2. Summer
Chapter 2
Summer
“M iss Summer, where do penguins live?”
I smile at Tommy as he sprawls out on the circle time carpet. “Antarctica,” I reply, staring past the rainbow alphabet plastered to the top wall to glance at the clock. Four minutes until recess.
I couldn’t be any more grateful for the warmer March day. While the rest of the country prepares for the beginning of spring, the entire northeast is prepared to endure another month of cold, sloshy winter. But not today. Today it’s a whopping fifty degrees, and the snow has melted off the playground enough that we’re able to get these kiddos outside. And I’m ready.
I wasn’t one of those women who grew up planning to teach. One of the brave few who trekked to work each day ready to mold and shape young minds into the future of humanity. To be honest, it all sounded like too much pressure. I’d always been the what’s in it for me type. Shameful.
During my first few years in Boston, I did whatever job I could get my hands on. Cleaned office building bathrooms, waited tables—which I was terrible at—and eventually got a job at a private school as an assistant to the office manager.
Ardenbrook Academy is one of the most prestigious private K–12 schools in Boston. I spent two years making photocopies and filing school excuses. That was until last year the preschool teacher had an affair with the PE teacher and all hell broke loose.
The school was hard-pressed to keep the debacle out of the local news spotlight, and they didn’t want to make a big show of hiring from the outside.
So naturally, or more like unnaturally, they appointed me the new preschool teacher at the start of the school year.
I find it funny most of these families pay an excessive amount to make sure their children have the best private school education the city offers, and the Academy effectively put a no-name into the position. Granted, I’m not a stranger to the private education scene, my own parents made sure of that. And since one doesn’t need a college degree to teach at a private preschool, this twenty-four-year-old is staring at snotty-nosed four and five-year-olds in uniforms who know more about the social pressures of the elite than they should. I’m literally counting down the minutes until the day is over.
“A few reminders before recess: no running as it is still wet outside, and we’ll be going straight to pickup from the playground, so bring your backpacks with you. Tommy and Aoife please see me before we head outside.”
The kids dart from their assigned animals on the circle rug to their cubbies and pack their bags while Tommy, a short brown-haired boy with glasses, and Aoife, a beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who’s destined to break hearts, approach me.
“Miss Summer?” Aoife says.
I smile at her and Tommy, kneeling to their level. “I didn’t receive your parental permission slips back in your take-home folders for our field trip next week. They were due today.”
Tommy sniffles and pushes his orange frames up his nose with his thumb. “I-I know my mom signed it, Miss Summer. Can I bring it tomorrow?”
I nod, knowing I’d worked two extra days for late permission slips. He hisses out a “yes” while pumping his elbow down into his ribs in a celebratory fist pump. He runs over to his buddy, John, who is packing up his pencil case.
Aoife stands there, unsure where to look before landing on the giraffe animal below her spotless white Keds. Her expression flickers a memory to life in the back of my mind, but I squash it.
“And what about you, Aoife?”
She shrugs, and her tiny button nose scrunches with a sniffle. “I gave the folder to my nanny.”
My heart melts at her expression, and I reach up to squeeze her small shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll get it sorted out.” At least, I hope I can.
Her frown turns into a light grin. “Thanks,” she says, and ducks into the line of tiny minions acting like feral cats trying to get outdoors. She taps another little girl on the shoulder ahead of her. “Want to play mermaids outside?”
Paige’s face lights up. “Yes!”
With my line leaders in place, we exit the room at the same time the pre-K3 class across the hall also attempts recess. The dark marble floors extend into several equally spaced pillars down the massive prekindergarten wing and instead of children’s artwork displayed proudly on the hallway walls like one would expect from a school, the sterile white walls are riddled with professional photographs of businessmen, politicians, and athletes who were once part of the Ardenbrook preschool program.
I’ll admit I offer them each a scowl out of principle each morning when I come into school.
Down the long hallway is a private exit for the preschool wing of the academy that opens into a shared courtyard with kindergarten and first grades already playing. Erect in the middle of said courtyard is a state-of-the-art playground made possible by ten donors, all of whom sit on the academy’s board. It’s impossible not to know with the giant bronze plaque on display as you enter.
The play structure is green and cream, matching the school’s colors, and it’s almost comical to see the kids—also in green and khaki—dart around like ants on their hill.
“Backpacks near the wall for dismissal,” I instruct sternly before my mouth widens into a smile. “And have fun.”
Kids dart every which way from their assigned lines. Crashing like waves upon the sand.
I fiddle with my lanyard, layered with alternating colored silicone beads and matching animals from the mammal-themed classroom I put together, and make my way to the seating surrounding the courtyard.
At the bench sit two of my closest teacher friends, Shelly and Mark. Shelly teaches first grade, while Mark is part of the main office and admissions staff.
“I don’t know how you wear those annoyingly adorable outfits when dealing with little ones all day,” Shelly says.
“And in the cold.” Mark shifts to make room for me on the bench.
As I sit, I nod toward his shaved head. “Finally, a day your head isn’t so cold, huh?”
“It’s supposed to snow tomorrow,” he deadpans.
I let out a discreet chuckle. When Mark is out of school, he’s always wearing a hat to cover his almost-bald head. He usually has the grunge look going on. But in school, the man wears the most eccentric suits and bow ties. When I’m fifty-five, I hope to have the confidence to wear whatever I want as well. He and his partner both have better fashion sense than I do.
“I’m looking forward to spring break,” Shelly chimes in. “After this field trip next week, I get a whole week off to wear sweatpants and watch Netflix.”
“You mean lesson plan, catch up on grading, and do all your neglected laundry?”
“Way to kill the vibe, Summer,” Mark says.
I shrug, actually looking forward to getting some lesson planning done. Then I spot Bree pushing Tommy and have to intervene with a “no pushing!” tirade.
“I have two students who haven’t turned in their permission slips for the New England Aquarium trip next week.” I don’t come out and ask the question to Shelly, but it’s implied.
Shelly is my go-to guru for all things teaching. She’s been at Ardenbrook for six years, and we have a friendship I’m not sure I’ve ever had before.
She lowers the glasses that she wears to match her outfits despite having 20/20 vision. Today they’re a light pink to match her magenta cashmere sweater and black dress pants. Her red hair is pulled up and clipped to the back of her head, two pieces framing her face.
“I’d send another note home or give the parents a call. You’re at a private school, hun. Many of these parents are impossible to get ahold of,” she says, attention on one of her first graders digging in the rubber mulch with his chin. She scrunches her nose and shakes her head.
“Aoife says her nanny had the form, but I think it’s policy they can’t sign it, right?”
Mark nods, his pointy nose raising a little as he says, “Section 54.23a of the Ardenbrook Parent/Student Handbook: all permissions must be signed by the legal guardian of each student. Ardenbrook prohibits the use of nannies, chauffeurs, or lawyers from acting as a signature or guarantor. Frankly, it’s annoying. Most of the kids have a nanny or driver that drops them off. I get the legal reasons, but it’s impractical.”
I blink. Both for his regurgitation of the field trips section of the handbook, and because leave it to the richest private school in Boston to have a section about nannies, chauffeurs, and family lawyers for sending their kids to school.
Unfortunately, it’s nothing new to me.
“Aoife O’Donnell?” Shelly asks.
I nod, capturing a piece of my hair that’s stuck to my eyelash. Even after seven years I’m still not used to my short hair hovering above my shoulders. It was one of the first things I did when I got to Boston—chop it off.
“Mr. O’Donnell usually lets his nanny handle everything. But boy is he dreamy.” Shelly fans herself. “Only wish his personality reflected those looks. The man is a complete A-S-S.”
Fisting the cheetah-print skirt at my knees, I fight the urge to make comments about my students’ parents. Especially the ones who have checked out of their kid’s lives, investing time with them when it behooves their agenda. I had one of those once.
I glance down at my watch, noting the five minutes until dismissal, and mentally add a sticky note reminder to call Tommy and Aoife’s parents. Not the nannies. The parents.
Clouds roll in and block out the sun. I shiver and pull my white cardigan, freshly saturated with the snack time grape juice, around to my middle and hold it shut. Guess the warmth of the day decided to give way.
The first bell rings, indicating it’s time for the preschool and kindergarten pickup. Our school separates both grades from each other because the parents have to walk in to get the students versus the ever-convenient pickup line.
I move to the doors with my hand in the air, watching my students dart toward me. They each grab their backpacks, and we walk into the main foyer. With the students overly excited, their voices echo between the marble columns.
Several of the office admins are there to help facilitate dismissal and twenty whirlwind minutes are over in a blink.
Slinking back to my classroom, I spend the next thirty minutes tidying and getting ahead for Monday morning. I pull out our read-aloud books for next week—most are books on aquatic animals to coincide with our field trip to the aquarium.
Tasks complete, I power down my computer and pack up my desk, ready for the long trip home. But before I make the cold walk to the MBTA red line, I pick up my desk phone and make two phone calls, leaving voicemails for both.
* * *
I live an hour outside of Boston. It’s an unassuming suburb at the end of one of the commuter rail lines. Unfortunately, I need to walk from school to the subway and take the red line until I can transfer to the Worchester line.
I jog down the subway steps, my flats nearly slipping on the wet and icy stairs. Typically, I change into my boots before heading home, but I was running behind for the four o’clock train and had to forgo those. Instead, they’re shoved under my armpit as I wrestle my bag over my arm.
The rattle of a passing train thunders through the tunnel and I inhale the stagnant air that blows through my hair. The muddy brown square tiles under my water-logged flats are chipped, the pieces teetering on loose gravel. I lean against a concrete pillar waiting for the next train, instantly smelling, then subsequently dodging, a piece of mint gum stuck to the side.
I still remember my first time on the subway in Boston. I’d spent most of my life sheltered and didn’t grow up in a major city, so the subway was foreign. It took me over an hour to figure out how to purchase a CharlieCard, and I ended up taking the blue line when I should’ve been on the green line to my first cleaning job. It was my only warning from my boss at the motel, and luckily, I was a quick learner after that.
Well, I should say I learned the hard way. It wasn’t long into my first cleaning job I realized how far my paycheck wouldn’t go. I’d gone from never having to worry over money to overspending and misjudging costs daily. Who knew grapes were four dollars and ninety-eight cents per pound and there’s such a thing as seasonality price factors? I had to break some pretty gnarly spending habits, and when I was late on my rent for two consecutive months, I ended up getting my second job as a waitress. It was at a chain restaurant and the money was abysmal, but it worked well opposite my cleaning shifts.
I sigh, remembering the daily emotional drain the financial stress had on me, or not having any basic life skills. I fought the urge to call my parents daily—to throw in the towel and accept whatever fate waited for me back with them. But I told myself I deserved this: the nights spent staring at an empty fridge or juggling which bill I’d get around to paying first. Told myself it was karma; I was struggling, and this was my penance, the universe handing me exactly what I had coming.
But now, looking back, those first couple of years forced me to become someone I never imagined. I turned out grittier, learning how to claw my way through life.
The red line comes barreling in, and the horde of people trying to get home for a relaxing weekend all push toward the yellow line, waiting for the doors to open.
While being corralled and herded forward, I peek over my shoulder to the flickering lights and freeze.
Is that?—
I avert my eyes, swallowing. It can’t be them. There’s no way they’d know to look for me in Boston. The air seems to thicken around me, my legs falter, and I stumble into the middle-aged man ahead of me. He turns and I force a smile, hoping I didn’t draw attention to myself.
Sweat prickles at the base of my neck while a chill races down my spine despite the heat from my coat and bodies urging me forward. My fingers curl to fist the boots tucked under my arm, and my stomach twists.
It’s the same as years past. Seven years of shadows and constantly looking over my shoulder. Each year has been better; I’ve breathed easier.
As I shuffle onto the train, I chance another glance up and catch a polished man in all black coming down the steps against the sea of people walking up from the subway station.
Unfortunately, all the seats are taken. Fumbling with my boots, I adjust my full hands to grip the bar in the center of the train. Honestly, I’m surprised I can hold on at all. There are days when you have no choice but to rely on the bodies around you to stay steady. I guess today isn’t one of those days.
The body odor from a long Friday causes my nose to wrinkle, and the man with a goatee next to me lets out a breath full of garlic that makes my stomach sour.
I ride the line until I’m able to transfer to the commuter rail.
Snow falls, and my ankles are already buried in the sludge on the clearly unsalted platform. I wait another fifteen minutes for the train. Once I’m on, I make my way to my seat, checking once again over my shoulder. They’re tense and my muscles are burning.
Sighing, I slouch into the stiff fabric seat just as the train moves. I settle in for the ride, pulling out my lesson plans for the next two weeks. I say lesson plan loosely. They’re preschoolers after all, and I often push back against the board with how much they push these young kids when they should be doing kid things. Not worried about excelling and stressing under the pressures of these overzealous adults.
Snowflakes splash against the moving train window, melting almost instantly and streaking across my field of vision. My temple kisses the icy window, and it’s a welcome relief from the sweat pooling down my back.
I’ve come so far from the girl I was—selfish and splintered. I dragged myself to Boston those many years ago and I’ve been working hard ever since to be someone; to thrive in my own way.
I cringe at my failure to thrive while watching the city get smaller behind me.
I must fall asleep because I’m jolted awake with the squeaking of the train gliding to a stop. Drool leaks from the corner of my mouth, and I swipe at it with the back of my jacket sleeve. The brown puffy coat comes away with some of the last of my makeup for the day, and I shake my head.
Gathering my bag and boots, I maneuver through the aisle and exit to the platform, then groan at the two flights of stairs I need to climb.
I don’t own a car. It wasn’t a priority when I first moved to Boston. My focus was on the basics—food, water, and shelter. Even after I found my studio apartment and secured jobs, there was never enough left over to save for one. Only now, this past year at Ardenbrook, have I been able to stash some money.
Luckily, my studio apartment is two blocks from the commuter rail, and I saunter in that direction, pressing quickly along the sidewalk to avoid being alone on the streets in the dark.
This isn’t a bad area. In fact, it’s generally quiet. Most of the buildings are small businesses. Like the one I live above.
A family-owned diner is next door with the best pancakes in life. While I don’t get to treat myself often, they’re out-of-this-world good. An antique shop is across the street, and a lawyer’s and insurance office down the street as well. It’s not a residential area.
Fate seemed to intervene the day I found my studio apartment above the music shop. There was no way I could continue paying the weekly rental price where I was in downtown Boston. After gaining more confidence with public transportation, I knew expanding my search to outside the city was my best option.
I looked for simple areas near the commuter rails, and the blue line—at the time I was cleaning toilets for a high-rise office building with ten other janitors. It worked out that when I moved jobs to Ardenbrook, I could still use the station close by.
Pausing in front of The Music Academy—I know, original—I lift the flap to the old black letter box that houses my mail. Any mail coming to the academy slides through the door’s adorable brass mail slot.
That’s another thing that drew me to this place when I saw it advertised online. Besides the quiet location, I loved the look of the building. It’s red brick all the way up both floors with a black awning stretching over the front of the shop. Above is a private balcony that’s solely mine and Deuce’s.
The owners of The Music Academy are a brother and sister who inherited the shop from their grandparents. While the sister, Grace, doesn’t work at the shop, her brother, Doug, does. He teaches students ages five and up Tuesday through Thursday. It being Friday, I’ve never been happier to have the peace and quiet on the extended weekends. Since most of his students are coming to practices after school, he has lessons late into the evening on the days he’s here.
I don’t mind. The students always come eager to learn and leave with smiles on their faces. Often I sneak to the balcony to catch the students filling in their parents on what they learned as they’re picked up from their lessons.
With the sun setting, and the temperature dropping, I dig into my purse for my keys and open the separate entrance that leads upstairs to my studio. Shutting and relocking the door, I turn and go up the steps. They are old gouged-out wooden risers that creak with each step, and when I finally make it up the top, I fiddle with the other five keys on my key ring to open the door.
I start with the first deadbolt, then work my way through the others. Each click gets me closer to my pajamas, Deuce, and SpaghettiOs. A sacrilege, I know.
Finally, I plow into the fully furnished studio immediately turning to re-bolt the doors. One, two, three, four, five. I count each one as it turns and clacks closed. Dropping my boots and the bag off my shoulder, I step back.
I worry my lip between my teeth as I examine the locks.
Move , I tell myself.
But I can’t. The pit in my stomach grows until I step forward again. I undo each lock and relock them two times before the release in my chest allows me to step back and away. It’s the same each time I come home. The passing years in Boston don’t matter; it’s always the same.
“Deuce, I’m home,” I say, pulling my coat off. With a quick flick, I toss the coat on the couch while stepping out of my flats.
“Deuce,” I say again. His cute meow sounds several times from the kitchen, and I watch his gray blur bounce from the counter to the round table by the window. Green-slitted eyes land on me.
He was a stray cat getting into the music shop trash that sits in the alleyway beside it. It took me four days of discreetly watching the dumpster and leaving food out to successfully grab him. When I took him to the vet, they scanned for a microchip, but he didn’t have one. The vet estimated he was about three years old.
I put up some posters, but after a couple of weeks with no one reaching out as his owner, I gave him a home. Deuce was the name I landed on—a nod to my past life. Maybe someday I’ll play tennis again, but for now Deuce is enough.
I relate to him; being lost in Boston. We’re kindred spirits in that way.
He meows again, and I move to the kitchenette. It’s all white, starting with the half-sized single-door fridge. A sink with a few inches of counter space on either side of it sits between the refrigerator and the also white stove. The only cabinet space I have is below the sink, and two half-sized cabinets above that run up to the ceiling. Standing tall on my tiptoes—gosh, I hate being short—I reach up to snatch a can of cat food. Salmon is his favorite.
With a quick crack of the can, I pour the food into his dish as he slinks around the wooden chair. I grin. I’ve never been a cat person, always thought I’d have a dog, but he’s stolen my heart and run away with it.
While he eats, I turn to the opposite side of the studio where my queen bed juts out from the wall. My dresser is pushed up against the footboard and serves as the one place I can keep a small stack of books, doubling as a side table in my “living room.”
I don’t have a couch. The apartment came fully furnished when I moved in, and I didn’t have the extra money to go buy one. But honestly, with the TV mounted to the wall across from the dining table, I usually watch from there—or my bed, if I don’t mind the glare.
And that’s it. The studio has a tiny bathroom with a standard shower and pedestal sink that you can reach from the toilet. I’ve found clever ways to hide my belongings out of the way. Lightweight plastic organizers, and wicker baskets on the floor beside the sink. I don’t need much.
I ruffle through my dresser to pull out my flannel pajama pants and the matching top. Tossing them onto the hook near the shower in the bathroom, I rummage through the shoe closet by my front door for a towel. I bring it to my nose relishing the soft cotton scent.
It’s the one thing I splurge on. Laundry service. It’s excessive, I know, but my unit doesn’t have a washer and dryer. The closest one is blocks away and carting my laundry around on foot in the dead of winter—no thank you.
I go without cable or streaming services to make up the difference.
After I hop through the shower, I change into the only outfit I’ll wear at home and dump my cheetah-print skirt into the laundry hamper, making a note to schedule a pickup soon.
Steam paints over the oval mirror, and I swipe it away, staring at my bland face. It’s so different from the face that was once continuously plastered in makeup. Always having nail appointments, getting my eyebrows done, having custom clothing fittings, and taking private tennis lessons.
Now, instead, I wear BB cream, simple mascara, and nude lipstick in an attempt to blend in. Avoid detection.
During my first two years in Boston, I ordered colored contacts online—blue ones to hide my copper-colored eyes. But eventually, I grew tired of the hassle and irritation of wearing them every day. So when I switched jobs, I stopped bothering with them altogether.
I brush out my hair, struggling to pull it back into a ponytail with how short it is. I’ve gotten used to it, and as long as I keep my once-a-month hair appointment to get it trimmed, it grazes just above my shoulders.
Grimacing at my reflection, I move from the bathroom to the kitchen to make myself some pasta from a can. When I finally pull out the chair to sit down at the table, night has settled in. I watch the dancing streetlights flicker from green to yellow to red while shoving microwaved tiny Os into my mouth.
Swiping open my phone, I look at the calendar. An orange dot sits as the only task for my Friday evening. My finger hovers over it before I click.
SEND TEXT.
It’s all it says. It’s all it says every last Friday of the month. Opening my messages, I have one from Shelly asking me to come out tonight. I ignore it. Then, starting a blank one, I type in the memorized number before sending a simple message.
The message shows as read almost immediately, and I smile knowing she was probably waiting for it.
There are no response bubbles or reactions to the message. There never is. It’s better this way.
I clean the single bowl in my sink and scoop up Deuce to place him in his spot on the bed. He rarely stays there long, opting for his own bed under the table instead. But it’s as if he knows I need him until I fall asleep and he concedes.
I tuck myself in, going over my weekend plans of lesson planning and grocery shopping before nuzzling into my pillow and shutting out the world.