Page 11 of Between the Lines
The way that those words shudder as the exit on a whisper is what frightens me. I’ve never had this conversation aloud. Never really had friends to confide all of these muddled feelings to. And now, I wonder if it might be too late.
Lucy’s head tilts, and her eyes do that thing where they narrow and her brows straighten, and it’s like I can see her counselor mask slipping into place. The only thing keeping me from being entirely trapped is the fact that we only have four minutes until the bell rings for students to come back to class.
“You know, Claire, if you’d like to explore your options, I’d be more than happy to talk things through with you—and as afriend, not as a counselor.”
“I appreciate that,” I nod. “I just don’t know that I’ll have the free time. I’m pretty booked at home.”
She mulls this over, then says, “We keep talking about it over lunch then. Or, here, take my number. Text me when you have a free night to grab a drink, or a free morning for coffee.”
“Like, before school?”
“Sure. I can do before school. Aaron snores, so I’m a pretty light sleeper these days.”
“Hey! I donotsnore!”
Aaron and Sam enter, interrupting our little heart to heart. Lucy finishes punching her number into my phone as Aaron comes over to kiss her temple.
“I think um… Before school might work better,” I say as she hands it back,Lucy Greenenow listed in my contacts.
“Perfect! Let me know what days work best for you and I can make it happen.”
I mentally thumb through my calendar, one that’s pretty stacked these days. Zoey has cello, Michael plays school and club socceranddoes conditioning and private lessons, and the littles are in tumbling and beginning piano. The only bright star on my horizon is the fact that, due to his birthday, Michael is eligible for his driver’s license soon—and every crack of dawn that I have to wake up and take him to before-school lessons will all be worth it when he can take himself to and from practice.
I don’t even kid myself with the thought that he might one day step up and help me cart the younger ones around.
But a stray Thursday morning next week is free, and before I can even think twice, I text both my mom and my dad and tell them that I have a work meeting before school.
Work meeting, they understand. It’s if I would have used that wordfriendsthat they’d have questioned my intentions. For the first time since I was eight years old, I crack open the book in the back of my brain that has ownership over what my future might one day look like.
six
nathan
I don’t enjoy havingstudents trembling in the seat across from me, the ocean of my desk between us, while I await their explanation of the behaviors I’ve heard from other teachers, or witnessed first-hand, whether in person or through our cameras. But Idoquite enjoy the moment when they realize their behavior will no longer be tolerated.
“I’m still waiting, Mr. Bruning,” I say, cool as a cucumber, my elbows balanced precisely on my desk so that I can steeple my fingers together.
Sawyer Bruning, fidgeting with the baseball cap in his hands that I made him take off upon entering my office, has wide eyes that dart back and forth, his mouth disjointed into an oval as he realizes that he has been backed into a corner.
“I did it, okay? Fine.” His bottom lip trembles, and big, fat, crocodile tears slide down his cheeks. “Are you going to call my mom?”
I think this scares him more than the confession itself, which bodes well for me—it means that his parents are going to follow up at home. I wish we had a higher population these days that did.
“Vandalism is a big deal.Especiallyin the nature in which you chose to do it.”
Though, his illustration debut wasn’t exactlyoriginal.
A crudely drawn penis with a smiley face on the head, wearing a sombrero.
Only, there wasn’t just the one, sketched into the wall above the urinal. No. Señor Sack, as they’re calling him, iseverywhere. Luckily, I have Sawyer on the cameras during his lunch hour going from bathroom to bathroom. It’s actually quite comical to watch, like aScooby-Doocartoon of him exiting one bathroom and appearing in another frame of the monitor, his Sharpie marker tucked conspicuously into the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Would you like to volunteer the information of how you were excused for an entire lunch period, or should I waste the time of the lunch supervisors with an investigation?”
“It was Taco Tuesday,” he says with a shrug, and a frog in his throat. “Told ‘em I had the runs.”
Both cleverandon-theme.
I nod slowly, then reach for the phone with my eyes still glued on Sawyer, whose tears have dried into crusty tracks. He sniffles as I hand it to him.