14-Lily
“Dr. Hughes?” I knock on the open door before entering.
“Lily, good to see you again.” She beckons towards the empty chair by her desk. “Do you have the letter?”
“In my hand.” The disability services office promised to send it over twice, but they still botched it. Privacy concerns require any request for information from me, and it proved harder to remember than it should. Typical of me. “I try not to take advantage.”
Dr. Hughes scans the form. “Extra times for test is more than reasonable. All of this is perfectly reasonable.”
They’re essentially the same accommodations from high school, which turned me into a successful student. With them in place, my final three years of high school were the first time I didn’t consider myself stupid.
An electronic sound from the other side of her office distracts me. A young girl sits in a lounge chair. She sways in the seat with a tablet in her lap.
“Beth’s babysitter called in sick today,” Dr. Hughes explains. “Office hours are typically quiet, so I brought her here rather than go home.”
I smile, appreciating the need for quiet. It’s the only way I can accomplish homework.
“Please don’t talk,” Beth says without looking up from her tablet.
“Beth is a student at Horizons Academy. Are you familiar with it?”
My ears perk at the name. “I went there for three years. It was amazing.” Catching Dr. Hughes’s reference, I pick up the headphones on her desk. “Would these be helpful?” I hand them to Beth, who puts them on.
“Lily, you realize part of the education degree requires hands-on training at a school, correct?”
“I thought that wasn’t until later.” It’s another dreaded internship. I bombed two interviews in the business program before giving up, and now I get to do it again. Not everyone is capable of selling themselves in ten minutes or less. Some of us panic and ramble before apologizing and over-explaining. I yank a lock of hair.
“That’s technically correct, yes.” Dr. Hughes’ patient smile relaxes me. Her bright red hair is different from Julian’s. His is dark enough to appear completely brown in the dimmer light, while Dr. Hughes’ is still shining, with a hint of brassiness in parts. I would think it came from a bottle if her daughter wasn’t such an obvious twin. She pulls her blue cardigan tighter and explains further. “Your schedule is empty on Fridays, and Horizons Academy is always desperate for help. Would you consider an early start?”
My eyes bulge. My first year of high school passed with teachers frustrated about my 504 and peers who found me either annoying or strange. The switch to Horizons Academy saved me in more than one way. “Is that possible?”
“It might be,” she says. “Let me make a quick phone call.”
∞∞∞
“As you can see, very little has changed since you were a student here,” says Ms. Lankford, the school principal. She had been a long-time staple when I first arrived and probably would be for several more years. “Several of your teachers are still here as well.”
“It’s exactly as I remembered it.” Soft lights in the hallway, with student art everywhere. Children’s voices waft out from closed doors, all happy and boisterous. “My best school years were spent here, you know.”
“I suspect that’s why Dr. Hughes suggested you.” Ms. Lankford comes to a stop in the hallway. “There’s a shortage of ESE teachers in this state. We’ve had more than a few start an internship and then resign halfway through due to frustration. With your experience, we hope this might be a great fit for us both. We have specials on Fridays rather than the regular curriculum for the younger grades. It’s more resource-intensive for staff, so we need additional help on those days.”
I could do that. It won’t interfere with school, and I can keep my promise to attend Julian’s races.
All that’s left is the interview. Surely, after so many mistakes, I’ve mastered those by now. This is a familiar place, and I’m finally pursuing a career that matters.
“I have no classes on Fridays, so that works perfectly.”
“Good, we’ll start with you in here. The art room is a mess by the end of every week. We can start there and see how it works out.”
Ms. Lankford opens a familiar door, and a familiar face greets me.
“Ms. Terry!”
“I see you two know each other,” says Ms. Lankford.
“She was a student of mine her senior year. I thought you might choose art school at one point, but this is a great second choice. Come on in, Lily. It’s great to see you again.”
“But what about my interview?”
“My dear, this was the interview. You were spectacular,” says Ms. Lankford.
∞∞∞
“Dad, the kids were adorable. Little Stevie spent the entire time cutting out circles, and Liam drew trains. We were supposed to do a macaroni art project, but those two had their own plans.”
It was my first official day as a class assistant, and it was easily one of the most enjoyable in ages. Sure, cleaning up spilled paint wasn’t my favorite part, but listening to their chatter and adding to it made up for that part.
Dad barely stops eating to respond. “That sounds very nice. Does this mean you’ll be continuing with your education degree?”
What does that mean? It could be he thinks I’ll change my mind again, or Dad wants me to do something else. “It’s the first time I can’t see myself switching majors.” Again. Business, then Communications before that, and then Psychiatry. Oh, and Library Science, too. I can’t forget that. They were poor choices, made because it was the next step, an excuse to keep going with little understanding of what I wanted. It took two failed job interviews and several weeks of misery at RMS to admit I was pursuing the wrong things. “Do you think I’ll be a bad teacher?” The mere idea stings.
Dad pats my hand. “No, it’s not that at all. I only want you to be sure it’s what you want. There’s no hurry, and it’s important we find a career that allows you to leverage your strengths.”
The ‘we’ slipped by without his notice. That stupid internship with RMS only came to be because Dad thought my eventual job choices were a decision we would make together. I’ve needed support for every other major decision; there’s no reason that one would be any different. I should correct him, and maybe that will happen someday. Not yet, though, because I’m afraid I’m wrong.
“I hope this will.”
Dad’s concern comes out in his voice. It’s familiar by now after years of hearing it. It’s carefully even, with every word in the same calm rhythm. Julian told me he yells in the garage, pushing the pit crews and engineers to be better. Apparently, he constantly threatens and demands, while I don’t remember him even raising his voice.
A person doesn’t always need to yell to know you’re trying their patience. Many times, Dad’s frustration with me has lurked under the surface. Our lone beach vacation is the perfect example. The year he signed me up for dance lessons is another. Every lesson was a terror; Dad thought it would raise my self-esteem.
“Take heart, Lily. You know a job is waiting for you at RMS, with me, if needed. You’ll make a great teacher but never worry. Something creative might suit you well.”
Creative is code for low pressure. “I’m not sure a career at RMS is for me. For now, Julian’s great with my school schedule, but it isn’t permanent.”
“Is he bothering you?”
“What? No.” Bothering sounds like a code for something else. “He’s very encouraging. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Because I’ve been in this industry my entire career and know his type. I went to fetch him from his trailer once last season because he was late for the driver’s meeting. I found him in bed with two women and his trailer reeking of alcohol. He finished thirty-second in that race. Julian Murphy may have found a streak of discipline in him, but that doesn’t mean he can keep it up. That’s who he is, Lily. He’s a charmer, I’m sure, but he’s also a screw-up.”