She's not here. Adam stared at the empty seat diagonally in front of him, stared as if he was boring holes through the backrest of the wooden chair with his eyes, but not really looking at it. He didn't notice the French teacher instructing the class to open their books and he also didn't hear the teacher saying, "Et maintenant... Monsieur Rove, lisez nous ce passage, sil vous plait."

Adam's head jerked up upon hearing his name. His vacant eyes looked at Mrs. Brodey as the words slowly registered. He had never been good at languages, he preferred structured subjects, like maths or chemistry or physics, or visual and hands-on subjects, like arts and—dare he admit it—PE. Still struggling with the command, he blinked and looked embarrassed at the still closed French book on his desk, stammering, "Um... I... What was I... supposed to read?"

Mrs. Brodey's accusing glance lingered upon him, her mouth uttering an impatient and irritated tsk-tsk noise. "Monsieur Rove, un peu de votre attention, sil vous plait!" she scolded him. Adam leaned over to Mike, his neighbor, and whispered, "Uh, what page?"

When he had opened the book on the designated page that in the meantime Mrs. Brodey had asked another student to read out loud, he tried to concentrate on the French text before his eyes, but the letters and unfamiliar words became a blur as his mind inevitably started to wander to the empty chair in front of him again.

He had expected Joan to open the door any second, bursting into the classroom with a ready excuse on her lips for her tardiness that would sound pathetically irrational but with the convinced tone in her voice totally believable at the same time. How she would almost seem to float on sheer beauty, her long and soft hair flowing vibrantly behind her, with her brushing a stray strand out of her face defiantly.

But she never came, and Adam wondered if that was his fault. Had their argument in the restroom scared her away for good, like the last straw that would make her afraid to even face him? Their argument... Joan had been irrationally jealous. Jealous for no reason, because Mary Jane was no competition for her, not even close. Yes, he enjoyed spending time with Mary Jane, she was cool to hang out with, but she would never be as special to him as Joan would be. She couldn't because she wasn't... Jane. Well, she was Jane, but that was only her name, not what it stood for.

If not much of this lesson had registered with him, the bell that announced the start of their break certainly did. He gathered his books and pens in his red knapsack and went to the lockers. Grace noticed him walking up next to her and gave him a lopsided grin. "Heard you had a bit of a space-out during French."

Adam's eyes widened slightly. Not feeling like going into the single-most embarrassing moment of his day, he asked Grace, "Have you seen Joan today? She wasn't in class."

Grace shook her head. "Nope."

"So, where is she?" Adam wondered, more to himself than asking Grace.

Grace lifted her arms in a defiant shrug. "Look, dude, I'm not her mother, okay? Why don't you ask her? Her mother, I mean?" Grace nodded towards the doorway to the arts room that Helen Girardi had just walked through.

Adam nodded slightly. "Sure thing, yo." With that he left Grace standing at the lockers and entered the arts room.

Grace stared after him, incredulous. She hadn't really been serious about him asking Mrs. Girardi. Adam could sometimes just be so annoyingly 'out there', somehow lovingly innocent and naïve. Sometimes she wished she could be that innocent.

--...----...----...--

"Hey, Mrs. G.," Adam greeted Helen Girardi almost shyly.

She was standing at the front desk with her back to him and turned around to face him, a small smile playing on her lips as she recognized Adam. The quiet, dark-haired boy was one of her most talented students, and although she should not have favorites, she had to admit that he definitely was among them. "Adam," she acknowledged.

"I... um...," Adam felt slightly uncomfortable. It was weird to ask Joan's mom about her daughter, especially since Adam had always had a soft spot for Mrs. Girardi. He had lost his mother years ago, and his arts teacher was probably the closest thing he still had left to a mother. He swallowed his discomfort and said more confidently, "I was wondering where Joan was, I haven't seen her in school today."

"Oh, yes, she's home, in bed. Some kind of stomach flu," Helen said offhandedly.

"Oh," Adam said, his face falling, both sympathy and disappointment creeping into his features. "Will she be okay?" God, that sounded so lame! Of course she was going to be okay. It was juts a stomach flu, right? But why did he suddenly feel this anxious knot forming in his own stomach?

Helen had noticed the change in his expression and assured him in a motherly sort of way. "Don't worry, she'll be fine. Nothing a few day's worth of bed rest and chicken soup can't cure."

Adam nervously fumbled with a loose thread from a seam on his knapsack, trying to find the right thing to say. He had thought talking to Jane was hard, but he felt lost for words in front of Helen Girardi sometimes. It was as if she would vanish from his life if he said the wrong thing—like that would mess it up again for him. And if there was something he really didn't need right at this moment, it was messing up.

He lifted his head and looked at Joan's mom. "Just tell her..." he began, then nervously cleared his throat. "Just tell her to get well soon."

"Thank you, Adam, I will." Helen looked at him with a slight smile playing on her lips.

Adam was for a moment mesmerized by her smile. That smile that reminded him of his own mother and made him think of the good times he had had with her—the love for art they had shared, the times she had taught him all the techniques of acrylic painting and pencil shading and, when he was old enough, even welding.

Unsure, he looked to the floor, then at Helen again, turning his torso towards the door. "I... I have to get to AP Maths," he said before leaving.

As she watched him leave, Helen couldn't help but wonder about Adam and his relationship with her daughter. She didn't exactly know what had happened between him and Joan. She knew they had broken up, and she was pretty sure that Adam had played not only a minor part in that, but the way he acted—they both acted—she knew that they were both struggling to figure out where they stood.

Adam clearly still had feelings for Joan, she knew that now more than ever. She felt the strong urge to have a talk about it with Joan, but she mentally chided herself again that Joan was past that age where motherly intervention in personal issues was greatly appreciated. She just hoped that the both of them would find a way to work things out between them, either way.

--...----...----...--