Her hand flies to her hair, like a bird seeking shelter. Miss Lewis has long, curly hair, which she’s twisted up in a Scunci claw clip, but one strand keeps getting loose. She puts it behind her ear, but it won’t cooperate. I’m tempted to tell her it never will. She has natural curly hair, like my mother, and it won’t be reined in.  “I didn’t know . . .”

            “That I had a degree? Yes, in business administration.” I don’t add that I could probably run this school, and if I did, I wouldn’t hire teachers like her. I tamp down my antagonism. I have so many bad memories of this place that every time I enter, I get butterflies or a rush of adrenaline. Wait a minute, I think, the Lewis’s never did anything to me. They went to another church. This girl is probably nice. 

            She breaks eye contact, becomes even more scattered when another strand of hair springs out. I lean forward and start to reach for her hand, but I don’t. I’ve never been much for touching. Royce is the hugger in our house. He used to try to hug me; now he hugs the kids. I do what I can.

            “Just tell me. I’m his mother.”

            It’s the buses. I should have known. Nathan loses it at two-thirty when they pull in to take the country kids home at three. He asks for his sisters, crumples perfect papers, and on more than one occasion, she’s found him hiding in the coat closet. 

            “This is my fault,” I tell her. Which is true, but the rest is a lie. “He’s allergic to bee stings, has an almost deadly reaction. I’ve warned him so often that he could die at any time.”

            “Bee stings?  I’m talking about buses.”

            “They stir up the insects in the grass when they pull in,” I continue smoothly. “He’ll settle down. I’ll talk to him.”

After Grandma’s stroke, we were the talk of the town, this time because we were orphans. West Virginia Child Placement Services got involved, and once again, we were on the cutting edge. Grandma did what she could from her hospital bed and somehow caught the ear of one worker. They found people from the local area willing to take us in. I stayed in Harshbarger Mills, fostered by the Emery’s, a middle -aged couple, both schoolteachers, who’d always wanted children but never had them. They were good to me, and when I grew older, I was good to them. Mrs. Emery took me to visit Grandma at Hope Springs, but when I turned sixteen, I learned to drive and bought a car—a Mustang, red, which wasn’t my favorite color, but since it was bought with my dad’s settlement money, I thought red was a nice ironic touch that no one would understand. I had tons of money, as did the boys. The Emerys, who, even if they’d been allowed to, wouldn’t have let me touch a dime while I lived with them, put the money in the bank for me every month, and every year, the lawyers would take the total and give it to a money manager. I got my car because one of the lawyers, Kline I think, signed a special paper so I could sell stock and buy it. I visited Grandma three times a week until she died. I can’t begin to count the number of trips I made because her death wasn’t kind. She existed in that half state for years, until her right side finally succumbed to her left – that immobile, fixed eyed side. By then, I wasn’t driving the red Mustang but a green van. When her funeral was over and I was alone, I cried great gulping tears of relief. Then, I took a bath. 

            The boys came in for her funeral. I was fostered, but they’d been legally adopted by the Thompson’s, who lived out Route 40, just past the Callope County line. Yes, they were raised in Davis County, and when Grandma heard that, her mouth worked hard until she managed the words, “No drinkers.”

            They grew up to be good men. The funny thing is, their personalities switched. Rush, who’d always been rough and outgoing, grew up to be a quiet, controlled man. Jarrell’s whining turned to boisterousness, which led him to be voted Laurel Valley’s class clown. Yes, he’s had his problems, but for the most part, he’s over them. Me? I just remember sitting in the judge’s chambers, swinging my feet from an oversized leather chair and wishing I could find a way home again.