w a t e r s o n g

tornado

The girls were getting ready for school when Miranda was dressed and ready to tackle the day. Raph was still asleep, a perk from working in the corporate world. She remembered how quickly he slammed his laptop the night before and wondered what he was dreaming about, whether there were debts tucked inside his brain that she would only learn about when it was too late.

Not that she didn't have secrets of her own to worry about, particularly the number of evenings she curled up with a glass of wine or swallowed the anti-anxiety medication her doctor had prescribed specifically for emergencies. But she pushed those thoughts aside to wish her daughters a pleasant day.

She stuck her head into Serena's room. Her youngest daughter was seated before her vanity, drying her hair. It took several tries to get the girl's attention, and once she did, Serena's only response to her mother's "Have a good day, sweetie" was a half-hearted wave.

Regina didn't even give her that. When she poked her head into her other daughter's bedroom, she saw the aftermath of a category 5 tornado. Clothes were piled everywhere, and her backpack lay open against her closet door, textbooks and crumpled papers peeking out. The girl herself was lying on her bed in rumpled jeans and a sweatshirt, eyes closed, earbuds in. Music blasted so loudly from them that Miranda was compelled to enter the no-parent zone and pick up Regina's phone to turn the music down. The girl's eyes flew open, and she snatched the phone away.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, plucking out the earbuds and tucking her barely-brushed hair behind her ears. Regina regarded her mother suspiciously.

Miranda was at a loss. When had her daughter turned from the sweet little toddler who brought her crayon drawings of unicorns into this seething creature?

"I-I'm sorry," Miranda stuttered. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

Regina rolled her eyes. "It's not really goodbye, Mom. I see you every day at school."

"Well... I'll see you at school then."

Miranda took one last dismayed look at her daughter's room as Regina returned her earbuds and turned the music even louder, if that was possible. That act felt as dismissive as being told to fuck off, and she forced herself to leave. She recalled the night before, how Regina barely ate anything. The comment about the test she failed. There were many things Miranda couldn't fix for her daughter, but this was one she might have a crack at.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, she was standing in Dana Kellogg's classroom. The teacher was at the front, writing the day's assignments on the board. She hadn't heard Miranda come in, so she cleared her throat.

The young, waifish teacher jumped and turned around in surprise. "Oh, hey, Miranda. I was just thinking of emailing you."

"About the test yesterday?" Miranda asked. She was ready to sweet talk the young teacher into letting Regina retake it, if not all the students, if it was as hard as her daughter said.

Dana smiled sympathetically and crossed the room to her desk. She picked up a piece of paper and held it up for Miranda to inspect. The test was blank except for Regina's name scrawled at the top. This threw Miranda off.

"She didn't even... try?"

Dana shook her head. "She just sat with her head down on the desk. At first, I thought she was through with the test, but when I picked them up at the end, I realized it was blank and she was already out the door. I meant to email you yesterday, but then things got crazy and... you know how it is."

Miranda did.

But it didn't make any sense to her. Regina had always excelled at math. She'd heard rumors that Dana was struggling this year, and she'd been prepared to offer some re-teaching strategies she'd heard about at a conference the month before. But the woman standing before her only looked concerned about her daughter, not rattled that an entire class had failed the exam.

Regina had lied to her.

"Is everything alright with Regina?" Dana asked carefully.

Miranda felt unprepared for this conversation, the tables completely turned on her.

She reviewed her last few conversations with Regina, short as they were. And this morning, how sloppy she looked. She'd never been one to spend a lot of attention on her appearance. The sweatshirt and jeans were perfectly normal, but most days she braided her hair and put on a touch of makeup. This morning she looked like she'd been a victim of that tornado that had hit her room, her hair still mussed from sleep, unusually pale for a girl who spent hours outdoors, swimming laps or running outside.

For the first time, Miranda was genuinely worried. She didn't know how to answer Dana's question. And the fact that she couldn't scared her even more. Had she been so wrapped up in other students' minidramas that she'd missed something huge in her own daughter's life.

"I'll talk to her," she finally told Dana. "Do you have a re-take policy?"

The woman nodded. "Just have her come in after school today."

Miranda thanked her, assuming Dana was breaking her own rules to allow a student who didn't even try the first time take a second shot at a test.

Dana's question was on repeat in Miranda's head as she walked briskly back to her office. What was going on with Regina? What had she missed? Was it an eating disorder? Depression? What?

She was so preoccupied that she turned a corner and ran right into a boy going the other direction. She apologized, taking a step back and recognizing him as one of her daughter's friends. The one from the Independence Day party, who asked if she played piano.

Miranda was overcome with the urge to grasp the boy's shoulders, demand if he knew of anything going on with Regina. He'd seemed so nice before. She thought he'd understand.

But before she could say anything at all, he hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulders and looked away.

"Sorry," he grunted before pushing past her.

Just then, she caught sight of her reflection in the trophy case across the hall. She looked wild, her eyes huge, her mouth dropped slightly open. She remembered where she was, and she pulled herself together.

This was a personal matter.

She would deal with it at home.