My Sister, Myself. Tara Taylor Quinn

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      “They were one of the first things I noticed about Christine,” Phyllis added.

      The familiar pang clutched Tory’s insides. “I’m so sorry, Phyllis,” she said, dropping a lesson plan for the third week of classes as she looked up. “I’ve been weeping all over the place about losing my sister, but you also lost a great deal, didn’t you? The way Christine talked about you, the two of you must have been very close.”

      Tears brimmed in Phyllis’s eyes, but her ready smile was evident, too. “We were. Your sister was very special.”

      Tory nodded, a measure of peace loosening the knots in her stomach. “I think you must be very special, too,” she said softly. “Do you know you’re the first real friend Christine ever had?”

      “No,” Phyllis said, her eyes wide. “I know she was a private person, but as sweet as she was, I’m sure there were others who scaled those walls of hers.”

      Scaled those walls. The words were threatening to Tory. She and Christine both had their walls. And the security in that was to think them unscalable.

      “Our colleagues at the college all flocked to her,” Phyllis said. She was assembling materials for the fourth week’s lesson plan. “It must have been the same for her in college. You probably just never met any of her friends, since she was five years older than you.”

      “She never had a friend,” Tory said with complete certainty.

      Any chance of friendship had ended when they’d tried to report their stepfather’s abuse. Everyone had been shocked. Ronald was well-known in the community, soft-spoken, active at church. He’d carpooled. He’d protested his innocence, incredibly hurt by then-twelve-year-old Christine’s allegations. They’d been assigned a caseworker, but of course there’d been nothing to find. Ronald had simply not had anything alcoholic to drink during the weeks of the investigation.

      And the confusing cruel truth was, when Ronald wasn’t drinking, he hadn’t been a bad father to them.

      They’d been made to feel so ashamed of their complaints they’d begun to blame themselves for the abuse. They’d also lost all faith in the system that was purported to protect them.

      “She lived at home when she went to college—probably because our stepfather wasn’t as rough with me when he had two of us to torment,” Tory said slowly. “Never once did she go out. Not on a date. Not to study. Nor did she ever have anyone over.”

      Neither of them had. Neither had had the courage to risk bringing another person into their home. For that person’s sake. And for their own.

      Bearing the violence privately was bad enough; to have it made known to others would have been intolerable. At least with no one else knowing, when they left the house, they left the violence behind. While they were safely at school, they were free. The real world was an escape neither of them had been willing to jeopardize.

      “OKAY, THE FIRST THING to remember when you walk into the classroom is that you’re the boss.”

      Exhausted, yet filled with nervous excitement, Tory sat on her bed, taking notes as Phyllis continued her crash course well past midnight Saturday night. They’d changed into their pajamas hours earlier, but hadn’t gotten around to turning in.

      “You have to establish your authority immediately, and then you’re home free. The most important tool you’ll take into that class with you is confidence.”

      “Kinda hard to be confident when they’re all going to know more about my subject than I do,” Tory said dryly.

      “We’ll take care of that,” Phyllis replied, her entire body exuding positive energy. “Luckily you’re teaching five sections of American lit this semester. You’ll be teaching the same material five times, in other words. Now, we have all day tomorrow, to study the textbooks and Christine’s notes. For this next week, you only need to know Emerson and Thoreau, and you’re already familiar with a lot of that.” She was sitting on Christine’s bed, her legs crossed, her red hair framing her pretty face as though she’d just styled it an hour before, instead of the almost eighteen hours it had been.

      “Christine said you were extremely intelligent. She said that when she was in college you used to help her study for exams, reading her texts and asking her questions from study guides. According to her, you’d often know the answers as well as she did.”

      “Sometimes.”

      “You must have a wonderful memory and a very acute, analytical brain.” Phyllis smiled. “Christine mentioned that you had some pretty stirring debates and some real differences of opinion. You’re obviously a natural.”

      “Hardly,” Tory said, but she warmed at the compliment.

      Phyllis twisted the opal ring she wore on her right ring finger. “Have you ever had your IQ tested?”

      “No!” And Tory had no intention of doing so.

      “I’d hate to find out that I’m not as smart as I think I am.”

      “What if you found out you were smarter?”

      Tory was silent for a moment, wondering if her numbed mind was going to take in everything it had to in the next twenty-four hours. “I think I’d hate that, too,” she admitted softly. “Because then I’d know just how much I’ve wasted, how much I’ve lost.”

      “Hey,” Phyllis said, unfolding her legs as she reached across to squeeze Tory’s hand. “It’s not too late. You’ve got a whole new life ahead of you. Amazing things to accomplish.”

      Tory smiled, but inside, the familiar dread was spreading. Yeah, she had a whole new life.

      It just wasn’t her life.

      BEN WAS IN THE KITCHEN of his two-bedroom apartment, paper towel in hand, when his alarm went off Monday morning.

      “Okay, little buddy, you and I need to get some things straight,” he said, leaving the puddle in the kitchen as he scooped up the puppy and strode back to the master bedroom to turn off the alarm.

      “I’m the boss in this house and what I say goes, got that?” He kept the puppy firmly under his arm, out of harm’s way, off the carpet, and with those big imploring brown eyes out of his line of vision. Ben had been implored so much in the past two days—and had given in so often—he was making himself sick.

      “When I say it’s time for bed, bedtime it is.” He continued the lecture as he headed back to the mess awaiting him in the kitchen. “That means I lie down, you lie down, and we both sleep. There will be no barking.” He stepped over the gate he’d put up across the kitchen doorway. “No whining. And if—that’s a big if—I deign to take you into the bedroom with me, there will be no more biting on the ears.”

      Dropping the wad of paper towels on the puddle beneath the kitchen table, Ben soaked up the deposit, threw the towels in the special trash bag that would leave the house with him that morning, poured a generous amount of disinfectant on the soiled spot and with another wad of paper towels mopped that up, too.

      Only then did he put the puppy down. One set of urine-wet paw prints traipsing across the floor was enough for him. He was learning quickly.

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