“Ms. Dantone isn’t here.”

Cara wasn’t telling this to anyone in particular; rather, it was almost as if she was just realizing that a good fifteen minutes into our debate class, our teacher hadn’t shown up, and she had been too engrossed in her AP US History homework to notice until then.

I turned slightly towards her and stopped doodling on Will’s notebook. He looked up at me, as if he had been lost in watching me draw swirls and triangles on the spiral he had brought to class all year. It was the end of May, school would be over in just three weeks, and we really weren’t doing much of anything anymore. Neither one of us had qualified for the national championship, and we were both moving away at the conclusion of our junior years. To opposite ends of the country. Living our entire childhoods as Navy brats had been tough enough, but this one last move before our senior years – after we finally were sort of dating after knowing each other since we were five – was a cruel, cruel blow.

“Shannon? Anyone? Do any of you know where she is?” Cara asked me and anyone else who might be listening. From the looks of it, hardly anyone was paying attention to her.

“Has she ever missed a day all year? Wouldn’t we have a sub?” I asked Cara, who suddenly stood up and ran out into the hallway, as if she was looking for someone. I went back to my notebook artistry, which helped me a little with my stress. Most of my friends were on their phones any chance they got, but social media gave me too much anxiety those days. I hated seeing everything that I would soon be missing.

Now that the rest of the class had woken up a bit to the fact that we were actually unsupervised, things began to unravel. Ollie and Luke had been arguing about something political since the bell rang, but their volume was now increasing and the commentary was growing more unhinged without a teacher’s moderation. Maddie was applying makeup with supplies from a huge cosmetic bag, painting her eyes with broad, dramatic strokes. Kevin was doing push-ups in the front of the room, having shoved Ms. Dantone’s podium aside. Everyone else was glued to Instagram or YouTube. By the time Cara came back to class with Mr. Cheverus – our principal – we must have looked like a hybrid of the Island of Misfit Toys and the Breakfast Club.

Mr. Cheverus found the askew lectern and stood behind it, seemingly to address the class. Cara – our debate team captain – stood by the door, looking and acting so much older and more mature than the rest of us. Not only was she my best friend, but she shouldered responsibility for me when I just couldn’t take on anything else and was always in my corner. When I started telling people a few months earlier that was I going to have to move that summer, many of my friends started distancing themselves from me. Not Cara. A six-hour drive was no big deal, she said. And she had always wanted to visit Washington, DC. I had lived there twice before, so I had to remind myself that not everyone had been lucky enough to go there. Military life was such a conundrum.

The students who weren’t already in a seat found one and turned their attention towards the administrator. Despite several of my classmates’ behavior that day, we really did love Ms. Dantone. For many of us, she was the one teacher who acted like she really cared about us as people. Not only did we see her for class every day, but most of us spent many hours in the afternoons and evenings with her, not to mention the weekend trips to debate tournaments all over New England. From our many bus trip conversations, I knew that she was twenty-six, single, and had never debated before in her life. She had been desperate for this teaching job after graduating with a mountain of debt from Boston University, and the debate gig was part of the deal. She signed her name on the dotted line a week before graduating from college and maxed out her credit card to spend two weeks at a debate teachers’ institute in Iowa that summer until the high school eventually reimbursed her. I had never known this much about a teacher in my twelve years of public education, and I hadn’t really cared that much about them before, either. Ms. Dantone was one of the good ones.

“Uh, good afternoon, everyone,” Mr. Cheverus began, fiddling with his necktie and adjusting his wiry glasses. He was so awkward. It was hard to imagine him ever being our age. “It appears that, um, well, we are not sure where Ms. Dantone is at the moment.” He shifted back and forth on his feet and looked towards the door, as if she might walk in any second. He turned back towards us and quickly averted his eyes. “We’re short on subs at this time of year so I’m going to, um, I guess sit in here for the rest of the day. You can have the rest of the class period as a silent study hall, so please take out some work. Finals are only two weeks away, so I know you have things to do.” He looked around at all of us, finally making eye contact. It was as if he had never taught a classroom full of students before. Weren’t principals teachers before they were, well, principals?

*******

It was five days into Ms. Dantone’s disappearance, and we had grown accustomed to the media presence outside of our school. For the first couple of days, there were reporters from the local New London newspaper, as well as crews from the Hartford, New Haven, and Providence TV stations. Once the story got picked up by the Associated Press, interest grew, and they were soon joined by the major networks and cable news channels. I ignored the microphones in my face as I walked from my car towards the front steps of the high school. Will was standing near the door, leaning against a pillar.

“How’s it going?” I asked as I approached him, trying to stay cool. He looked so good, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and his hair flopping against his forehead in the breeze. He had buzzed his hair for his swim team season but started letting it grow as soon as he lost in the state quarterfinals. His military father hated his hair longer, which was probably why he was letting it grow. I subconsciously rolled the stud that was pierced into the top of my ear, which had garnered a similar response in my household.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling his right hand out of his pocket and grabbing my left one. “Shannon,” he said, looking at my hand in his.

“To class?” I asked, and I felt my heart drop just hearing him say my name. The first bell was going to ring in just a few minutes, and I had to get to Pre-Calc, which I was not looking forward to, as I hadn’t finished my homework.

He looked around, and I did the same, not sure what he was looking for. Most students were now inside, and the only adults were the reporters in the distance. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

I had no idea where we were going or what we would be doing, but I knew I wanted to be anywhere but that math class. I didn’t say a word; I just squeezed Will’s hand and ran back down the stairs with him.

*******

As soon as we had gotten into my car, I asked, “Where to?”

Will pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket – likely from his recent birthday and babysitting his little sister – and dropped it into the cupholder between us. “I’m moving to Washington State in a month. I’m guessing I won’t get a good cannoli for at least another year.”

Fair enough. “Providence?” I asked, thinking of the bakeries on Federal Hill.

“Boston,” he said. “I want Mike’s Pastry.” And ninety minutes later, we were pulling into downtown.

We spent the day walking around the city, mostly along the Harbor waterfront, taking pictures just for the two of us, as we didn’t dare post them to Instagram. We hit decline every time a call came in from anyone else, until the calls from our parents became so excessive that we stopped taking pictures and shut off our phones. This wasn’t going to end well, but if I was going to be grounded for the rest of the school year, I might as well have a good time.

There was so much good food to eat. Pizza at Regina’s, followed by that sought-after cannoli with mini chocolate chips pressed into the ends and sprinkled with powdered sugar. We took a water taxi over to Charlestown and toured the USS Constitution. Standing on its decks, we realized the irony of two Navy brats ending up on the oldest commissioned ship in the United States. “What’s wrong with us?” Will asked, gesturing at the uniformed crew on the boat. “What are we doing here?”

I looked across the Harbor and saw Logan Airport. I pointed at the control tower. “We could just go there instead.” I wanted to go somewhere. I wanted to be anywhere except for where I was supposed to be. Even though we had escaped to Boston, the pull of journeying further was magnetic.

Will held up the two twenties that he had left. “I doubt these will get us very far,” he said with a sheepish smile before he put them back into his pockets.

I walked over to the railing of the craft that they called “Old Ironsides.” “Where do you think she went?” I asked, talking to Will but looking straight out into the water.

He stood alongside me and stared at the waves. “I have no idea. I hope she’s OK. And as long as she’s safe, I hope she’s having a kickass time.”

I turned towards Will, always hoping for something more from him. “Me, too. She’s the only teacher I’ll miss when I leave. When we leave.” I looked at his mouth, at his perfect lips. I didn’t understand much at all about whatever we had between us. I was confused most of the time.

Will looked at me and then looked away. He then pulled me in close to him for a hug, and I breathed in deeply. I didn’t want to forget a second of this. “Let’s go get some pasta,” he whispered.

*******

We shared penne with vodka sauce, ordering it because it felt rebellious and sounded so good. It was scrumptious and indulgent, but the tiramisu and cappuccinos that we selected at an Italian coffee shop on Prince Street in the North End were even more so. It was dark outside, and I had drained my small savings account of money at a nearby ATM to pay for our continued adventures. We were running out of time.

“You’ve never kissed me.” I said it, and part of me didn’t want to know why. But the rest of me had to know, to better understand what it was we were doing together.

Will looked down at the tiramisu and pushed it around with his fork.

“I know you’ve kissed girls before,” I continued. “In fact, I know you’ve done a lot more than that. Everyone knows about you and –”

He picked up his fork and speared the last little bite of tiramisu into my open mouth. It was delicious. He looked into my eyes as I chewed. “Because it’ll make it so much harder for me to leave you.”

He had a good point, one that hadn’t crossed my mind. I was so anxious to spend as much time with him as possible before we left that I didn’t think of the consequences.

My thoughts were interrupted by Will pointing to the TV that was on in the corner of the coffee shop. “It’s her!” he exclaimed.

Indeed, there was breaking news coverage of Ms. Dantone being led into a small police station in Bar Harbor, Maine. She looked much younger than she did when we saw her in school or on a debate trip; she was in yoga pants and a hoodie, with her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She could have passed for one of our classmates. Reporters crowded around her, sticking microphones in her face. Just before she reached the door of the building, she turned to them and said, “It was just too much. I needed a break. I got in the car and drove north. That’s all. I’m twenty-six and I have a boatload of student loan debt and three roommates and my days all run together and I don’t see a way out of any of it. That’s why. That’s everything.” She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head like armor and walked into the station.

Will and I sat across from each other speechless. A woman across the room who had apparently also been watching the segment announced to no one in particular in a harsh Boston accent, “All that effort. All that worry. What a brat.”

I couldn’t listen to this stranger trash my teacher, the person who had listened to me talk about having to move again, this time before my senior year. About how I didn’t really enjoy anything I learned at school and how I hoped I would find something in college that interested me. About how I didn’t even like debate but did it anyway because I needed something to put on my college applications. She had accepted that about me and told me in a hushed tone that she really didn’t like it, either. We had laughed and fist-bumped, and I had felt relief to have finally met a teacher that understood me and cared about me. How dare this bitch insult Ms. Dantone?

I stood up and faced the woman. “You have no idea what or who you’re talking about.” Will stood up and grabbed my hand and tugged it. He was right; we better get out of there. I turned slightly when we got to the door and made eye contact again with the woman.

“Well, you’re a brat, too!” she called after me. She had no idea how right she was.

Out on the sidewalk, we stood and faced each other and burst into laughter. “I thought you were going to deck her,” Will said, wiping a tear from his cheek. “I love how feisty you can be.” He touched my hair but couldn’t run his hand through the knots and wildness from our day of sea breezes and boat rides. His hand felt so warm and the electricity between us was almost visible. “I love everything about you,” he continued, and it all felt so right.

A bright light hit the top of his forehead from an approaching car. A familiar voice yelled, “Shannon! Will!” from a rolled-down window. Our mothers were in the front seat. The ATM. Damn.

It was now or never. I threw my arms around Will and kissed him. I expected him to recoil, given our unfortunate timing and situation, not to mention the conversation we had had just a few minutes earlier. But he pulled me closer to him, ignoring the car headlights in his face and the fact that our moms were watching us. We would definitely be in a ton of trouble for our antics that day, but I wouldn’t let myself remember that part of it. For me – and perhaps Will, too – that day would end on a sidewalk in Boston’s North End…two brats, together.

– Jenn Bouchard