Bring Yourself Back
Dust floated in the room. The empty classroom smelled of dry-erase markers and the faint fragrance of old paper. Chairs sat upside down on desks, their legs pointed to the ceiling like a little forest.
Mr. Larkin put the last chair on the table and paused. “You are late,” he said without turning.
“I waited by the office,” Naomi replied. Her sneakers squeaked on the tile. “They said you might still be here.”
He set a stack of quizzes on the front desk, edges square. “I am always still here.”
Naomi traced a finger along the rim of the fish tank that no longer held fish. Only a ship ornament leaned on its side. “I forgot to say thank you,” she said. “Back in June.”
“For the recommendation?” He tugged a marker from the tray and clicked the cap twice. “You got in.”
“Yes.” She watched chalk dust glow near the baseboard. “I thought it would feel like a trumpet. It felt like a small bell in another room.”
He nodded, then wrote a single word on the board: Proof. The squeak sounded too loud for a room without students. “That bell is how it is. It rings, then you must decide where to walk.”
Naomi touched the ship. It tipped and settled. “I also never returned your copy of The Odyssey.”
“I have had many Odysseys,” he said. “They come back looking more lived in.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “What do you need, Naomi?”
She swallowed. “To know if I am a person who leaves.”
He set the marker down, face softening. “Everyone leaves. Not everyone looks back.”
A hum from the hallway vent slipped under the door. The clock clicked from fifty-nine to zero with a small hop that felt like a lie. Naomi sat on the front desk, legs tucked, careful not to swing. “When you called on me to read, I pretended not to see your hand,” she said. “I was afraid of hearing my voice.”
“I knew,” he said. “You were choosing silence that day. It was loud.”
She laughed once, then wiped at her cheek with the heel of her hand. “I want to try now.”
He gestured to the board. “Prove it.”
She took a breath, found the first line of a poem in her head, and let the words out slow enough to hear the air around them. The room held them the way a palm holds water.
When she finished, they did not clap. Chairs stayed balanced, the ship stayed tilted, the clock kept lying. Mr. Larkin picked up the marker and drew a small check beside the word. “You are someone who leaves and someone who stays.”
Naomi nodded. “I will bring the book back.”
“Bring yourself back,” he said.
Outside, a locker door slammed. Inside, dust kept drifting.