Breaking Noah (2 page)

After a few weeks of classes being in session, the day-to-day routine’s getting a little easier. The first day back is the hardest, though. The best part about being a teacher, other than being able to mold young minds and feed their need to learn, is the schedule. I don’t know a single person alive who wouldn’t like to have the summers to do with what he wishes. But those first few weeks back…they’re a bear.

The moment the clock strikes two, the hordes of students quickly file out of the room before I have a chance to dismiss them. Then I see her. Zara. Hamilton. She’s walked up to the front row and perched on top of one of the desks. I know I’d asked her to stay after class, but I thought she’d rushed out with the rest of the students.

I had a note in my mailbox early this morning from the counselor alerting me of a transfer student, and that in itself is extremely odd this far into the quarter. I stared at the name on the form…Zara Hamilton. Out of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of kids I’ve taught, this name is one I know I’ll never forget. I wonder if she’s related to…I dismiss the thought from my mind no sooner than it enters.

No. It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.

She doesn’t move. She remains seated, and I can’t help notice how sad she looks when she doesn’t have her pen to paper. I’m usually able to separate myself from my students, keep it on an impersonal level, but something about her draws me in…I want to help her.

Her wit is outstanding. Most girls her age are…boring. Not because they’re not popular or don’t have things to talk about, but because they’re obsessed with college business, as they should be, but Zara…I can already tell she’s different from the others. Usually, the juniors in this class fight me tooth and nail about reading classics. She said she’s read
Pride and Prejudice
numerous times. And she does it for the simple enjoyment of disappearing into a great book. It makes me want to hold actual conversations with her, find out more about…her.

After she leaves, I sit at my desk, thoroughly going through her file, trying to learn as much as I possibly can before class tomorrow. There has to be something more about her—anything that will tell me why she appears so lost. I also need to know for sure that there is no connection between her and…I sigh and shake my head. God, I can’t even say her name anymore. It’s been a year and I still can’t bring myself to say her name.

Zara said she was an army brat. There isn’t much to go on inside the file I was given, so I log into the admin files and I search her family history. All seems to be in order. I wonder if maybe her father had been injured or killed in action. I quickly glance over the admission essay she’d been required to submit, and she states that her older brother is on active duty; but again, with her being from a military family, that’s the most normal thing I’ve read thus far. The only thing that seems off to me is that she’s shown up a few weeks after the quarter’s started. Not that it doesn’t happen, but most students wait until the beginning of a new term. She’ll transfer the credits she’s accumulated in the past few years, but they appear to be prereqs to get into a law program, not to study English or literature. There’s nothing in her file that should make me suspicious, but I am. I have to be, because I know all too well how easily things can crumble right in front of me. My gut’s rarely wrong, and the signals it’s sending…yeah, something’s off.

Why would someone just switch her major? She’d been receiving exemplary marks, attending classes regularly, and had an application submitted to Northwestern by the deadline, but she didn’t show up until after classes had been in session for a few weeks. It just doesn’t add up, especially since she appears to be intelligent. What could have caused her to drastically change her life? The better question is how the hell does she support herself? She’d applied for student housing and had been approved, but didn’t show up to claim a dorm room until a few days ago after they’d all been filled. That’s not even enough time to be fitted for a work-study program or to find a decent job. Without student housing, where does she live? Something’s certainly wrong here.

The emergency contacts on file are all in Ohio except for one, and that address is a good hour and a half away—far too long of a drive for her to commute. The city’s pretty dried up for work, and, because it’s mostly a college town, the entry-level jobs are almost always taken. I’ve not met many military wives that work outside the home, the majority making their families their number one priority, so I can’t see her family paying for an off-campus apartment. Boyfriend maybe? But she hasn’t been here long.

Even if she has a part-time job, there’s no way she can make enough to pay for a motel these days. I jot down the home address the school has on file and tuck it into my pocket on my way out the door. I probably won’t use it, but it’s good to know that if I want to, I have it.

Walking through the front door of my apartment, I’m met by my cat, Gio, and my girlfriend, Shannon, isn’t far behind. It’s easy to see that Shannon didn’t do much of anything today. The same laundry from this morning is still sitting on the coffee table, ready to be folded and put away; the beer bottles from a few nights ago still litter the counter in the kitchen; and I’m pretty sure the strange smell is coming from the fridge, where last week’s leftovers remain.

“Hi, baby. Have a good day?” she asks, grabbing on to my waist before I even have a chance to set my messenger bag on the sofa. Sometimes a man just needs to come in and take off his shoes before being attacked by a handsy girlfriend. I get it, she’s lonely, having spent all day by herself, shopping online and trolling social media sites. I just happen to be the kind of guy who likes to breathe before having to entertain.

“It was all right,” I respond, trying to shake her loose, with no such luck.

Shannon and I met when we attended Northwestern a few years ago and have been dating ever since. I was a quiet student on the path toward a teaching degree and majoring in English and American literature, while Shannon spent most of her time with the sorority she’d pledged her freshman year and taking courses in fashion. Recently, she’s been on my ass about getting married, buying a house, and starting a family. Not that I’m opposed to becoming domesticated, but, much like Gio, I’m just not sure she’s the one that I’m supposed to do it with. Every time I think about settling down with Shannon, I get this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that screams that there’s more to life than this. There has to be.

I love her very much, but over the years, we’ve both changed so drastically. After graduation, I was hired as a teaching assistant to Professor Randall, but when he passed away in the middle of winter semester last year, I kind of got his position by default and have enjoyed every second of my chosen career, while Shannon hasn’t been able to put her fashion degree to any use. If she would have just moved back to Chicago, things probably would have been better for her, but she wanted to be with me in Evanston. For the last six years, I’ve been doing everything I can to get ahead, and being one of the youngest professors on campus, I’m doing exactly that, while Shannon isn’t doing much of anything.

During our time in college, she seemed passionate about designing clothing—wedding dresses in particular. She used to tell me that it would be an amazing feeling to be able to share in so many special days and be remembered forever as the one who dressed the bride. Somewhere between graduation and day trips into Chicago to shop, she lost her drive and never bothered to find it again. It’s one of the things I miss most about who she used to be—having a dream and trying to achieve it is worth so much more than being satisfied with…nothing.

“What’s for dinner? It smells great.” Carryout, I’d be willing to bet my firstborn.

“I ordered in from Roberto’s.”

That’s another thing. For not having a job or contributing anything to the household, Shannon doesn’t seem to have an issue spending money on frivolous items, such as takeout from Roberto’s. Granted, it’s one of my favorite restaurants. I just wish she’d attempt to cook a meal. Or clean the apartment. Or…do anything. Maybe if I put a Chanel logo on the dishwasher she’ll actually use it. Now, her money is a different situation. She’s a trust-fund baby. With Mommy and Daddy having paid for everything for her entire life, she has a nice little rainy-day fund that’s usually spent while shopping for new clothes and decorating our already decorated apartment. I’m never going to understand the logic behind her actions, so about a year ago I stopped trying to figure it out. We seem to get along much better when I don’t try to understand.

“Sounds delicious,” I offer, deciding not to start a fight…the same fight we’ve been having for years. It’s just not worth it anymore. Nothing’s going to change and all that it will end up doing is pissing me off.

We sit together at the dining room table, set expertly by Shannon, and devour the food exceptionally prepared by the staff at Roberto’s. I apologize. I was wrong. Shannon did manage to clear the mail and trash from the dining room table so we could eat, but that’s about it. While Shannon and I eat in a peaceful silence, my mind wanders back to Zara. I’m sure she’d be able to hold an intellectual conversation that doesn’t revolve around what store she’s going to or the next designer handbag she wants to purchase. Then I remember the slip of paper in my front pocket. Logically, there’s no reason for me to be concerned with her, but I can’t help it. Her address is starting to burn a hole in my pocket.

When my plate is clear, I take it into the kitchen and think about how I’m going to rid myself of the guilt I carry with me. Thinking on my feet was never a strong point of mine. I’m a calculated person, considering all of my options and their consequences before acting. Once a plan is formulated, that’s then, and only then, I take action. It’s one of the reasons that the dean trusted me to take over the class—I really am, or at least I try to be, an honest-to-God good guy, putting the needs of everyone else ahead of my own. I do it in my personal relationships as well as in my professional ones.

As improper as it would be, knowing Zara’s not starving or living in deplorable conditions would set my mind at ease. As an educator it’s an unwritten part of my job description to show compassion. If this young woman’s living in a trashy apartment, not able to afford a meal, I’d feel a responsibility to help.

“That was amazing.” I sing praises more to the culinary expertise of the head chef at Roberto’s than to Shannon’s skills at ordering carryout. “I think I’m going to run to the gym in a bit. Want me to grab some dessert on my way back?”

“If you could run by Tony’s and pick up that strawberry cheesecake we had a few weeks ago, I’d be forever in your debt,” she responds. Perfect answer. Tony’s is only a few blocks away from the address I took from Zara’s file.

“Got it.” I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and my gym bag from the closet.

“Thanks, Noah, you’re the best.”
If she only knew.
Lying never came easy for me. Each time I tried, guilt got the better of me. Shannon’s just not in a place in her life to show anyone empathy, so, since I plan on hitting the gym and getting her the cheesecake she’s requested, omitting the truth by choosing to leave out the additional stop I’ll be making at Zara’s seems logical.

I park down the road from the apartment building Zara lives in. Killing the lights and engine, I wait, unsure of my next move. This is completely out of my comfort zone. I should have a plan of action, at least an idea of one, and nothing is coming to mind. It would be far too awkward for me to just knock on the door like “Hey, I’m your professor and I stole your address from the student file given to me by the school. Figured I’d stalk you for a second to make sure you’re doing okay…No, this is totally normal. Professors behave like this all the time.” Still, sitting down the street in a dark car seems pretty creepy. I’m pretty sure I’m in a no-win situation.

L
OCAL
P
ROFESSOR
A
RRESTED FOR
S
TALKING
O
NE OF
H
IS
S
TUDENTS.
I can almost see the headlines in the paper now. The dean would be so proud. It wouldn’t even matter that my intentions were thoughtful. I’d be displayed like one of those teachers in the Lifetime movies. Shuddering at the thought of being labeled a pervert, I think of what I can do to be as inconspicuous as possible.

As I wrestle with my options, a black SUV pulls into the lot and parks under a streetlight. Within a few minutes, a woman with straight-as-an-arrow blond hair emerges from the passenger side, followed by a male wearing a baseball cap from the driver’s side.

Zara.

She has her purse slung over one arm, and in the other she’s carrying a sack from the grocery store. The male grabs a few more bags from the backseat and they walk toward the entry door of the apartment building.

I can’t make out anything they’re saying, but she’s laughing. She finally looks the innocent age of twenty-one that she is, but who is the guy? He appears to be older than a college student, yet fully equipped with a fraternity sweatshirt and a matching logo ball cap. Maybe a recent graduate?

Realizing that she’s absolutely fine and I worried for no reason, I move to put the keys back in the ignition, but I accidently hit the panic button on the keypad.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Of all the idiotic things I could have possibly done, I go and do the dumbest of all.
And the award for least stealthy stalker goes to…

The horn blares and the lights start flashing, attracting the attention of anyone with the sense of sight or hearing in a mile radius, including the two people I was watching. In order to silence the alarm, I have to turn on the small dome light above my head. It takes only a second to locate the button and cease the incessant noise, but the damage is done. The man’s eyes hit mine first. He squints as he stares in my direction, shrugs, and keeps walking to the door.