The Fourth Child by Jessica Winter (best classic novels TXT) 📕

cafeteria table, and a small battered desk that only Mr. Smith sat at. Naturallight came through a single window, high and narrow. A film covered everything: dead skin, soda residue, a hoagie-ish debris.If Lauren spent too long in there, she started to feel itchy. The week of the performances of All My Sons, the senior girls decided that Tedquarters needed what they called “a woman’s touch.” They said this in a high singsong, like it was a joke and yet it wasn’t. Deepa brought in a chevron tablecloth and a colorful crocheted throw for one of the sad couches. Abby brought in succulents and a snake tree. Claire brought a bamboo bowl filled with satsumas. Lauren had never heard of succulents or satsumas. She wondered how they’d found out about them like she wondered how they’d found out about the Pixies. She had decided to bring a satsuma to Paula next door in the prop room when Claire appeared in front of her in her costume, pretty and airy, a lilac confection with a sweetheart neckline and frilly cap sleeves.

“So pretty,” Lauren said.

Claire shrugged. “My mom insisted on sewing it herself. According to the script, it has to twirl,” she added, and twirled.“I am so ready,” she said. “I think it’s because of you, Lauren. You are so on point.” She flopped girlishly onto one of the sagging sofas, her dress fanning around her. She looked up at Lauren and patted the sunken spot beside her. Lauren sat down and dipped her head toward Claireromantically. They laced their fingers together. At this moment, they were friends. Lauren would just sit here a moment, andthen go help Paula with her tree.

“So your mother stole a gypsy baby and brought it home.” Andy Figueroa was standing over them, hands in the pockets of hisone-size-too-big suit. A sophomore like Stitch. In his role as the surviving son, Andy had to kiss Claire toward the end ofAct I, and he was always going on and on about how revolted he was about the kiss. He felt embarrassed to be in love withClaire, and resentful of it, just like a lot of their classmates.

“My family is none of your business,” Lauren told Andy. With her index finger, Claire was drawing tiny circles in the palmof Lauren’s hand and humming lightly. A song of solidarity, no questions asked—Lauren hadn’t talked to anyone about Mirela,except for Paula.

“It is my business,” Andy said, “because that little freak attacked my mom when she was picking up my brother from football practice.”

Lauren could picture it easily: her mother waiting for PJ or Sean in the parking lot behind Mayer Middle, Mirela running upto Mrs. Figueroa, Mrs. Figueroa trying to wrap the girl in a hug, Mirela rejecting the touch, thrashing, kicking. Maybe Mrs.Figueroa had come away with a fat lip or a scratched cheek. She had been Lauren’s and PJ’s and Sean’s third-grade teacher.

“Your mom is scared of a three-year-old?” Lauren was saying to Andy. “Sounds like your mom is the one who’s got problems.”

On Lauren’s second day of kindergarten, she took a wrong turn down the long corridor to her classroom, froze, and saw Glindathe Good Witch in a doorway. It turned out to be Mrs. Figueroa. She must have been wearing her regular school clothes, butin Lauren’s memory she sparkled and twinkled and stood seven feet tall. A voice like a flute from the land in a lullaby. Awand on the desk just behind the door, just out of Lauren’s sight. Kindergartner Lauren ran into her arms. Mrs. Figueroa scoopedher up and buried her face in Lauren’s neck, as if she’d been waiting for her all that time. They’d never seen each otherbefore.

“That kid should be locked up in a loony bin,” Andy said.

“Andy, enough,” Claire murmured, shifting languidly, hanging on to Lauren’s hand.

Or maybe it had been the second day of first grade, not kindergarten. Because there was a teacher’s aide who helped the kindergartnersto their classrooms, Lauren remembered, but by the time you were in the first grade, you were on your own. More likely shewould have lost her way in first grade. You could tell the story however you wanted it.

“You should probably stay home from opening night tomorrow, Andy,” Lauren said, “because that little freak will be in theaudience, scaring your mom.”

Claire took her hand away. Mrs. Figueroa’s rs purred and a shhh threaded and rounded through her speech. It twirled in Lauren’s ears like a figure skater, like Claire’s dress.

“Shut up, Lauren,” Andy said.

“I just want you and your mom to feel safe,” Lauren said.

“Lauren! See me outside.” How long had Mr. Smith been standing in the doorway? Claire got up from the couch, not looking behindher, humming as she joined Deepa and Abby at the long table.

Lauren lowered her head as she followed Mr. Smith down the hall.

“Come in here. I want privacy,” he said.

“You can’t go in the girls’ bathroom,” she said.

“Lauren,” he said. A bark. The sound of an impact, like his voice was striking something in the way and what was in the waywas her. He sounded like Dad.

He shut the door behind them. Three stalls, the harsh cleanser smell and then another smell beneath it, loamy and animal.

“Lauren, what’s gotten into you?”

“Andy was—”

“Andy is Andy is Andy,” Mr. Smith said. “I don’t think it’s any surprise to anyone who Andy is. This is not who you are.”

Mr. Smith was standing too close. Lauren wanted to move away, but she was already against the wall. He wasn’t that tall, hadonly a few inches on her. Maybe that was part of why he came across as so young, why people might underestimate him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things,” Lauren said.

“At the beginning of the school year, you seemed like such a sweet girl. You were such a sweet girl. What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You will have to do better than that.”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m really, really sorry.”

Lauren had done something very bad. What she did had