Free The Last to Know by Wendy Corsi Staub

thought, Fletch stares at his reflection in the wide mirror above the double sink until his features are swallowed up by the rising shroud of mist.

Chapter 3
    “M rs. Bailey?”
    About to automatically correct the “Mrs.,” Paula looks up to see Mitch’s teacher standing in the doorway of the office waiting room and promptly changes her mind.
    Sixtyish, with Barbara Bush white hair and pearls, an old-fashioned pastel wool dress, and a mouth that could be drawn as a thin, straight line if you tried to capture it on paper, Miss Bright is clearly disapproving as she looks Paula over. What’s her problem?
    “I’m sorry I’m late,” Paula offers, aware of her own unapologetic tone, yet unable—unwilling—to change it as she rises from the bench where the school secretary directed her. “I’ve been covering a huge story and—”
    “We won’t have much time to talk,” Miss Bright cuts in. “The children come back from gym class in five minutes. I had hoped to get more time than that with you.”
    Paula shrugs. “I’m working today. It isn’t easy for me to get away.”
    The teacher bobs her head in a gesture that could be perceived as a sort of nod, but not an understanding one. She gestures for Paula to follow her and leads the way down the hall, past rows of lockers decorated with various construction-paper motifs: autumn leaves, pumpkins, ships . . .
    “Why are there cutouts of ships on those lockers?” Paula asks Mitch’s teacher because there is only the sound of their footsteps tapping down the hall and the silence is awkward.
    “The Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria,” the teacher says simply.
    “Oh, for Columbus Day.”
    “This is our room,” the teacher announces, stopping at an open classroom door. She stands aside to let Paula through the door, then closes it behind her. She sits behind her desk. “Have a seat, Mrs. Bailey.”
    “Actually, it’s Ms.,” Paula says as she perches on the only available chair, a child-size wooden ladder-back that’s beside the desk.
    “Excuse me?”
    “My name,” Paula clarifies. “I’m a Ms ., not a Mrs . Mitch’s father and I are divorced.”
    “I realize that.” Miss Bailey—not Ms .—purses small lips that are encrusted with an unfashionably pale mauve lipstick.
    Why couldn’t Mitch have a different sort of teacher? Someone younger, more modern, less judgmental. His teacher last year, Ms. Richmond, had been right out of college. It didn’t seem to faze her that Paula was a divorced working mother. In fact Ms. Richmond was impressed by Paula’s journalism career.
    Not Miss Bright, though, who’s treating Paula as though she’s been caught turning tricks down in Yonkers. Well, if she thinks Paula’s the least bit bothered by her attitude, she’s wrong.
    Paula looks away, glancing around the classroom. Typical—small blond-wood desks with smaller chairs; a green chalkboard running the length of two walls, and windows the length of another; a piano in one back corner and a library table in the other; and plenty of student artwork by way of decor.
    “Your son’s behavioral and academic problems seem to stem from the fact that he’s not getting what he needs at home, Mrs.— Ms .—Bailey.” Miss Bright folds her hands on the desk in front of her. The reporter in Paula notes that they’re as white as her hair, with transparent skin and blue veins. Her unpolished nails are short, filed into perfect, boring ovals.
    On her desk is a red wooden apple emblazoned with the phrase “Teachers give the best hugs.” Paula tries, and fails, to imagine this woman hugging someone—anyone.
    “What is it that you think he needs that I’m not giving him, Miss Bright?” Paula asks frostily.
    “Time, Ms. Bailey,” is the straightforward reply. “He needs more of your time.”
    “How do you know how much time I spend with my son?”
    “I know that you didn’t help him with his fractions the night before last. I sent home a worksheet that