“It was hard.”
There were murmurs of agreement. Good. She’d told them to give one another a tough time, to argue as forcefully as they would in a true social situation. Role-plays that didn’t mimic real life didn’t help them when the chips were down. “What made it hard?”
“Your brain gets all muddled up,” said Jenna, a skinny, slightly geeky brunette who reminded Nora of herself at the same age—a feeling that was both lovely and terrible. “You can’t think, and there’s all this stuff coming at you.”
“Anyone else have that experience?”
Hands went up.
“Anyone have strategies for dealing with that? The noise in your head?”
They shook their heads.
“Ask questions,” Nora said. “It slows things down. If your friend says, ‘Let’s sneak downtown during sixth period today,’ ask, ‘What will we do?’ Then name the trouble. Say, ‘That’s shoplifting, and if I do that, I could go to jail or have to pay a big fine.’ Suggest an alternative. ‘Instead of doing that, let’s spend the gift certificate I got for Christmas.’ Then turn and walk toward the alternative, so they have to follow you if they want to continue the conversation.”
“It sounds good, Ms. Hart,” said Jenna thoughtfully, “but in reality it’s much, much harder. You feel like a dork.”
“You’re sometimes going to feel like a dork, but that’s better than doing something that can hurt you.”
They stared back at her, blinking and doubtful.
“A lot of this is about self-trust. You need to trust that the rules that you live by, the decisions you want to make, are the right decisions for you. If you don’t want to break laws, or have sex with someone you don’t love, or do drugs, but someone else is trying to convince you to do those things, you have to trust that when you made that clearheaded decision, not in the heat of the moment, you did the right thing. Your gut led you right. And it will lead you right every time if you trust yourself.”
“Is it easier when you’re n-n-not a kid?”
That was Geoff, who rarely spoke in class because of his stutter.
“Saying no?”
He nodded.
He was looking at her with such hope in his eyes. They all were. Please, Ms. Hart, tell us it gets easier. Better.
“Saying no gets a little easier. Trusting yourself, though, is always a challenge. And if you listen to the wrong voices, it can be very hard to hear your own.”
The bell rang, punctuating her assertion. The students gathered up their papers and books, shoved them into backpacks. The hurriers hurried; the dawdlers stayed behind to schmooze with friends. “Hope you get what you want for Christmas,” she called to them as they left. “See you next year!”
She wondered what percentage of what she’d said to them would get through. Hopefully, if nothing else, they’d learned some skills in the role-play. That stuff mattered ten times more than all the words she’d said combined, because, for so many of them, the words would go in one ear and out the other.
Your gut will lead you right every time if you trust yourself.
That’s great, Ms. Hart, but what the hell does that mean in practice? Huh?
Yeah, kids never heard that stuff, or if they did, they didn’t know how to make it work for them in real life. Kids watched the models in their lives—which at this age, sadly, were mostly other eleven-year-olds—and they learned from doing. Actions spoke louder than words.
You’re too trusting.
Fuck you, Henry.
She was too trusting and not trusting enough. What the hell was she supposed to do with that?
She had no clue.
She’d have to start from what she did know, and maybe, maybe, if she was lucky, the rest would come.
She knew one thing for sure.
If you listen to the wrong voices, it can be very hard to hear your own
“We’re all done here, Henry,” she said aloud. And, for finality’s sake, she picked up her messenger bag and walked out of the classroom, away from him.
* * *
Nora wasn’t here, among the partygoers, among the brushed nickel and rice paper, among the streamers, balloons, relentless eighties’ music. No flash of pale-red hair, no bright smile, no blue eyes. He was quite certain that even if he’d missed one of those aforementioned body parts, he wouldn’t have missed the mind-bending chemistry she exerted over him. She was absolutely, positively, not here.
It was after eleven-thirty, and he’d been sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he flew to Boston and wrangled an invitation to this party through Owen’s Facebook friendship chain, he’d find her.
But that had been foolish and deluded, of course. Why should she be here? He’d behaved badly and she’d moved on, and just because he’d been unable to let go of her, of the idea of starting over with her here, there was no reason to believe she’d nursed any of the same fantasies.