Page 26 of Faultlines

She slows down and takes a bite of her sandwich. “This is nice.”

“What is?”

A faint blush rising on her cheeks. “This. Having lunch together.”

“I agree. It is nice.”

Returning to her chips, she launches into another story when a warning bell signals that lunch is over. Students gather backpacks and discard trash. “I should get to class.”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to be late.”

She stands and collects her belongings. I expect her to head back inside when she steps forward and wraps her arms around me, catching me by surprise. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for having lunch with me,” I reply, my voice a little thick. She grins and heads toward the school building. Halfway across the courtyard, she turns and waves.

I remain seated after she’s gone and pick up my phone to review the missed messages. A new message from Marisol sits at the top of the screen, stark against the white background.

Marisol: Crisis averted. We handled it.

CHAPTER NINE

HAIRLINE FRACTURE

Ethan

“Hello?”

“Ethan? It’s Brooke.”

“Hey, this is a welcome surprise. Is everything okay?”

There’s a brief pause before she answers. “Yes, Ellie’s okay. I was hoping we could schedule a time to talk in person.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s about her grades.”

I glance at my calendar. The dates are a grid of black lines and numbers. I run a hand through my hair and answer. “Sure.”

We settle on an afternoon a few days from now, and the call ends with the click of the receiver.

The brief conversation occupies far more space in my mind than it should. By the evening, I’ve convinced myself Ellie is skipping assignments, or hiding some catastrophe she doesn’t want us to know about.

As few days later, I walk into the conference room braced for the worst, the scent of floor wax sharp in the air. Brooke slides a progress report across the polished table, but my focus snags on her—the deep purple of her silk blouse, the way it’s tucked into high-waisted slacks. She’s talking, something about engagement, but the words blur. My gaze drifts before snapping back to her face. She’s stops speaking, an expectant look in her eyes, and I realize I have no idea what she just asked me.

I try to clear my throat. “I… I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“Ellie’s grades have been slipping,” she says, gesturing to the progress report.

I look down at the paper, expecting disaster. I find a handful of grades that have dipped from where they normally are. A few A’s have become B’s, and a couple of high B’s have drifted lower than usual.

I glance back up, a slight frown creasing my brow. “This is slipping?”

She tips her head to one side, her expression softening with empathy. “For most students, no, but for Ellie, yes.”

I look at the colorful graphs on the report again. I can’t argue with that assessment. Ellie has always been the kid who reminds teachers they forgot to collect homework. She color-codes folders, creates study guides for fun, and treats deadlines like binding contracts.

“She’s still taking part in class and turning in assignments. She just seems less engaged than usual.”