Leah
It’s okay-it’s okay-it’s-okay …
At least, that’s what I keep chanting over and over in my mind.
My knee bounces erratically, knocking against the metal siding of my desk.
It creates a rhythmic clink with my school-assigned keys suspended on my lanyard.
My knuckles blanch as I grip the edge, breathing through another wave of cramps.
My muscles clench, holding still as the deep shredding sensation wreaks havoc in my lower abdomen.
Oh, thank you, Lord …
Straightening my posture, I force a smile to greet my good friend and colleague. “Hey, Chelsea—” I swallow a whimper—“sorry for making you do this.”
“Girl, why are you apologizing?” She hands me a plastic shopping bag. “I told you I needed to go to the store anyway. With Julian cutting sugar from his diet, I have to sneak my candy bars during school hours.” She chuckles, ripping open some chocolate.
I quickly unpack, tearing open a new bottle of ibuprofen before storing the new box of maxi pads in my desk drawer.
Normally, I am well-prepared, more than the average endo-sister.
But after taking this side gig at the bar, my typical Tuesday grocery-shopping has been disrupted, and I completely forgot I was running low on supplies.
“I can’t thank you enough. How much—?”
She waves it off. “Don’t you worry about it. Let’s get you through the next few hours.”
Chelsea Santiago is a gem of a teacher who works in second grade.
I did my student teaching with her two years ago to finish my elementary education degree.
When her school offered me a job in kindergarten, Chelsea requested me for her twin daughters, Birdie and Vera—bold move on her part since I was a brand new teacher.
However, she knew me; she had witnessed first-hand my classroom management skills and my ability to pivot.
My many, many years of teaching Sunday school, children’s church, and vacation Bible school have come in handy.
Today is parent-teacher conference day. Fortunately, I’m not having to herd eighteen very rambunctious five-year-olds, most of which have never had to walk in a line before or raise their hand to speak.
The flipside is I’m up close and personal with their guardians, and I need to appear pulled together even though my insides are protesting.
I breathe a sigh of relief after swallowing a hefty dose of pain medicine. Tenderly cradling my abdomen, I lay my head on the stacks of papers, folders, and spiral notebooks blanketing my desk. My eyes flutter closed, the anticipation of relief icing the agony raking across my nerves.
“How many more meetings do you have?” I ask.
Chelsea glances at her watch, the gentle jingle of her bracelets clattering against one another. “I have one in fifteen minutes, and then two more after that.” She takes another bite of her candy before asking with a semi-full mouth. “How about you?”
“Four.” I wince, trying to keep the whine from my tone.
“Any difficult conversations?”
I hum. “One. I’m supposed to meet with Ms. Stone.”
“Oh. Grady’s mom?”
I nod. “I’ve never met her before. She’s always busy with work.”
“Sweet Grady,” Chelsea coos. “He’s a little fella, ain’t he? How’s he doing?”
I glance up at her, giving her a sympathetic look. “That’s what I’m concerned about. He is the youngest kid in class, but I don’t think it’s his age or his process development that’s creating learning challenges. Before I make a referral to intervention, I’d like to talk with his mom.”
“Good call, Ms. Harrison.” She chuckles. “Speaking of good calls …”
I groan. “Chelsea—”
“What?” She sits on the edge of my desk, pushing my loose french braid over my shoulder. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I’ve got a hunch it has to do with a certain single paramedic.”
She laughs. “I was just wondering if you returned his phone call.”
I scoff, turning my head to lay on my other cheek.
“I thought the blind date was good. Was it not?”
Chelsea is a little matchmaker. Like me, she found love at a young age—and is still madly in love—and now, she wants everyone to find their person.
What she doesn’t understand is a broken heart.
How much it takes for someone to move on after being hurt and betrayed.
I love that she believes in fairytales, but my romance story isn’t a fairytale.
I only have two options, and it doesn’t include someone new.
“It was—it was very, uh … nice.”
“So why aren’t you calling him?”
This meddling woman ... “We agreed we were better off as friends.”
She groans. “Leah, I thought you were going to make an effort to meet new people—”
“And I have.” I sit up, offering a smile. “I actually kinda sorta met someone last night.”
“Shut up! In person?”
I let out a sardonic laugh. “As opposed to …?”
She shrugs. “Tell me about him. Who is he?”
“Well …” I drag my teeth across my lower lip. “His name is Nick—”
“Red flag number one.”
“Chelsea!” We both let out a string of giggles. “He came into the bar, all dark and surly, trying to be all ‘I’m damaged. You wouldn’t understand. I'm a sad boy.’”
She blinks, staring at me. “And … this attracted you how?”
I snort before getting serious. “Ah, he was just having a bad day and wasn’t at his best, but he warmed up. He was actually very kind. Funny. Conscientious of other people. There’s just something about him.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Oh my god … Look at you. You’re glowing—”
“Oh, stop. I’m bloated, not glowing. Besides, the night ended on such a weird note.”
“What do you mean?”
Sitting up, I rest my elbows on the desk. “Well, it was raining, right? So he walked me to my car. He offered me his arm and umbrella, made sure I was inside. And then he started leaning in—”
“Yeah? And then?” Chelsea nods, vibrating with anticipation.
I sigh. “Absolutely nothing.”
Chelsea holds up a hand. “Hold on. What do you mean nothing? He didn’t kiss you?”
I shake my head. “I literally had my eyes closed one moment, then the next, he’s saying, ‘Be safe going home,’ and shuts my door.”
Chelsea works her jaw, forming words that never come.
“Maybe I misread his signals?” I suggest.
She shakes her head. “You’re oblivious to men making passes at you—no offense. So the fact you even noticed him … maybe he’s gay? I mean, religious people suck at recognizing queer people—again, no offense.” She pauses. “Actually, no. Fuck y’all. All the offense.”
I chuckle. “Fair. But no, I’m fairly certain he isn’t gay.” I blow out a heavy breath, starting to straighten out my desk before my next meeting. “Maybe he could see my scarlet letter.”
“Babes, no. The only men who care about that are very few and far between. Don’t let Nick—” she says his name with disgust—“discourage you. Love is still an option for you, and it’s out there. Just you wait.”
There’s a knock on the door. “‘Scuse me, Ms. Harrison?”
I gingerly stand, adjusting the dress. “Yes, are you Ms. Stone?”
The brassy-blonde woman steps in, wearing a wrinkled pale blue dress—a uniform you might see in a diner, or perhaps a hotel—and a pair of white tennis shoes..
She adjusts the strap of her purse, extending her arm toward me.
“Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet’cha.” As I reach for her hand I am met with a waft of cigarette fumes mixed with fruity body spray.
“Likewise. Come on in and have a seat.” I invite her to sit with me at my reading table. Parents are very aware that I’m the teacher, but during these conferences, I want them to be comfortable. I want them to know that we are on the same team, that we both want what’s best for their student.
I give a small wave to Chelsea as she excuses herself from my classroom, then take a seat with Grady’s mother. I flip open a file folder. “Ms. Stone, Grady is—”
“Is this going to take long?” she interrupts, holding up her hand. “I’m on my lunch break.”
I shake my head, giving her a kind smile. “Let’s use our time wisely then. First of all, you need to know that Grady is such a sweet kid. I really enjoy having him in my class.”
“That's my Gray-bear. He’s pretty quiet, minds his manners. Pretty easy.”
I hum, opening up his student file, including a few recent classroom activities. “Ms. Stone, I'm concerned about Grady's performance so far this year.”
She straightens up. “It’s only been a few weeks. He’s still catching up to the other kids.”
I nod. “You’re right; it’s still early enough in the year where we can find him some extra support to help him succeed—”
“Maybe he needs new lenses in his glasses? I haven’t been able to take him back to get checked again, and I can make an appointment right now if—"
“Ms. Stone—” I stop her—“I don't think it’s his vision. What I'm concerned with is his retention skills.”
“Like … you think he's dumb?”
The word is like a punch to my chest. “Absolutely not. No child is dumb. Everyone learns differently. Some catch on before I can even finish my instruction; others need me to walk them through directions step by step.” I set out a few worksheets.
“We are still figuring out what kind of support Grady needs to be successful. Right now, he’s not performing at the developmental level as other children his age. ”
She stares at scribbles and poor penmanship. “He's never been in school like this before, you know.”
“Attending school is a huge learning curve. You're right.” I nod. “Has Grady's pediatrician ever expressed any concerns about his development?”
Tiffany frowns. “No. I mean, he's always been a little behind, but nobody ever said there was something wrong with him.” She pauses, nervously looking away.
I tenderly place my hand on her wrist. “I am not saying there is anything wrong with Grady. He is bright and kind, and he deserves all the support he needs to be successful.” I offer a smile. “I’d like for us to work together on that.”
Silence passes between us, her fingers picking at the edge of the stack of papers. “What exactly is he having trouble with?” she asks softly.
“He’s having difficulty retaining and recalling information.”