Page 5 of Faultlines

“Hi, Ellie. Congratulations again. You should be proud of yourself.”

Ellie beams, then turns to me. “Dad, this is Ms. Whitmore, my new English teacher.”

“It’s nice to meet you at last, Mr. Bennett,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m filling in for Mrs. Davison until the end of the year. Ellie’s told me so much about you and Mrs. Bennett.”

I shake her hand and smile. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Mostly,” she says, giving me a wink.

“Okay, that’s enough grown-up conversation. We’re leaving.” Before either of us can object, Ellie grabs my arm and pulls me toward the exit.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bennett,” she calls after us.

“You too.”

As the doors swing shut, I catch one last glimpse of her smiling at Ellie’s theatrics.

As soon as we settle into the truck, I glance down at my phone. Claire has finally responded.

Claire: Sorry. One of the girls at Juniper House needed stitches this afternoon.

I read the message, the same tired excuse landing somewhere behind my sternum.

I set the phone face down in the center console, a dozen frustrated replies dying on my tongue. Before I can decide on one, Ellie breaks the silence.

“Ms. Whitmore is my favorite teacher.”

I glance over and notice her face brighten. Her enthusiasm is contagious. Most middle schoolers complain about their teachers, but Ellie praises hers. “What makes her your favorite?”

“She really listens, not like most adults. And she makes reading fun, which I didn’t think was possible. Plus, she’s in charge of the summer drama program.”

“Well, those seem like pretty proficient qualifications.”

“They are.”

The way she says it makes me suspicious. I can hear the slight pause she puts in before certain words. She is building toward something. I glance at her. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“Ellie.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh, leaning her head against the window. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

After a few seconds of silence, she finally caves.

“Okay, fine. Ms. Whitmore is looking for parent volunteers for the summer drama program.”

I bite back a smile. “And?”

“And—” She picks at a loose thread on her dress. “I was hoping Mom might sign up. I told her that Mom used to volunteer at my school all the time.” The excitement that animated her face earlier fades.

“But I’m sure she’ll be too busy.” She says it with a practiced casualness.

I check the rearview mirror, not for traffic but to avoid her gaze. It’s the certainty in her voice that hits me—at thirteen, she’s already learned not to hope for too much.

The rest of the drive home passes in a blur of traffic lights and my own thoughts. It’s only when I shift the truck into park in our driveway that I realize how unusually quiet Ellie is. When I look back, I see she’s staring out the passenger window, twisting the award ribbon around her fingers.