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a ft er that,” Jessica continued. “Been there.”
    “Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I called him. He got all serious on me. You know that voice, like a doctor telling you you’re gonna die. You have to understand, Vicki, I like you a lot but what happened the other night was a mistake. I had too much to drink, blah, blah, blah . . . ”
    “Let’s be friends,” Jessica added knowingly. “ Th at totally sucks.”
    “I’ll tell you what sucks. Th ree months later he got engaged to a pretty, young gym teacher. And guess who got invited to their wedding? Good old Vicki.”
    “Mr. Turley?” Jessica gasped. “You hooked up with Mr. Turley?”
    “It was just that once.”
    “He’s cute for an old guy,” Jessica said. “Didn’t Ms. Leoni just have a baby?”
    “Yeah. Sweet little boy.”
    “Ouch.”
    Vicki nodded. Ouch was right. She didn’t tell Jessica about how drunk she’d gotten at the wedding, how the bride’s mother found her crying in the bathroom and listened to Vicki’s confession of her love for the groom with surprising compassion, telling Vicki that she understood how hard it must be, that she’d gone through something similar back when she was single. You have to forget him, she said. You have to move on with your life.
    Jessica slurped the last of her Frappuccino and studied Vicki with a look of anxious sympathy. “You think you’re ever gonna meet someone else?”
    Vicki wasn’t surprised by the question. It was something she’d asked herself frequently in recent years. If she’d been honest, she would’ve said that she’d come to the conclusion that Mr. Turley had been her last shot, and that she’d pretty much resigned herself to spending the remainder of her life alone. But it was clear from the way Jessica was looking at her — hungrily, with the kind of focus Vicki rarely inspired in the classroom — that she was asking an entirely di ff erent question.
    “Of course,” Vicki told her. “Of course I’ll meet someone. I just have to be patient.”
    THAT NIGHT she ate dinner alone, graded some homework assignments she should’ve handed back a week ago, and called her son, who was a junior at Rutgers. As usual, Ben didn’t pick up, so she just le ft a brief message: Hey, honey, it’s your mom. Give me a call when you get a chance. Love you. Th en she watched an episode of CSI: Miami and the fi rst part of the news before fi nally working up the nerve to turn on her computer.
    She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. She and Jessica had parted on good terms, joking in the Starbucks parking lot about heading across the street to Bruno’s for a large sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. It was early evening, and the light had seemed unusually so ft and forgiving as they said goodbye. Le ft to her own devices, Vicki wasn’t much of a hugger — she saw how people hesitated sometimes, and it took a lot of the pleasure out of it — but Jessica didn’t share her qualms. Before Vicki understood what was happening, the girl was moving toward her with her arms out, their two bodies bumping together, the sensation so familiar it was almost as if she were embracing herself.
    “So,” Jessica said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “Okay.” Vicki felt a sudden odd emptiness as the girl let go. She was surprised to realize that she was close to tears “You have a nice night.”
    Jessica had promised to delete the o ff ensive post on grademyteacher.com, and Vicki was pretty sure she trusted her to keep her word. Still, she felt a vague sense of foreboding as she scrolled down the alphabetical list of Gi ff ord teachers — there was Becky Leoni (6.7) and good old Sam Turley (7.2) — a queasy suspicion that something unpleasant was about to unfold.
    But it was okay. Th e post was gone, wiped away as if it had never even existed. Vicki felt a moment of pure satisfaction — justice had been done, a crooked thing made straight — as well as a rush of a