“She is not Maggie,” I whispered.
Another teacher was washing her hands nearby and glanced toward me.
I pretended I had said nothing.
That evening, I almost told Paul.
But something stopped me.
Perhaps I was afraid he would think I had lost my mind.
I waited until the next night.
We were halfway through dinner when I finally said, “There’s a new student in my second-period class.”
Paul looked up.
“Okay.”
“She looks like Maggie.”
His fork froze halfway to his mouth.
Only for a moment.
But I noticed.
Something crossed his face before sorrow replaced it.
I immediately tried to soften what I had said.
“Not literally, obviously. I don’t know exactly what Maggie would look like at sixteen. But this girl has her eyes. And sometimes when she’s thinking, she makes the same expression.”
Paul slowly placed his fork down.
“Rachel, please.”
I frowned.
