“Miss Jacobs?”
Clutching her prize, Claire twisted around…and grinned. “Juliette! What are you doing here?”
Sporting a denim jacket, a blinged-out hoodie and preppy shorts worn over patterned tights, Claire’s student flashed a mouthful of metal punctuated by hot pink ties. “We live a few houses down,” she said, and Claire’s stomach pinched. Since “we” included Hoover High’s ridiculously good-looking, widowed football coach, the object of probably most of Maple River’s postpubescent female fantasies. Except Claire, of course, who was above such folderol. Stomach pinching aside. “So I figured I’d check it out,” the teen said, “see what was good.”
“Not sure there’s much that would appeal to a teenager,” Claire said even as Juliette zeroed in on a demitasse collection, carefully picking up one of the cups and holding it to the light.
“Oh, I’m not looking for myself.” She scrutinized another cup. “It’s for my business.”
“Your…business?”
“Used to be my mom’s. She’d buy stuff at estate sales and flea markets, then sell it on eBay. She was pretty good at it, too.” This said matter-of-factly as the girl sidled over to a stash of old books. “She taught me what to look for, how to price things and stuff. So a few months ago I decided to try selling some pieces myself.”
“And is it working?”
“It is.” Juliette selected a couple of the books, tucking them to her side. “Which is great, since it’ll help pay for college. Depending on where I go, of course.” Another sparkling grin accompanied her words. “I’d have to sell a boatload of stuff to afford Yale.”
Claire’s heart twisted. Although she’d only been teaching a few months—a fork in her life path she could have never predicted—she knew it was wrong to have favorites. And truthfully she loved all “her” kids. Not only her drama students, but even the less-than-motivated ones in her English classes who groaned every time she made them dredge correctly spelled words from their iPodded/Padded/Phoned brains and write them down. By hand. On paper.
But this one was special, for many reasons, not the least of which was her plucky, wide-eyed determination to not only succeed at something at which few did, but also her refusal to feel sorry for herself. Or let anyone else feel sorry for her either, despite losing her mother so young. A stroke, she’d heard. At thirty-five. No prior symptoms, no warning… How scary must that have been? For all of them. Claire had been a little younger than Juliette when her dad died—suddenly, like Juliette’s mom—and she’d been stunned by how tenaciously the pain had clung. And yet, if Juliette was suffering from bitterness or resentment, Claire sure as hell couldn’t see it.
“There are plenty of drama programs besides Yale’s, you know,” she said as Juliette carted two of the delicate cups and saucers to the table. “And it would definitely be cheaper to go to school in-state.” Claire’s sole option, when her mother had barely made enough to keep them housed and fed, let alone fund her only child’s college education.
“Yeah, I know.” Juliette meticulously stacked books, a few old toys, other odds and ends that Claire wouldn’t have thought worth squat next to the cups. Mr. Tweed frowned, but Juliette seemed unfazed, returning to poke through the offerings on another table. “But not a lot of schools that people will actually take your theater degree seriously.”
Except—as Claire knew only too well—when you’re one of a gazillion actresses auditioning for the same part, the invisible director sitting in the dark theater doesn’t give a damn where you got your degree. Or even if you have one. However, she was hardly going to burst a fifteen-year-old’s bubble.
Juliette carted over a few more cups. “And, yeah, I know I’ll have to keep my grades up like crazy, and that’s not even counting the audition. But it’s dumb to admit defeat before you’ve even tried, right? At least that’s what Mom always said.”
Claire paid for her lamp, which seemed to slightly mollify old Tweedledee. “Very true. And…your dad? Is he on board with your plans?”