Our Missing Hearts (9)

She smiled around at all of them.

It’s our job as teachers, she said, her voice soft but firm. To take care of all of you, just like I’d take care of my own children. To decide what’s worth keeping and what isn’t. We just have to decide on these things.

Her gaze came to rest, at last, on Sadie.

We always have, she said. Nothing’s changed.

Now, Bird holds his breath as Mrs. Pollard hesitates. It’s only a month into seventh grade but he already likes Mrs. Pollard; her daughter, Jenna, is a year behind Bird, and Josh, her boy, is in first. She has gray-blond hair and wears sweaters with pockets and big, round earrings that look like candy. Unlike his social studies teacher, she never stares at him when PACT comes up, and if she hears one of the kids giving him a hard time, she’ll say, Seventh graders, let’s focus on the task at hand, please, with a rap of her knuckles on the desktop.

Is this for class? she asks.

Something in Mrs. Pollard’s voice puts Bird on his guard—or maybe it’s the way she peers at him, eyes narrowed, as if she knows what he’s doing. He wishes he had that confidence in himself. To believe that what he’s after is anything more than a wild-goose chase. On her lapel, a tiny flag pin glints in the fluorescent light.

Not exactly, he says. It’s just something I’m interested in. About cats, he adds, improvising. My dad and I—we’re thinking of getting a cat. I wanted to look up different breeds.

One of Mrs. Pollard’s eyebrows lifts ever so slightly.

Well, she says, brightly. A new pet. That’s lovely. Let me know if you need help.

She tips her head toward the row of computers, shining and silver, and begins to unwrap her lunch.

Bird seats himself at the computer farthest from her desk. On each, a small brass plaque reads: A gift from the Lieu family. Two years ago Ronny Lieu’s family had purchased them for every classroom, upgraded the whole school to high-speed internet. Just part of giving back to society, Mr. Lieu had said at the unveiling ceremony. He was a businessman—some kind of real estate—and the principal had thanked him for this generous gift, said how grateful they were to private citizens for stepping in where the city budget still fell short. He’d praised the Lieus for being such loyal members of the community. It was the same year Arthur Tran’s parents had donated money to renovate the cafeteria and Janey Youn’s father had given the school a new flagpole and flag.

He jiggles the mouse and the screen snaps to life, a photo of Mount Rushmore under cloudless blue. A tap of the browser and a window opens, cursor blinking slow and lazy at its top.

What to type? Where is my mother. Is it too much to hope the internet can tell him this?

He pauses. At her desk, Mrs. Pollard scrolls on her phone as she nibbles her sandwich. Peanut butter, by the smell. Outside, a brown leaf drifts from treetop to pavement.

Story about boy with many cats, he types, and words flood the screen.

The Black Cat (short story). List of Fictional Cats in Literature. He clicks one link after another, waiting for something familiar, that jolt of recognition. The Cat in the Hat. The Tale of Tom Kitten. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Nothing he recognizes. Gradually he wanders farther and farther afield. Amazing and True Cat Stories. Five Heroic Cats in History. Care and Feeding of Your New Cat. All these stories about cats, and none of them his mother’s. He must have imagined it. But still he digs.

Finally, when he is too tired to resist, he pecks out one more search, one he has never dared to try before.

Margaret Miu.

There’s a pause, then an error message pops up. No results, it says. Somehow he feels her absence more, as if he’s called out for her and she hasn’t come. He peeks over his shoulder. Mrs. Pollard has finished her lunch and is grading worksheets, ticking check marks down the margins, and he clicks the back button.

Our missing hearts, he types, and the page stills for a moment. No results. This time, no matter how many times he clicks, it won’t reset.

Mrs. Pollard, he says, approaching the desk. I think my computer froze.

Don’t worry, dear, she says, we’ll fix it. She rises and follows him back to the terminal, but when she sees his screen, the search at the top, something in her face shifts. A tenseness in her that Bird can feel even over his shoulder.

Noah, she says after a moment. You’re twelve?

Bird nods.

Mrs. Pollard squats down beside his chair so they are eye to eye.

Noah, she says. This country is founded on the belief that every person gets to decide how to live his own life. You know that, right?

To Bird, this seems like one of the things adults say that do not require answers, and he says nothing.

Noah, Mrs. Pollard says again, and the way she keeps saying his name—which is not his name, of course—makes him clench his teeth so tightly they squeak. Noah, honey, listen to me, please. In this country we believe that every generation can make better choices than the one that came before. Right? Everyone gets the same chance to prove themselves, to show us who they are. We don’t hold the mistakes of parents against their children.

She looks at him through bright, anxious eyes.

Everyone has a choice, Noah, about whether they’re going to make the same mistakes as the people who came before them, or whether they’re going to take a different path. A better path. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Bird nods, though he’s fairly sure he doesn’t.