President of the United States

CHAPTER ONE

Listening to the clap of my shoes is a necessary distraction. Only three more blocks to home. The one-two tap of my shoes turns into a one-one, two-two, telling me that someone is nearby. For several yards this echo continues.

The footsteps behind me quicken, so I turn to look behind. Twenty feet away, a man keeps under the shadow of the buildings. His body language seems foreboding, his shoulders hunch forward, his head down, while his eyes rock back and forth from the sidewalk to me then back down. I’m not sure whether it is the way that his steps match my pace, or that he doesn’t acknowledge me when I make sure to show him that I have seen him, but I instinctively hurry.

Please don’t speed up . . . please don’t speed up, I beg as my shaking hands struggle with my keys in my pocket to place one between my middle and forefinger.

My shoulders spasm when his pace quickens.

More than likely he’s just passing, Willow. It’s already been a bad day . . . it can’t get worse.

Several more yards, and several more beats of our feet intertwine. A strange whistle between his teeth carries along the echoing Pruitt Street and the sound of something hard clinks across the metal bars of an alley gate. I look again, his grin tells me he wants to play a game.

His relentless eyes continue to follow me while clinking a glass along the walls. My heart jumps from my chest to my throat, as my tense hand digs the key into my skin. Suddenly his bottle breaks and he’s left with a jagged edge. He stops. Looks at it then playfully raises an eyebrow and smiles.

A smile should have been helpful, but there is an absence of anything good in his eyes. It seems no different than a hunter releasing the safety on a gun just before his kill. These are his rules within his game, as he stares me down.

Move faster, Willow.

I do. But then . . . so does he.

This isn’t happening. Just minutes ago, I was safe with my friends and it was my choice to walk alone. My panic makes my lips numb, or maybe it’s just the cold. Either way, my heart jars my ribs.

It’s only ten steps before he dives at me and ten steps before I crash to the ground . . .

\/\/\/

Fourteen Hours Ago . . .

I don’t remember turning my alarm off in the middle of the night, but I did. So, I’m late. Which means, I’ve had no coffee, my hair is a mess, and the papers I graded last night are on my counter . . . in my kitchen. Yep, that’s how this morning is going. So, it’s not surprising that the dark clouds of San Francisco release their torrential downpour without warning just as I step out of the BART station.

“I still have a quarter mile walk,” I say to the woman in nurses’ scrubs next to me. She sighs, “Me too.”

You would think after so many years of living here, I would be prepared for unpredictable weather. Using my bag as an umbrella, I hurry my way across the slippery sidewalks, through a couple of alleys, and by the time I reach the white-slatted schoolhouse my hair is plastered to my face, my eyes pour black tears, and I can wring out my soaking white shirt.

The long day ahead still laughs at me.

Just above the entrance is a hand-carved, wooden sign that reads, “Union School, Founded 1908,” and someone has tagged it with graffiti overnight. “Really?” I say to the world. This big old city makes me feel alone.

My mother, Ava Union, always told me, “Willow, your grandpa built these walls and I think he still lives in them. In fact, he often speaks to me in this schoolhouse.” She floated through life on a cloud, which might be the reason my feet are always cemented to the ground. Outsiders often made fun of her, but I loved her, even though she refused to wear a bra, found it impossible to stay with one man or hold down a job, and believed in angels that followed us around.

She died on a Thursday, one year ago today.

Suffice it to say, it’s not a good day.

The hall is empty, which makes me want to check the time, but my phone is dead. Screams and yells rush through the hall from the direction of my classroom.

“Oh, no.” I run toward the noise, trying not to slip because of my wet shoes, and throw open my classroom door. My students are in chaos, laughter and screams everywhere, until they see me and rush to their desks.

“It stinks in here, Miss Willow!” one of the kids howls.

Forget the smell. Just get on with it. “What does rain create in places with little ventilation?” I ask, as I hurry to my desk. They look at me with confusion. “Have I taught you nothing?” I grin. At least these ten-year-olds are cute, but they give me blank expressions, so I continue. “Mold. It creates mold. So, what do we need to do?”

DeSean raises his hand. “Yes, DeSean?” I ask.

“Open the windows,” he replies.

“Can you do that for me?” I ask him. He’s proud as he travels the room and opens each window.

The breeze rushes in and the sound of rain makes it hard to hear, while I dump everything from my backpack. A red rose that was left on my doorstep falls to my desk and gets smashed beneath my calculator. I purposely reach over and press the calculator down till my palm hurts, smooshing the irritating rose till it bleeds on my desk. It’s not the rose . . . but the man who gave me the rose.

“Let’s just get through the day . . . shall we?” I suggest.

The day is better than I expect, as the kids keep me busy. I’m able to not think about my mom. The fact that it’s Friday carries me through until the school bell sounds, sending the small beings back home.

I made it. My day may have sucked, but at least it’s the weekend. So, a couple hours after finishing up some loose ends in my quiet classroom, I now sit comatose on the metro system while the sun sets.

After thirty-three years in the city, BART is the only way I get from point A to B just like the old lady with her knitting needles across from me, or the man with a beanie regardless of the weather, and the woman who eats mayonnaise and mustard packets with no sandwich. These familiar faces bounce back and forth as we shoot through the tunnels of the old city.

At my stop, I recoil from the cold, while puffs of white air rise from my mouth. A low fog is rolling in and trapping an abnormal chill between the buildings. Even still, I drink in a damp but glorious weekend breath.

The restaurant is covered in white, sparkling lights for the holiday season. Fresh pine wreaths hang around the neck of each lamp post even though it is only mid-November, which reminds me that I need to bake harvest cookies for the school’s party on Monday.

There is an exciting end-of-the-week exhilaration as I weave in and out of the crowd searching for my friends. While dodging shoulders, ducking beneath glasses, and avoiding eye contact from the men around the bar, I search for Amanda’s unavoidable, brilliantly blue hair and Randy’s ACDC T-shirt. Finally, Amanda’s newly pink curls, glowing under the vintage Golden Gate Bridge sign, catch my attention.

“Willow!” They call. She pulls at her curls, “Pink!” she hollers with a shrug as she hugs me.

“Totally you,” I laugh as I pull up a chair. “Oh, the weekend, thank the Lord!” I say loud enough to hear over the single and mingle crowd.

“Tough week?” Amanda asks.

“Not the best. How about you—” My words stick when the recognizable stomp of Ian, my ex-fiancé, plows through the bar’s patrons.

“I’m so sorry,” Amanda quickly pleads. “Randy invited him after I invited you, without knowing that each other invited the other, if that makes sense.” She places her hand on mine, her eyes begging for forgiveness.

“He left a rose on my doorstep this morning,” my voice comes out in a whisper-yell.

“Really?” she says sweetly. “Because of your mom?”

“That would take thought. It’s because he needs a date tomorrow . . . guaranteed.”

“I can’t believe it’s been a year since your mom died. You okay?”

“Yeah,” I smile at Amanda, her eyes comforting. “Thank you.” I squeeze her hand.

“The flower has to be because he remembers,” she says.