Heller


Heller has their bags packed and next to the door by the time Jane gets home from school. He was hoping to make
it to the turnpike before five, but Heller knows better than to ask why she's late. Instead he tells her he couldn't find
her swimsuit, but it's mid-March and the weather report says it's going to be chilly in the Poconos, so she probably
won't be swimming, "unless you count the jacuzzi," he says.

"You're babbling," Jane says, rattling two aspirin in her fist before popping them in her mouth, a beer open on the
counter next to her. She lifts the can, waggling it in Heller's direction. "How many have you had already?"

Heller's usually good about these details and knows he should've remembered to replenish the supply, but his days
of late have been eaten away with so many niggling chores, he swears he can feel his brain sloshing between his
ears. Just yesterday, in the middle of doing laundry, he was overwhelmed by a memory of his mother, home alone
with three kids, apron at her waist, cigarette in hand. He wonders if she ever thought of killing herself to escape the
sheer boredom of it all; these days, Heller can't even turn on the oven without wanting to stuff his head inside.

"I need a nap," Jane says.

"You can sleep in the car."

Jane heaves a huge sigh on her way to the bathroom. Heller knows she's just being spiteful because it's Friday and
her last period class likes to give her fits -- seventh graders are particularly petty, Jane says. On more than one
occasion, Heller has offered to come to the classroom to mete out some rough justice. On these occasions, Jane
likes to remind Heller that one of them needs to keep a job. It's been six months of unemployment for Heller and
though he tries to keep the apartment spotless and the chores ticked off the list as per their agreement, he
suspects that Jane is getting sick of him. He knows something's coming, the way a beaten dog knows to tuck its tail
between its legs, bracing for the blow.

                                                                     ~

Heller has a towel draped over his ass when Goldfarb calls. Jane, who's similarly draped, drops her hand into her
bag, sitting just at the head of her massage table, and says a quick "excuse me" to her massage therapist, a thin
woman dressed in a white uniform who nods towards the sign on the wall that clearly states No Cellphones Please.
Heller's glad for the distraction since all he's been thinking about is how much this massage is costing him per
minute, especially since he's charging everything on a new credit card that miraculously came in the mail a month
ago. Jane suggested they cancel the trip to save money, but Heller insisted -- this was a trip to heal the rift in their
relationship and how can you put a price tag on that? But now that they are here, he sees it's quite easy to price
things: $100 massages, $75 dinner tabs, $50 dollars an hour for boating.

"Hello," Jane says into her phone then, "Goldfarb, how'd you get this number," like it's any great mystery. Jane's
masseuse clears her throat again and Jane mouths "sorry" and holds up her index finger at her.

Heller glances over his shoulder at his masseuse. She smiles at him, smugly, he thinks, because, after all, he's
obeying the rules and dutifully submitting to all her commands. He might even be, he thinks, the perfect massagee.
He didn't notice a wedding ring, but isn't sure if that's because she works with her hands or if she's really single.

"Try to relax," she tells him.

"I'm kinda in the middle of something. Can we talk later?" Jane says into her phone before clicking it shut. She looks
over at Heller. "Goldfarb's in crisis again. Girlfriend troubles. Sorry." Then she settles back on the table, her face
turned away from his, her masseuse kneading again at her shoulders.

"Your muscles are in knots," Heller's masseuse says.

Jane snorts.

Goldfarb calls back during dinner. "I should probably take this," Jane says. Heller watches her walk off to the lobby,
her phone tucked in at her shoulder. Heller hates sitting alone in restaurants. Diners are one thing, bars he's
completely fine with, but sitting alone now in this restaurant, candles on the tables, a panoramic view of the lake,
Heller wonders what the point is. He thinks about sex. He thinks about how Jane's been exercising a lot more lately
and how he can see it in her ass and arms. He wonders if she'll feel like doing it tonight. He wonders what his
masseuse looks like naked. He's done with his entrée and in the middle of picturing different scenarios involving the
jacuzzi in their hotel room by the time Jane comes back.

"Poor Goldfarb," she says, lifting her napkin off her seat before sitting down.

"Has he slit his wrists yet?"

"God, that's a thing to say." She reaches across the table for the salt shaker. "This looks good," she says, folding a
small bite of fish into her mouth. Heller likes the way her lips come together over her fork. He wishes he hadn't said
the wrist thing. If he can keep his mouth shut, he thinks, dinner will be salvaged. "These calls," Jane reminds him,
nicking off some butter with her knife, "are just another part of my job." She bites into a slice of bread.

"You teach English, Jane. English. I don't think Goldfarb was calling about split infinitives." Heller stops himself from
saying more by taking a big gulp of wine. He knows just how far to push it before Jane launches into her lecture
about how parents at private schools pay good money and expect a little extra TLC. Heller loves that one -- TLC.
The most personal his senior English teacher got was when she asked Heller if he planned to go to college. But Jane
thrives on school-related TLC, and from the beginning of her teaching career, teacher appreciation gifts have poured
in: birthday cards, boxes of candy, #1 Teacher mugs, teddy bears, scented candles, and photo ornaments of other
people's children. Last year, she was voted Teacher of The Year and received the yearbook dedication, both of which
made her cry. "You have no idea how this feels," she said, hugging the yearbook to her chest. Frankly, Heller wasn't
sure if he found the whole thing creepy or sad or a little of both.

                                                                     ~

The next day, they are row-boating on the lake toward the little island in the center where people picnic on
prepackaged lunches from the kitchen. Heller rows with his back towards the island, watching the lodge recede. Jane
is supposed to be telling him which way to go but instead, her eyes are closed, her face angled up at the sun. The
day has turned suddenly warm and Heller wonders if the back of his neck is going to burn. A red neck probably
won't read well in job interviews, he thinks. A bird flies overhead. Off to Heller's right, another couple rows their way
to the island, the woman throwing her head back in laughter at something the man says. Heller glares at the couple.
He wants to reach the island before them. He rows harder. He wonders if Jane's really asleep or just ignoring him.
The phone rings. Jane's head snaps up as Heller drops the oars. They reach for Jane's bag at the same time, but
Heller's faster, and before Jane can say anything, he's closed his hand around the phone and thrown it into the lake.
The other couple turns away quickly when Heller looks over at them. "Real mature, asshole. You're paying for that,"
Jane says, repositioning herself on her seat, holding her bag tight in her lap. Heller stares at the ripples the phone's
made, then turns the boat around.

Exactly when the phone calls started, Heller's not quite sure, students asking for Jane by her first name, Jane
collapsing back against the couch cushions in laughter or tears. At that point, they'd been dating for a couple years.
Heller was working a lot of overtime then, busy most nights and weekends, and he figured the kids kept Jane from
getting too lonely. Even after he lost his job, he accepted the calls with great patience; after all, students moved on,
got serious girlfriends or boyfriends or little part-time jobs, left for college and real life. Everyone but Goldfarb.

The one constant, much to Heller's chagrin, is Goldfarb. Goldfarb this, Goldfarb that. Weekly updates from needy
little Goldfarb. Goldfarb has been Jane's favorite student for four years now and Heller suspects that Jane would get
rid of him before ever parting with Goldfarb. It all started when Goldfarb transferred into Jane’s sixth grade class, a
tiny little thing, Jane described him to Heller. She took him under her wing that year, helped him to stand up against
the bullies, make new friends, and pass with honors. In a thank-you card sent at the end of the year along with an
arrangement of flowers, Goldfarb’s parents called Jane “their angel,” said they didn’t know what they’d have done
without her. This year, Goldfarb turned fifteen and was in Jane’s ninth grade class, and, according to Jane, so much
more sure of himself. The world’s his oyster, she said proudly. Her school-son, she called him.

All well and good for Jane, Heller thinks, but lately it’s like the more she annoyed she becomes with him, the more
approving she is of Goldfarb. If Heller were better at math, he imagines that he could devise some sort of algebraic
formula solving for the Z that is Goldfarb with the X standing for Jane’s affections. If he could somehow cancel out
Goldfarb, everything would be fine, he thinks. Honestly, there are some days when Heller just wants to take
Goldfarb's cell phone and shove it down his throat. Instead, he’s counting the days until Goldfarb graduates or at
least turns eighteen so he can beat the crap out of him in a fair fight.

                                                                     ~

They eat their picnic lunch in the car on the way back to the city. "This is starting to feel like a lot of work," Jane
says, stuffing a wad of waxed paper back into the bag on the floor at her feet. She shifts in her seat in order to
turn towards Heller, resting her hand on his knee. “You know? Us?”

Heller's been expecting this. He's in his element. He knows how to identify and control the variables. "Everything's
going to be fine. You’ll see. These are just growing pains. Totally normal," he says, squeezing the steering wheel
harder in order to make his biceps bulge the way Jane likes. Out of the corner of his eye, Heller sees Jane shaking
her head, but when he turns to look at her, she turns away.

                                                                     ~

Back at the apartment, the car unpacked and the groceries put away, Heller waits until Jane’s in the shower to check
the answering machine. Four messages.

“It’s Goldfarb, I really need to talk to you.”

“Gold…”

“Ms. Murray, it’s…”

“Please call…”

“Did you say something?” Jane yells from the bathroom.

“No.” Heller yells back as he hits rewind.

                                                                     ~

That Monday, Jane stays late after school for a meeting and so isn't home when Goldfarb calls. Heller's been home
all day making cold calls about jobs and finding nothing to circle in the want ads. He wants to show Jane some
progress, but the most progress he’s made today involved mildew removal. Needless to say, Heller is not in the best
of moods when Goldfarb asks to leave a message.

"No," Heller says. "I have a message for you."

Heller met Goldfarb once last spring at a teacher-student softball game in Central Park. Jane asked Heller to walk
over to the field from work, an afternoon warm enough for Heller to carry his suit jacket over his shoulder. A flock of
Canadian geese was grazing in the grass around the diamond and Heller had to step carefully to avoid the goose
crap.

Jane waved at him from the outfield and ran over between innings to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Come meet
some of my students," she said, pulling at his arm excitedly. The girls giggled and tucked their chins down towards
their chests, but Goldfarb stuck his hand straight out. He was almost as tall as Heller, but bony, narrow through the
chest and shoulders. "Goldfarb, I presume," he’d said, giving the boy a hearty handshake. The phone calls hadn't
started to irritate him yet so Heller could afford to be expansive, fraternal even.

Heller wonders now how Goldfarb's looking, if his face is still dotted with zits, if he's begun shaving. "Are you
listening carefully, Goldfarb?" he asks.

"Yes?" Goldfarb says, his voice pitched a little high. Still a geek, Heller thinks.

"Pick on someone your own size," he says.

"I don't understand." Goldfarb swallows loudly into the phone.

"Oh I think you understand me perfectly," Heller says, hanging up.

                                                                     ~

"What the hell did you say to Goldfarb?" Jane demands to know the next day. Today, Heller organized his ties
according to color and season. He dropped off a couple of suits at the cleaners. He has a chicken roasting in the
oven. To all of this Jane says, "That's nice, but what about Goldfarb?"

"What a big baby."

"He's fifteen!"

"Precisely."

"You're thirty-four!"

Jane grabs her gym bag and tells Heller she'll be back later. He notes with some satisfaction that she's taken her
new cell phone and wonders if she's got Goldfarb on speed dial.

                                                                     ~

Heller spends the following afternoon poring through old yearbooks, trying to get a better handle on this whole
teacher-student thing. In tenth grade, Heller almost flunked math because of Mrs. Hammer. Mrs. Hammer coached
girl's soccer and softball. Mrs. Hammer had a mutton-chop haircut and her shoulders were broader than Heller's.
The charm he usually employed to con his way out of bad grades fell on deaf ears that year. Heller cannot imagine
ever phoning Mrs. Hammer at home.

Mrs. Pulver was Heller's science teacher, a nice old bird of a woman who never noticed when they cheated on her
tests. You could copy an entire textbook onto your arm and Mrs. Pulver would just smile and pat you on the
shoulder. When Heller went to his tenth-year reunion, Mrs. Pulver gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You were always
such a sweet boy," she said. She said this to a lot of Heller's friends that night.

Now Miss Lennox was a hot teacher. She couldn't have been more than twenty-two when she taught Heller's
sophomore Spanish class. Long blonde hair and big blue eyes. Muy caliente. Heller and his friend Smitty used to
leave love notes written in Spanglish on her chair until the gym teacher, Mr. Donadeo, pulled them both aside and
asked if they knew what sexual harassment meant. He told them he would pound their heads in if they left another
note for Ms. Lennox. It didn't matter though, since Miss Lennox didn't come back to school after winter break.

Heller still thinks of Miss Lennox from time to time and wonders what she would say if he called her now. I need a
hobby, he thinks. He looks at his watch — it’s almost four. He shoves the books back into the box and the box
back into the closet. He doesn’t want Jane to know that this is how he spent his day.

                                                                     ~

Heller isn’t sure anymore when the inertia set in. For the first few weeks of unemployment, he was able to keep
himself in a state of high alert, clean-shaven, groomed, bathed, and dressed each day, ready to throw himself into
action if the right offer presented itself. Then, when no offers, right or otherwise, were presented, he slacked off. He
grew a beard. He gained some weight. He let his hair grow past his ears. He wore the same shirt for days on end.
“Saves on laundry,” he explained to Jane, who wasn't buying it.

“You need help,” she said.

Instead, Heller watched talk shows and court TV. These people needed help. What he needed, he thought, was a
break.

“Break time is over,” Jane told him a few months ago and together they drew up a list of tasks and projects. “If you’
re not going to get a job, at least you could be working around the apartment."

Heller figured her demands seemed reasonable enough, until he discovered paint fumes gave him headaches,
changing washers and snaking drains required tools and skills he did not possess, cooking was a bitch, and making
hospital corners on the bed was clearly something only women could do. Grocery shopping he didn’t mind, especially
when it involved using the cart. And, when Jane sorted the laundry and left detailed instructions, he could manage a
few loads at the corner laundromat. “I need more than this,” Jane confessed to him several weeks later. “You loaf,
you drink, you wander around. What’s really going on here?” Heller listened and nodded, his hands folded in front of
him at the kitchen table.

“I’ll figure things out,” he said. “I won’t let you down.” He redoubled his efforts on the chores. He perfected his roast
chicken recipe. He made lists. Of things he’d like to do (work). Things he’d like to try (rock climbing, parasailing).
Things that really bothered him (Goldfarb). These lists he looked over then crumbled, shoving them deep into the
trash.

Another hour passes and Jane is still not home. Heller is now at loose ends. He worries she’s still mad at him about
the Goldfarb thing. He fluffs the couch pillows. He dusts the TV. He makes neat piles of magazines. He looks up
Goldfarb's number in the student directory. Jason Goldfarb. His mother answers.

"May I speak to Goldfarb please?"

"Excuse me?"

"Jason, I mean."

"Who's calling?"

It's like trying to call the President, Heller thinks. "Josh," he says, taking a name from the entry next to Goldfarb's.
In the background, he can hear the mother calling for Jason to come to the phone.

"Yeah?"

"You ratted me out, you little asshole."

Goldfarb coughs. "Does Ms. Murray know you're calling me?"

"All I'm saying is that I want you to leave her alone."

"But I'm in her class." Goldfarb's voice climbs.

"So just sit there."

"But class participation counts towards my final grade." Goldfarb sounds like he might cry.

"So fail."

"But I have to make honors this quarter."

"I think I've made myself perfectly clear. Stay away from my girlfriend."

"I don't understand what the big deal is… she’s my favorite teacher… I'm not sure we should be talking like this.”
Goldfarb's growing hysterical. Heller hears someone calling in the background. "Listen, my dinner's ready. I've got to
go."

"Wait," Heller says, but Goldfarb hangs up before he can finish.


"So are you in love with him?" Heller asks when Jane finally gets home later that night. She’d gone straight from
work to the gym. It’s like she’s training for a marathon, Heller thinks, annoyed. She drops her bag by the door and
kicks off her shoes.

"What? Who?"

"Goldfarb."

"Oh god, are you sick?" Jane mops at her face with a towel. Her hair hangs in clumps and there are dark circles of
sweat under each arm and around her neck. She's no Miss Lennox, Heller thinks, suddenly not sure Jane's the type
of teacher who'd inspire lust in young male students. He's not even sure what fifteen-year old Heller would've
thought.

"Stranger things have happened," he says.

"You’ve really lost it this time."

"Ah, the lady doth protest too much."

"This is not about Goldfarb," Jane says, her voice cracking as she says his name. Her eyes tear up and Heller tries to
pull her into his chest. "I can't do this," she says, pushing past him.

"Maybe it’s him you need a break from," Heller says through the bathroom door. "Maybe he expects too much from
you." Through the door, Heller hears Jane laugh, a strangled choking laugh.

A week goes by without Goldfarb calling. Their evenings pass quietly, Jane curled up on the couch clicking through
the channels while Heller watches her face carefully for signs. The crisis appears to have blown over, he thinks. She
hasn’t brought up the relationship stuff, which is a good thing, he figures, but she’s also pretty much stopped
talking to him altogether. Heller isn’t sure what to do. He’d like some balance. He considers his options. All roads
lead back to Goldfarb, he thinks.
     

“We need to meet. You know, man to man,” he explains to the boy, whispering into the phone later that night after
Jane has gone off to bed. “Have ourselves a little chat.”

Goldfarb hesitates. Heller worries he’s about to lose him, so he goes in for the kill. “Come on,” he says. “Think of it
like extra credit.”

“Okay,” Goldfarb says finally. “I have a free period tomorrow at 1:00. We could meet some place around the school.”
Heller pictures the layout of the block. “There’s Iggy’s on the corner,” he suggests.

“That’s a bar.”

Jesus, what a geek, Heller thinks, but says, “Sure, right, maybe not such a good idea. How about that bagel shop?”
Goldfarb sighs loudly into the phone then agrees.
     

Heller spends the next day wandering in and out of shops as he makes his way to the bagel shop. He orders a cup
of coffee then sits at a table in the far corner, keeping his back to the wall. Goldfarb’s right on time. Heller motions
for him to come over.

“Wasn’t sure I’d recognize you,” Goldfarb says, gripping his book bag in front of his chest.

“Sit down,” Heller says, pushing the chair out from under the table with the tip of his shoe. “Relax.”

Goldfarb turns slightly, angling himself into the chair, still holding his book bag. He glances back towards the door. “I
can’t really stay long.”

Heller considers his words carefully, fingering the rim of his cup. He feels suddenly nervous, suddenly not so sure
how this is going to turn out. “It’s about the phone calls,” he says.

Goldfarb holds his hands up as if Heller’s just pulled a gun on him. “I haven’t even been calling, just like you said. I
hardly talk in class now either.”

Heller nods. “Yes, yes, I know and I appreciate that, I really do. It’s just that, I’m not so sure it’s working out like we
planned, you know, the not-calling.”

Goldfarb narrows his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“The not-calling. It’s not working out.” The guy at the counter glances over at their table and Heller realizes he’s let
his voice climb. “Come on,” he says, lowering his voice. “You have to admit, calling your teacher is a little weird.
Listen, I’m not judging, but it’s just not something I would’ve done at your age. But hey, what do I know? Different
times, different measures.” He settles back into his seat, tucking his hands behind his head. “You feel like a bagel,”
he asks. “A little carbo-loading?” The kid wouldn’t be half-bad if he got a little meat on his bones, maybe did some
lifting? He could help him out, Heller thinks, give him a few pointers.

“So, I don’t get it, is the not calling not working or not not working?” Goldfarb scrunches his face up as he says
this, peering at Heller like he’s got two heads.

Heller sighs. “The double-negative, ever heard of it? Make of it what you will.” He shrugs, waving his hand in front of
him which Goldfarb seems to take as an invitation to relax, finally, hooking his book-bag to the back of his seat then
unzipping his jacket halfway.

“You know, lots of kids really like Ms. Murray. She really gets us, you know?” Goldfarb leans across the table like he’s
letting Heller in on a big secret, his face flushing and his eyes all shiny. Heller panics, worried that the boy is going to
break into tears. He looks around the shop, glad that it’s empty but for an old man sitting at a table by the door,
busy with his newspaper. He isn’t sure how this looks, but imagines it’s definitely not going to look good if Goldfarb
starts bawling.

“Don’t get yourself all worked up,” he says quickly.

Goldfarb sniffles. “I just don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t talk to her, get her advice on things.” He glances
over his shoulder, then turns back to Heller, his voice in a whisper. “It’s not like I have that many people to talk to,
you know?” As he admits this, he keeps his eyes fixed on his hands which are now balled up in front of him on the
table. Heller looks at Goldfarb’s hands also, at the ragged nails, at the way the tips of his fingers have turned red
from the squeezing. He looks up at the boy’s face and feels, acutely, like his own life has just been laid out on the
table before them, and suddenly he feels very small. He wonders what Jane would say to make the boy feel better
and wishes very much that she would say the same things to him.

Goldfarb glances at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go,” he says, sliding an arm through the strap of his book-bag.
Heller stands also, crumbling his coffee cup in his fist. “So we’re good, right? Don’t worry about the phone calls. It’s
not a big deal. You should call whenever you want.”

“Really?” Goldfarb’s eyebrows shoot up. “I mean, I can make sure not to call too much, but it’d be great to be able
to call sometimes, you know.”

Heller nods, clapping Goldfarb on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Goldfarb,” he says, angling the boy towards the
door. “Now, get back to class. Wouldn’t want you to be late.” Heller stands in front of the shop, watching Goldfarb,
his book-bag bouncing, as he hurries down the sidewalk. He looks up at the sun, stretching, his hands pressed into
the small of his back. “Well done,” he says to himself, smiling.

He walks down the sidewalk towards the school. It might be nice to surprise Jane as she's leaving work, tell her
about his talk with Goldfarb, share his impressions. But it’s only 2:00, still an hour to kill until dismissal. He leans
against a sign post with his arms crossed. A doorman steps forward and gives him a hard look. Heller figures it's
not such a good idea to lurk by the parked cars outside the school for the next hour. He goes inside.

The secretary at the front desk waves him past, probably assuming he's got a kid in the lower school, and Heller
walks up the stairs to Jane's room on the sixth floor. Heller helped her set up her room at the beginning of the
school year, carrying in boxes of supplies and tacking maps and grammar charts to the wall. The walls glowed with a
fresh coat of blue paint and Heller thought Jane looked like a real angel as she wrote her name in clear block letters
at the top of the chalkboard. She looks a little frazzled right now, Heller thinks, as he watches her through the
window in the door. The kids are young, probably her seventh graders. One boy right up front is almost leaping out
of his chair to answer. Heller tries to place names with faces. He knows there's a lot of Alexa’s, Alexis’s, and Alex's.
Jane doesn't talk much about her seventh graders, thinks their problems are pretty trivial, all play dates and
Pokemon. Not at all as compelling as Goldfarb, Heller thinks. Midway through a sentence Jane sees him and comes to
the door. "I'll be right back," she says to the class and to Heller in a whisper, "What's wrong, is everything okay?"
For a second, Heller wishes he actually had some bad news, a death in the family, something to actually bring them
together, so Jane would fall into his arms, crying, and he could take her home. He considers lying. "I was just in the
neighborhood.”

"And they let you in?" Jane leans in, her nostrils flared. "I can’t just have random visitors. Is your latest plan to get
me fired too?" she whispers.

"Nice Jane, take the easy shot." Heller’s face flushes, angry and embarrassed at the same time. “Want me to go
stand in the corner or something?” There is no way he’s going to tell her about Goldfarb now.

Jane looks back through the window. She's holding a piece of chalk between her fingers like a cigarette. "Sorry. I
didn’t mean it. Tough day. This class is really working my last nerve.” She sighs.

Heller looks in over her shoulder -- some kid from the back row throws a wad of paper at the board, two other kids
are passing notes. They've all started talking.

"I have to get back," she says, putting her hand on Heller's shoulder, her voice soft the way she probably talks to
her younger students. Heller realizes she thinks he's mental. "We'll talk when I get home, okay?"

Heller backs away from her door, standing for a moment to watch her. "I leave for a minute and what do you do?"
she says in a loud voice, not quite shouting, but loud enough to make the kids snap to attention. A few heads drop
down in shame. "That could've been a real emergency," she's saying. "Do we play around during emergencies?"
Heller doesn't wait to hear their answer. Instead, he walks down the hall, stooping for a drink from the fountain then
stopping in to use the bathroom. Above the urinal someone's written "fuck school" in black marker. That seems
about right, Heller thinks. A little boy opens the door then, seeing Heller, backs out quickly. That seems about right
too, Heller thinks, zipping up.         

On his way out of the building, he stops to look into another classroom where the teacher, an older woman with
stooped shoulders and gray hair, writes in looping script across the board. He glances at his watch. School will be
letting out soon. He looks back through the window and thinks of the time when he stayed home for a week with
the chicken pox during the third grade. When he returned to school, his friend John told him that they had learned
all about molecules, the tiny particles that make up everything. Heller remembers feeling keenly that he had missed
something very important. Goldfarb would definitely understand, he thinks. Just then, the teacher turns, smiling; for
a moment Heller thinks she’s calling on a student sitting by the door, then realizes she’s calling out to him. "Yes?"
she asks again, waiting, her face wide open to the world.

Julie Innis