The Quad is surprisingly quiet today, no kids skipping classes to play hacky sack in the sunshine or looking for a place to kiss or smoke.
Stacey runs ahead to the building and opens the door for me. Familiar flyers—they’re the same ones year after year—clutter the bulletin boards in the hallway. They’re looking for student leaders, and singers for this year’s spring musical, and volunteers willing to decorate for the upcoming dance.
As I approach the main entrance, the bell rings. Within seconds, the Quad is crowded with kids laughing and talking.
When they see me, a roar of recognition goes up. Suddenly I’m Mick Jagger on stage. A star. Everyone talks to me at once, crowding in close.
Stacey squeezes my arm. “This,” she whispers in my ear, “is your real life. ”
It takes us the entire ten minutes of the class break to work our way through the crowd and to the main office, where we’re overwhelmed again. Finally, when I’ve hugged at least one hundred people and been welcomed back by even more, we make our way down the hall to the library.
I’m struggling with my crutches at the turnstile, when I hear Rayla’s throaty laughter and scratchy, I-used-to-be-a-Camel-unfiltered-smoker’s voice. “Well, it’s about darn time. ”
I push through the shiny metal barrier and find her standing at the checkout desk, with a skyscraper of books beside her elbow. “This is a big job for one woman,” she says with a toothy grin.
I laugh at that. We both know that either of us could easily do it alone. It is a secret we keep from the administration. “Now, Rayla, you know you love bossing the kids around when I’m gone. ”
She comes around the desk, her skirt flowing, her silver bracelets tinkling, and enfolds me in a fierce hug that smells of hairspray and Tabu perfume. “We missed you, kiddo,” she says.
I draw back, look down at her. “I’ve missed you, too. ” And it’s true.
For the next half hour, we walk around the library, talking about ordinary things—budget cuts, contract negotiations, recent acquisitions, and Rayla’s upcoming spring break trip to Reno.
“So,” she says at last. “When can we expect you back?”
It is the question I’ve been dreading. Back. By definition, it’s a return to what was.
I take a deep breath, knowing there is only one acceptable answer, only one sane one.
Stacey is watching me closely. So is Rayla. They both know. Not everything, perhaps, not all the reasons for my disquiet and my disappointment, but enough.
“Soon,” I say, trying to smile.
On the drive home, Stacey and I are quiet.
I feel like Dorothy, back in Kansas, a black-and-white girl in a black-and-white world, with memories in color.
Beside me Stacey sings along to some catchy, generic song from one of the American Idol runners-up.
Then it’s Bruce Springsteen, singing “Baby, I Was Born to Run. ”
Memory overwhelms me. I close my eyes, remembering.
I’m in a red truck, bouncing down a country road, singing along to the radio. I can feel Bobby beside me, hear him laughing.
When I open my eyes—unable to take any more—I see the airport exit.
It can’t be accidental. Stacey never goes home this way.
And I think: Dorothy had to click her heels together three times and say, “There’s no place like home. ” Even magic requires something.
Maybe I need to quit waiting for proof and go in search of Hope, like I did before. “Turn here, Stacey. ”
“You were never there. ” I know how much she hates to say those words to me. It’s in her voice. “You saw your real life at the high school. ”
“Please?”
With a sigh, she follows the exit to the airport and pulls up outside the America West ticket counter. “This is crazy, Joy. ”