You don’t understand me. I’ve tried telling you again and again.

This isn’t working. Why can’t you see it? Why can’t you see ME?

Words. Voices, receding in the background. Shadow, over my desk.

Shadow—

I look up, alarmed.

Miss Wolff is standing there, so close I can see the slightly smudged edges of her eyeliner.

She doesn’t look happy.

“Ashira,” she says, clamping a hand down on the letter — the letter! — on my desk. “This does not look like geography to me.”

My breath tangles in my throat. “It—” I cough. “Um, I’ll put it away.”

She gives me a sharp look. “I’ll put it away. You can come collect it from me during lunch break.”

She will take it? But but but—

“No… it’s… I’ll put it away,” I stammer. My classmates are staring; they’ve never seen me anything but completely composed. Mortification creeps over me, tingling from my head, down my spine, curling in my toes.

Miss Wolff swipes the paper from my desk and marches to the front of the room without looking back.

I watch her put it in the front pocket of her bag and continue with the lesson, just as if nothing happened.

There’s another whole period after this, before lunch. As if she’s not going to read it. Ha.

Embarrassment churns inside me, mingles with anger. Like hello? This isn’t second grade. I mean, it’s not like I went to an actual second grade (try take away a fidget spinner over Zoom). But I imagine Morah Esther, the sweet bubby who taught us Hebrew subjects for two years, would’ve liked to, some of the time.

But this… I mean, we’re in high school, and this is a letter, personal, private, nothing to do with Miss Know-It-All Geography teacher, who thinks she owns the place—

I am seething.

Miss Wolff assigns some work, something about refugees from Syria, and I open my notebook — sorry, exercise book — because everyone else does. But I don’t write the answers. Instead, I start to scribble in the margins, angry, tight circles.

By the end of class, the entire page is covered.

I make it through Chumash class uneventfully, and I’m outside the door of the teachers’ room almost before the bell finishes ringing.

Miss Wolff herself answers. I see it in her face; she’s read the letter.

“Ashira. You’re here for that… the letter.”

And who told you it’s a letter? I want to scream. Instead, I just look her in the eye and say, “Yes.”

Her bag is over her shoulder, but she doesn’t show any signs of reaching into it.

“I’m actually happy to get the chance to speak to you,” she says, tranquilly, as if she hasn’t just embarrassed me in public, taken away something extremely personal, and shamelessly read its contents. “How’s it going, settling in? New school, new country… it can’t be easy.”

She gives a charming smile, and for a moment I think I see why my classmates seem to be so into her.

But I’m not. No chance.

“It’s fine,” I say shortly. “I just want my… that paper back.”

Miss Wolff’s face freezes over, and I regret my curtness; for all I know, she’ll decide she’s going to keep the letter another week. I know the words by heart, but I’m not interested in having this secret make the rounds of the teachers’ room. She’ll probably think it’s l’toeles to show people. Like, did you know about her mother…?

Wait. The letter isn’t signed. It could be from anyone, right? Like, a friend, or something….

The thought buoys me.

“Please?” I add, in a softer tone.

Miss Wolff hesitates, then pulls it from her bag, making a show of folding it over so the writing is not visible.

“Here you go, Ashira,” she says. I can hear she wants to say something more.

I don’t wait around.

I snatch the paper from between her fingers and make my escape.

For once, I’m relieved to get back to Bubby’s after school. I just want my own space.

I open the front door and a wild burst of color hits me in the eye. Black canvas, covered in neon-colored splatters, lurid green and vivid yellow and fluorescent pink—

“Ashira? Ashira, is that you?” Bubby hurries out of the kitchen, her hands dripping. She points toward the stairs. “Did you see what came?”

My mind catches up with my eyes.

They’re here.

My suitcases have arrived.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 953)