of a lot of people, Beth thinks. After all, nothing can stay hidden forever.

And at that moment, a barrage of vivid, too bright images flashes through her mind. Her most recent disaster of a math test. The mottled bruise on her right arm from where her father grabbed her last night. The bottle of her mother’s pain pills currently making a home in her jacket pocket.

The bell finally rings, an abrasive shrill that jerks Beth from her thoughts. She stands up and gathers her things, wondering briefly whether Miss Moon noticed that for the first time, she has stopped listening.

And as Beth walks out the classroom door, she tries to pretend there’s still something that matters.

iii.

At approximately 3:35pm every weekday, Charlie McClane sees Beth Austin walk down the school’s main hallway. He watches her weave her way through the throng of people, a tiny slip of a girl nearly swallowed whole by the crowd. But despite all the students, Charlie always manages to keep sight of her brown curls.

They have spoken a few times – only because the boy Beth is dating hangs in the same circles as Charlie does – but their conversations have never been too long or about anything too important. And anyway, Beth would never think of him as anything other than the boy with lanky arms and red hair that sproings! in all directions

Still, Charlie can’t get her brown eyes out of his head, or keep her soft, lilting voice from ringing in his ears. He can’t help but think of what it would be like to know Beth – really know her.

He imagines inviting her over to his house, a small one story squeezed between the Veritons on the left and the Grays on the right. He imagines Beth lying on the sofa next to him, her eyes watching the television screen and his watching only her, always her. He imagines her mouth curling into a smile at the sight of him, her lips pressed against his.

He imagines and imagines, the thoughts slipping past one another in colorful blur.

And as Charlie watches Beth disappear around a corner, he tries to pretend it won’t always be a dream.

iv.

“Mrs. Veriton, this is Marina Gomez from Freyton General.” The voice on the phone is cool and professional, tinged with the distinct air of having made this call over and over each day. “We’re calling because your son Jason was just checked into the E.R. His stomach was pumped, and he’s now resting in the recovery ward; it appears to have been a drug overdose.”

Amy Veriton blinks once, then twice. It’s no use going to pieces now; there will be time for tears later. Then she answers, keeping her tone as level as possible. “Thank you for calling, Ms. Gomez. I’ll be right there.”

The phone goes back into the receiver with a small click, and Amy imagines what will happen when she gets to the hospital.

If Jason keeps this up, they will tell her, he won’t live to see 19. You should really think about a treatment program.

Amy will nod and accept their advice quietly, and then watch them thank their lucky stars they don’t have a son who does all the drugs he can get his hands on. She will bite back the urge to say it isn't her fault – she has done the best she can. She will bite back the urge to say that the smallest part of her will be relieved when this finally over, because at least then, the waiting, wondering, and arguing will be finished.

With a sigh, she grabs her coat, her purse, and what’s left of her dignity before heading out the door.

And as Amy drives to the hospital’s recovery ward for the second time in five months, she tries to pretend she doesn’t know what Ms. Gomez will tell her the next time she calls.

iv.

The door to the hospital lobby swings open, ushering in a gust of bitingly cold December air. Peter watches from his place next to Micah as a woman in her mid-forties walks straight across the room to the reception window. She appears to know exactly where she is going, which leads him to believe she’s been here before.

Yeah, well, good for her. He’s been here before, too.

Peter follows the woman’s movements for another moment or two, still thinking of what might bring her to the hospital on a Tuesday evening. Maybe she’s just like their family; maybe she has one son who needs a heart transplant and another who needs to know that his nine-year-old brother isn’t going to die. But maybe not. Whatever.

Peter shifts uncomfortably as the woman disappears behind a door, and then glances sideways at Micah. Like always, his younger brother is sitting calmly in his wheelchair. Like always, he doesn’t seem to be the least bit afraid that their mother is talking with Dr. Azalia about a heart transplant. And like always, he is endlessly positive that he’ll make it through all this.

Peter looks away, afraid Micah might think he’s doubting him again.

After what feels like ages, his mother finally comes through the door, and Peter thinks that maybe she’s been crying because there are little smudges under her eyes, but she smiles brightly at them, so maybe he’s just imagining things.

She walks over to where they have been sitting, and says, “Come on, boys; if we hurry, we can stop to get ice cream on the way home.”

Peter stands up stiffly and grabs the handles on Micah’s chair. As they walk toward the exit, Micah says he really wants a waffle cone – never mind that it’s freezing outside and they haven’t eaten dinner yet. Peter has the distinct feeling that Micah, like him, knows this is more for their mom’s benefit anyway.

And as Peter steps outside, winter coat zipped up snuggly, he tries to pretend everything will eventually get better.