Page 18 of Bring me Back

“The swim team gets a bake sale because people want to help them win,” Anderson explained, glaring from the other side of his shitty desk.

I had very little patience with him. Teaching wasn’t exactly a dream of mine, but when my ex-wife, Kelly, suddenly decided to move to the small town of Bluehaven, I knew I would not have enough customers to keep a furniture business going. I needed steady income, and teaching sounded good enough. My students were creative kids using my class to relax, and troubled kids who needed at least one easy subject to keep them afloat. I graded them softly like a grandmother would, because to me, those walls were an escape too.

Things were almost too peaceful if it wasn’t for the administration. If it wasn’t for goddamn Anderson and his stupid mug. He was the type of guy who relished in the very little power he held. Besides finding him tedious, we never interacted much. In other words, I avoided him like the plague. And yet, I found myself in his office, asking for the thing he was more reluctant to give: money.

“They have a bigger budget than the whole arts department. And more incentive…”

“Again, you aren’t listening to me, Daniel. They bring the trophies.”

“They are boys in speedos. How much money do they need for that?”

“For competitions out of state, for starters,” Anderson tapped on his desk, irritated, no doubt.

I rolled my eyes. “Do you want trophies? We can get you some.”

Anderson laughed. “I doubt there’s a trophy for a school play.”

“There’re competitions for anything, Anderson,” I shrugged, not bothered. “You want the name of the school to shine, sure. You know Helen puts her body and soul in those plays…”

“Helen is a romantic. I appreciate it, but the lack of funding comes from the state. Don’t pretend I’m the villain here taking money from the artistic kids.”

I lolled my head to the side. “I’m past asking for money. I’m telling you, the PTA could organize something to raise money for costumes and…”

“I thought that’s why the Delos Santos girl was around?”

For some reason, hearing Anderson call Hallie by her last name bothered me. Baring my teeth, I replied. “Yes, Hallie is making all the costumes, but she needs fabric.”

Anderson was done talking to me, I could tell. He was right, the lack of funding came from the state, but he wasn’t in the mood to do one thing about it.

I sighed, rubbing my hand on my face when he asked: “So you say there are competitions?”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “I’m sure I can find something. It’s not bad to diversify the school curriculum.”

He hummed. It was the most ridiculous conversation I’d ever had. I was trying to convince a grown man to do his job by pitting teenager against teenager in the battle of Shakespeare.

“Well, if you can get Sharon on board, then…” he waved his finger in a sign of go ahead.

“Sharon?” I was afraid to even ask.

He nodded. “She’s the head of the PTA, and might have an insight into what can be done on short notice.”

I didn’t like the way he talked about this Sharon, like he knew she wouldn’t help me. I said nothing. I got what I came for. Now I had to find this Sharon and get extra money so Hallie could buy fabric.

That was my life, apparently.

“Any competition?”

“Any we fit into the criteria.”

Abby bobbed her head, looking down and going back to work. When I told Mark about my new side project to make Anderson interested in the arts, Abby took it into her hands to find a state competition for the kids. I was ready to just enroll the play in anything to shut him down, but it turned out that Abby had a friend of a friend whose kid loved the theater. One thing led to another, and now we were knees deep into extensive research with plenty of possibilities.

Thank god Abby took over. Without her, I’d have been lost.

I tried not to dwell on the fact that this was the first time I felt like having a purpose since Kelly left. We were together since forever. Where she went, I went. I got used to following her lead. Kelly was headstrong; it was something I loved about her. When she packed her bags and skipped town, she told me over her shoulder, “You don’t care.”

I had all the words to tell her off on the tip of my tongue. The billion reasons why she was wrong. Of course I cared. I married her, and I loved her. I promised her forever. I wasn’t a bad husband, I told myself.

You don’t care.