Kaplan grins at Luca. “Maybe I have. I’m not the one our lovely, young Raven hates above all others.”
“One day, Kap, you’ll unwittingly fall in love, and then your world will end because she’ll own your heart and your balls.”
“Sure,” he agrees dismissively because he doesn’t actually agree with that at all. “I’ll get on that right after Landon meets another woman and falls in love.”
My insides clench, twisting my black heart—the useless lump of necrotic tissue in my chest that has been a never-ending source of misery and irony in my life. A heartless heart doctor.
I stand up, done with this. “Then I guess you’re safe, Kap. That’ll never happen to me.”
7
When you haven’t worked many days in your life—and none in the last four years—your first day is fucking terrifying. Especially when you’re presented with eighteen middle school students who are staring at you like you’re either the bane of their existence or the answer to their prayers.
It’s disarming.
We’ll leave it at that.
Because I find myself standing in front of the whiteboard that doubles as a SMART board that I’m slowly learning how to use and staring back at these blinking eyes.
Did I mention I was hired to be the world and US history teacher?
Still, I hadn’t considered I’d get a job that quickly. I mean, I knew I’d need one. But one hour after signing my divorce papers just didn’t feel… realistic. It was. The school year had already started, and the school needed someone who could start immediately. My bachelor’s is in history and my master’s in education. And Bridget, my only non-David friend in the world, who happens to be a math teacher here, vouched for me.
This was about a week ago.
Which brings me to today.
My morning began like this: I walked into the school front office and was immediately ushered into the smallest office in the history—catch my pun—ever. “We have two wellness classes scheduled for you today,” the main secretary, Laura, informed me as I took in my new digs. “Obviously you’ll still have your regular history classes, but we’re so excited you’re taking this on for us.”
“Um. I’m sorry. What?”
“Wellness,” she said, like it all made so much sense. It didn’t.
Evidently, I’m now responsible for wellness classes. As in a combination of sexual education (that comes a bit later in the semester thankfully), nutrition, mind-body wellness, and pushing the state’s anti-alcohol and drug campaigns.
“So, I’m teaching wellness besides my history courses?” No one mentioned wellness when I interviewed for the history position. Then again, it was a quick phone interview, likely to make sure I wasn’t psychotic and had more than two brain cells to rub together. I didn’t have time to fly up here prior to starting since my divorce was literally being finalized. I’m sort of regretting that now.
“Yes. And we’re so grateful you’re young. We need someone the kids can relate to. The old teacher reminded me of my great-aunt Ester if you know what I’m saying.”
I didn’t know. I like history. I don’t like teaching a bunch of pre-teens about sex.
Especially when my sex life as of late is the definition of a joke. A shitty ex-husband and a one-night stand with an asshole who gave me his brother’s name instead of his own.
“The staff meeting is on the third Tuesday of every month at seven a.m., and since it’s the second Monday of the month, the meeting will be next week. But tonight, as I’m sure you know, is our parent open house, so you’ll likely get to meet some of the other staff and teachers around the buildings then. Plus, the parents, of course. How wonderful is that? On your first day here.”
Right. Awesome. I want to vomit everywhere.
“Let’s get you off to your first class,” Laura said with way too much excitement in her voice and pep in her step. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you in before today to learn your way around your room, but I’m sure you’ll pick everything up quickly.”
At least I wasn’t being thrust into sex-ed on the first day.
Just wellness. And how hard could that be?
It was nearly seven-thirty by the time I entered my classroom. I logged into the computer and played around, doing my best to learn the SMART board touch screen thing. By eight, my classroom was filling up for my eight-ten class. Pre-teens filed in one by one, talking and laughing and taking their seats and generally ignoring me while studying me at the same time.
With each new student, my heart rate went up five beats per minute. By the time the class was full, it was pumping at a solid one-eighty, and I was positive I was either going to pass out from the anxiety or die on the expensive floor from a heart attack.
Did I look like this when I was in middle school?
I’m guessing not. Because the girls—despite their uniforms consisting of brick red, gold, and black tartan skirts, white button-up blouses, and black jackets monogrammed with the school emblem—are all model gorgeous. The guys all men-children, tall, handsome, and built like they live in the gym. I thought puberty hit boys later than girls, but clearly I need to catch up on my wellness.
I couldn’t figure it out.
None of these kids were awkward or self-conscious. There were no goth girls sitting in the back eating their hair. Even the geeky boys and girls were super adorable in an emo, hipster way.
I stood on shaky legs, my palms and cleavage sweating. I was desperate to wipe my hands on my pants, but I was positive the moisture would show on my powder blue capris. I had to swallow three times and clear my throat twice before I could speak without betraying my nerves.
I’m not a wellness teacher.
I’m barely a history teacher.
I made a mental note to find Bridget and yell at her for talking me into this madness.
I introduced myself. Explained why I was in their class instead of their regular teacher and informed them I was taking on the role of wellness and history teacher for the year. I elucidated how I was planning on following the curriculum with my own small twists to update it, then I dove into my totally off-the-cuff speech about the beauty and importance of wellness.
A hand rose in the air almost instantly. “Are you a board-certified doctor?”
“No,” I replied. “I have a bachelor’s in history and a master’s in education.”
Another hand. “How does that make you qualified to teach us about nutrition and exercise? Because my mom’s life coach tells me I need to work on eliminating carbs and intermittent fasting if I want to reach my ultimate weight goal.”
I wanted to find that life coach and strangle them.
“Nutrition and health,” I stressed, “are all things I’m very committed to and studied extensively in graduate school.” That was kind of a lie, but they had no clue.
And so it went. I spent the first twenty minutes of my very first class dodging the bullets these over-privileged students launched at me. Evidently, the previous teacher who taught this before me often lamented about how wellness was a crock of shit and in her day, people smoked, drank, and ate butter by the pound, and no one was worse for it.