Storms 01 - Family Storms

couldn’t imagine why she would want to stay, unless she wanted to see how smart or how stupid I was. If I didn’t do well, perhaps she would change her mind and send me away. I hadn’t been much of a student during the last year when I was in school. Mama took some interest in my work, but she was always overwhelmed with something herself, even when Daddy was still with us, or maybe because he was. The fighting took its toll on her, and I recalled many mornings when she was too tired or depressed to get out of bed before I left for school. Often, I made my own lunch to take. I never blamed her. I always blamed Daddy.
    Despite my attempt to be indifferent about my tutoring, I couldn’t help but be nervous. Even when we were living in the streets, I didn’t like being thought of as stupid. No matter what the circumstances, most people who looked at the homeless thought their failures were their own fault. How could anyone not manage a roof over her head for herself and her child? How could she not find enough food and clothing?
    Mrs. March expressed her pity and her sympathy for Mama and me, but what did she really think about Mama?Certainly, if her daughter had not been involved, she wouldn’t have been there at the hospital to help me and wouldn’t have seen to Mama’s funeral arrangements. Perhaps she sent checks to charities or attended affairs as she told me, but did she really see the people the money was meant to help? More important for me right then was the question
Does she really see me?
    When Mrs. Kepler first appeared, I thought she was going to be as stern and as unsympathetic as the people who had walked past Mama and me on the street and either shook their heads in disgust or looked away quickly. Mrs. March had told her I had been out of school for some time, but she didn’t say that her daughter had caused the accident. I could tell when we spoke afterward and I heard the way Mrs. Kepler made Mrs. March sound charitable.
    “This is Sasha,” Mrs. March said. “We want to get her up to speed so she can enter school on par with the other students who will be in her class. Sasha, Mrs. Kepler.”
    “Hello,” I said.
    Mrs. Kepler nodded, fixing her hazel eyes on me as intently as a doctor. She was a full-figured woman with dark-brown hair that showed gray roots. Nevertheless, she looked as if she had just come from a beauty salon. Her hair was nicely styled about her ears, with trimmed bangs. She stood about two inches shorter than Mrs. March but held herself stiffly erect. The weakness in her face was her far too thin lips, which looked in danger of disappearing entirely if she stretched them.
    “What do you think of our little sitting area, Mrs. Kepler? It’s quiet up here.”
    She studied the room for a moment as if it really mattered. It occurred to me that in her mind, she was being tested as much as I was and knew it. She was trying too hard to be a perfect schoolteacher.
    “Yes, this will be fine,” she said.
    “I could have a blackboard brought up.”
    “No, that’s not going to be necessary. There’s just the two of us.”
    “I did try to make sure there were enough pens and pencils, paper, and such. Of course, the computer is there if you need it.”
    “I don’t teach on a computer. Everything I need for now is right here,” she said, patting her black leather briefcase. She walked into the sitting area to place it on the table. Then she looked around again and nodded. “Would it be all right if I opened these drapes to get more light?”
    “Oh, of course. Let me help you,” Mrs. March said, rushing to open the drapes.
    “Why don’t you come to the table, Sasha?” Mrs. Kepler said. She turned to Mrs. March. “I’ll test her to see what levels she’s at in math, science, reading, and history, and from there we’ll know just how much we have to do to bring her up to speed.”
    “Yes, good idea. Would you like tea, coffee, a soft drink?”
    “Not right now, thank you.”
    “Okay. Well, then, I’ll have Mrs. Duval check back in an hour or so?”
    “That would be fine,” Mrs. Kepler said.
    I noticed that after she said something, she pressed herlower lip tightly against her upper one, crinkling her chin. It was a small gesture, but one I thought she had used on her students in her classroom, because it made whatever she said sound like words chipped in cement. Arguing or challenging her was out of the question.
    “All right. Good luck, Sasha,”
    Mrs. March