It’s a pretty low blow to stand there taunting me in those tight shorts, daring me to be attracted to her, just so she can prove she doesn’t want me either. She did want me once, though, and there’s proof enough.
“I’ve got to tell you, it’s pretty interesting to hear you say that she’s better off if I’m not involved,” I throw at her, moving toward the cab of the truck. “Seems to me you should have said that to twenty five-year-old Jake, but you didn’t. In fact, you weren’t satisfied to not have me involved. You needed proof, and then some kind of acceptance, and then you smeared me in three counties to the point that I couldn’t find a job. So if this isn’t what you wanted, Alex, maybe next time you should be a little clearer.”
The instant I shut myself inside the confines of my truck, I rest my head against the seat and force a calming breath, the word hate rolling through my mind. It kind of throws me for a loop, because normally things tend to bounce off of me and I don’t take them to heart, but there it is anyway.
I hate…
I hate…
Alexis? No, it’s way too harsh, and I don’t hate Alexis.
I hate the way she makes me feel, though.
Completely worthless.
Chapter Eight
Alexis
New starts should feel like embarking on adventures, or turning over new leaves. Ad lib a thousand clichés that should describe my first Monday in Louisville, and I’m certain none of them would include sitting in my car in the high school parking lot, alternately sobbing and trying to reapply my mascara. How am I supposed to teach algebra to a bunch of hormonal teenagers when I myself am behaving like one? They’re going to smell my incompetence and descend on me like a pack of gray wolves.
Not that I don’t have an excuse to feel a little out of sorts. I woke up in a foul mood, a carryover from yesterday and my dealings with Jake. He showed up around dinner time, and when I opened the door, he simply held the locks in front of my face. He wouldn’t even look at me. Once I moved out of his way, he went to work installing the lock on the front door, and then he moved to the back door. Only a few minutes and he was finished, marching back out to his truck without having uttered a single word.
He’d made his point, and I felt like a colossal jerk. There’s definitely no love lost between the two of us, but he is a human being. Besides, I do feel a little guilty about what went down when I was pregnant, even though none of it was really my doing.
My feelings about Jake got lost in the shuffle, though, as Bailey and I began preparing for our day. She was excited that we were each starting at our new schools, which was how I decided to present the daycare/preschool to her in hopes that she would be more accepting. I dressed her in the brand new outfit that Nan bought her before we left. She looked at herself in the mirror for quite a while, admiring the black leggings and pale pink dress with the large bow near her waist. She was totally ready, except for the fact that she wasn’t.
I know I should have seen it coming. She’s been at home with my mother every other time I was at work, with the exception of the few days I let her spend time with Jake. The idea of going to school is fantastic and sounds very grown up, until you’re the three-year-old standing at the door, staring at the curious, unfamiliar faces. They’re already friends, and they’re playing together, and the young woman with the lovely smile and the voice that’s practically made for speaking to children is engaging you in a friendly conversation, but…
She’s not Nan.
Commence uncontrollable hysterics and clinging to my leg, the likes of which I’ve never before experienced. The poor young woman trying to peel her off me, who I discovered is named Traci, kept looking up at me from her kneeling position, trying to offer me encouragement with her eyes. No doubt she had encountered scenes like ours before, but I wasn’t accustomed to my daughter being unreasonable. A little persnickety at times, perhaps occasionally intent upon embarrassing me, but never anything like the vicious little fiend clawing at the leg of my black pants. The black pants that looked freshly pressed and stylish when I left the house, but had since been covered with slobber and some iridescent mucous-green streaks that I tried not to think about less they turn my stomach.
She never stopped, and I had zero options. We weren’t back home in Tennessee, and I couldn’t call Nan to the rescue. I couldn’t phone Gump and beg him to help me. Instead, Traci held my beautiful little girl in a tight grip using both her arms as I attempted to make a break from the building, the sound of her screams assaulting me as I ran through the hallway.
“Mommy! Mommmmmmy!”
So here I am, desperately trying to suck it up. Trying to tell myself that I look acceptable in my crisp evergreen button down shirt, tucked into my pants over my cream-colored camisole. Trying to convince that puffy red face in the mirror that I don’t look like I’ve been crying, even as I watch the moisture rise in my eyes again. Trying to convince myself that I’m not a total fraud—that I have something worthwhile to offer high school students.
Trying to make myself believe I’m an adult.
Someday I’ll look back at this day and chuckle. Ten years from now, I’ll put my arm around the new young teacher and offer a conciliatory smile. “On my first day, I cried in the car and then spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub snot off my pants.” She’ll give me a defeated grin, and I’ll tell her to hang in there.
Today is not that day. Today my wet pant leg is making swishing noises against my flats as I walk toward my classroom. Today my right eye is red not because I was crying earlier, but because I made a valiant attempt to replace my mascara in the bathroom and managed to stab myself with the wand. Today my face is completely void of makeup, and I look like I should be facing the desk, not sitting behind it.
I’m toast.
Drawing in the deepest breath possible, I expel it slowly as I cross the threshold into room eight. My desk sits cattycorner near the back of the room, and I glance toward the empty space at the front, seeing a scrawny podium. Nothing about it seems welcoming to me, and at the moment it feels like the one and only thing I have some control over. Placing my purse on one of the student desks, I grip the side of my desk with both hands, dragging it a few inches. The metallic scraping sound against the tile is offensive at best, but it does nothing to staunch my determination. If anything, it propels me to finish faster.
Twice more I tug against the desk, moving it a couple inches at a time, until a touch against my shoulder causes me to jump what feels like a foot.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the male voice barks at me. Turning, I allow my gaze to fall on the man who’s invaded my privacy. Tall, slender, and unintimidating, with short silver hair capping a youthful face. “You can’t move the furniture, but I’m sure you know that.”
There are times for being unreasonable, and this most likely isn’t one of them, but after the morning I’ve had, my brain simply can’t take any more.
“Why? Why can’t I move the furniture? It’s my classroom.”
His eyes flash with what appears to be recognition. “So sorry, are you Alexis?”
Straightening in an attempt to look a little more presentable, I wipe my hands on my thighs as he extends one of his.
“Alexis Jennings. I’m teaching algebra and I obviously woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize,” he says, taking my outstretched hand. “Roger Jennings, Business Ed. I should have known you weren’t a student by the way that you’re dressed, especially since people get my age wrong all the time.”
“They think you’re fifteen?”
He grins as he lifts the far side of the desk, so I follow suit and begin backing the piece of furniture toward the front of the room.
“Hardly.” He smiles as he places the desk onto the floor again. “Something more along the senior citizen route, usually. Anything else you want to adjust while we’re at it? Replace a window? Maybe knock out the far wall?”
<
br /> “I think I’m good.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. I’m next door.”
“It seems a little unfortunate that we wound up next to one another. Mr. Jennings and Ms. Jennings. They’re going to assume…”
“That you’re my daughter, most likely. So, this is your first position?”
Hiding the slightly disgusted expression on my face proves impossible. “Is it obvious? Am I that green?”
“No, we were told that it’s your first teaching assignment. This is my fourth year.”
“And how old are you?” I shrug my shoulders as he narrows his eyes a bit. “Curiosity is getting the better of me.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to ask me that, but since we’re practically related…” He pauses to give me a wink, almost as though he’s trying to assure me he’s joking. “I’m twenty-seven. And you?”
“Twenty-five. We’re practically twins.”
“Practically. If anyone gives you trouble, send them to your brother next door.” He begins to walk toward the hallway, so I retrieve my purse and place it atop my desk, slightly renewed in my spirit.
“Thank you, Mr. Jennings!” I call after him.
“Roger,” he insists as he walks away.
My first class consists of twenty-two students who spill into my room chatting and laughing about their weekends. Not one of them seems to notice me or realize that the room looks different as they find their seats. That fact is intimidating and relieving at once, because getting their attention might be difficult, but at least they’re not staring too curiously at me. Not yet, anyway.
Leaning against the desk, I watch them silently for a moment. The room is set up a lot like I remember my own high school, with five rows of desks. My gaze drifts to the second row, third seat from the front. That would have been my seat, back in the day. A mountain of a guy with a desperate need of a haircut sits there now, tapping his pencil against the desk like he’s practicing a drum cadence.
Directly in front of him, that seat would have belonged to Cody. The kid sitting in it has his head down, glancing at something on his lap, and I can almost picture Cody in his place. They have the same dark hair, same build. Wrong hands, though. Cody’s hands had long, tapered fingers, as though designed to capture and cradle the football. This kid’s hands are short and stocky. And waving. They’re waving.
My mind snaps to attention with a start, realizing the entire class is now focused on me as I stare absently at some random kid’s hands like I’m struck dumb. The heat creeping into my neck might not be noticeable any other time, but since I’m flying makeup-free at the moment, I fear it might be showing on my face.
“Good morning,” I eke out, rising from my spot and pressing my hands together tightly in front of me. “My name is Alexis Jennings. No, I am not related to Mr. Jennings next door. I just moved into the Louisville area this weekend, and although I’m very sorry about the untimely passing of Mr. Alberts, we’re going to learn a lot together during the remainder of the year.”
“Do you really think it was untimely?” the long-haired drummer pipes up. “Dude was, like, a hundred.”
Of course the kid in my seat would be the one hassling me.
“Do you think Mr. Alberts would call it untimely?” I toss at him, doing my best to pin him with an authoritative stare. Whether or not it’s working is a mystery, because I feel a little like a Chihuahua barking at a Rottweiler.
“I doubt he planned to kick over in the teachers’ lounge.”
His statement rattles me even more, because no one bothered to tell me he passed away here at school. Dragging in a huge breath, I manage to choke on it and have to cough so many times I’m afraid the poor girl in the front row thinks I’m about to follow in the previous teacher’s footsteps. She’s actually perched on the edge of her seat, about to run for the nurse.
Turning, I grab my bottle of water from the desk and take a slow sip, uttering an internal prayer before I return my attention to the class.
“Well, this has been a pleasant introduction, but I’d like to start over, if we may. If you all will pull out your books, that would definitely be a step in the right direction.”
The mountainous drummer drops his book onto his desktop with a thud, causing half the class to jump in surprise.
“You, sir,” I begin, not averting my eyes from his face. “Your name is?”
“Andy.”
“Andy…do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” Lifting myself to sit on the edge of my desk, I clasp my hands together in my lap, keeping my voice low. “The algebra book you have on your desk is the most fragile of all the books. It’s not a book to be tossed about as though it’s nothing. You should take great care of it, Andy. Do you understand why it’s so delicate?”
His eyes widen as he glances around at his classmates. “Wh…why?”
“Because it’s full of problems, that’s why. I’m counting on you to solve every one of them by the year’s end.”
He rolls his eyes, but a few of the other students snicker, which is enough of an ice breaker to allow me a second to breathe. Dragging out my paperwork, I grab a pen and twist off the cap, placing it on the opposite end.
“Shall we get to know everyone?” I suggest.
“How old are you?” the girl in row four, seat three asks. Doesn’t even bother to shoot her hand into the air. Not a good start.
“Only questions properly asked by waiting for permission will be answered in my classroom,” I inform her, pausing while her hand raises into the air. “Yes?”
“How old are you?”
I am an adult, and they will not defeat me. My day might have started with crying in the parking lot, but it will not end that way.
“Perhaps you could create an equation about it? The way I dress times the way I look, divided by the number of years I would have gone to college…”
She wrinkles her nose as she shakes her head. Andy raises his hand, waving it like a flag and making grunting noises, because naturally I won’t notice his bulky form gyrating in front of me unless he accompanies his motion with sound.
“Yes, Andy?”
“Are you one of those genius kids who went to college when you were thirteen?”
Maybe Mr. Alberts didn’t expire from natural causes after all. Maybe it was the unwavering persistence of Sir Andy Second Row Third Seat.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper, leaning forward slightly. Almost as one body, the students in front of me tilt closer.
“What is it?” the bespectacled girl directly in front of me wants to know.
“Crying. I knew it. Andy, your book is in bad shape. Pop it open and see if you can solve one of its problems.”
“Aw, man.”
The girl with the glasses smiles at me, and just like that, my heart gets a slight hint of convincing that things might be okay after all.
I should have never let my guard down. If Heather were here, she’d say I’ve managed to fall through the rabbit hole for real this time.
All I can say is that I believe I know what Alice must have felt like when she met the caterpillar, upon being told she was a wretched size. It’s akin to “you don’t belong here”, or “you don’t quite fit in”, and I’ve been hearing that all day.
My first period class was beyond relentless. Even after I gave them quite a lecture on the rudeness of asking an adult’s age, and especially a woman’s, they wouldn’t let up. I suppose it would have been easier to simply tell them I was twenty-five and have it over with, but I stood my ground on the sheer principle of the matter.
I must admit, I nearly lost it when Andy tried to arrive at the answer in the roundabout fashion of asking me whether it would be legal for us to date, you know, if I wasn’t his teacher and if we were off school premises.
Was sending him to the principal’s office an overreaction? Perhaps, but it was the only way I saw to end the conversation in that moment.
After second period, I managed to
sneak to the faculty restroom to try to apply my mascara again only to be caught by the librarian, who scolded me for hiding out and threatened to call my mother. My mother! She ushered me out of the room and smacked me on the rear like I was the field goal kicker and it was fourth down at the fifteen yard line.
Part of me wanted to turn around and give her a piece of my mind, but then I thought it might be funnier if she realized who I was later. At a faculty meeting, maybe. Or in front of the superintendent, perhaps.
At the end of third period, I made the mistake of looking at my phone. When I saw that the daycare called about fifteen minutes before, my heart started palpitating and my brain flew through a million different scenarios at the speed of light. Bailey ran away. Bailey cried so hard she passed out. Bailey has disowned me forever.
My hand shook around the phone as I listened to the ringing on the other end, standing in the corner of my new classroom and trying to obtain what little privacy I could by the practice of turning my back to the room. When a voice finally connected, I’m certain I sounded frantic, half-hissing into the phone with a panicked whisper that I didn’t want my new students to overhear.
“Oh, Bailey’s mom,” the woman at the daycare stated. “We didn’t want to bother you, but she’s wearing a diaper.”
“Uh huh.” My attempt at being quiet seemed to be thwarted by the fact that the class was suddenly hawk-eye focused on me.
“We don’t allow children into the preschool program here unless they’re potty trained.”
“Oh, she is.” Closing my eyes, I cringed at my partial untruth. “Sometimes it’s just precautionary, you know… We mostly have it covered, but since she’s in a new place today, I wanted to make sure.”
“There won’t be any diaper changing in this program.”
“It’s not a diaper.”
“She urinated in it, ma’am. It’s a diaper.”
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