Chapter 11
Shay
Students will be able to kick up their heels and lose their minds.
The final days of summer break always followed a similar pattern for me.
I’d expected this year to be different since I didn’t have a roster of new students to meet or a curriculum to prepare.
But that all changed first thing Monday morning, before I’d wandered through the old tulip beds or treated myself to coffee and cookies, when Friendship Public Schools called regarding a long-term subbing assignment.
One of the second grade teachers had elected to extend her parental leave and would I mind visiting with the principal that morning for an interview?
I’d paused long enough for them to ask if I was still on the line. Then I said to myself—not the school secretary, thank god— fuck it .
That was it. Fuck it.
A long-term gig wasn’t the plan and it changed everything I’d mentally prepared for but fuck it. Fuck the plan. Fuck the mental preparation. Fuck everything because believing I had any control over my life was an exercise in comedy.
That was how I ended up spending most of the day in room nine at Hope Elementary with Kelli Calderon, whose baby boy had arrived very early and was doing well but she required more time at home with him before returning to school.
She showed me around her room and gave me an overview of her plans for the first two months of the year.
While I was comfortable with second grade and happy to jump in, this was a huge shift for me.
I wasn’t just subbing anymore. This was a commitment unlike covering a few classes when a teacher was out for professional development or a personal day.
Starting a school year with a group of kids was a big deal.
I had to get this right because there was no way in hell I’d turn a disaster of a class over to Kelli come November.
I had to get myself right. I had to accept that I wasn’t going to float through this year, itinerant and free from any real responsibility. I couldn’t phone this in. No more lazy mornings in the garden or late-night wine-and-TV binges. I had to get back into teacher mode.
After my crash course introduction to room nine, I headed to Little Star to meet Gennie.
I was feeling frazzled when I rolled up to Noah’s crisp white farmhouse, partially because I’d only consumed a pudding cup and a mediocre drive-thru coffee today, but also because I’d intended to use this morning to prepare for my work with Gennie.
I had a bunch of books I’d paged through but no real game plan for our time.
I didn’t see Gail Castro or her horses today, which was a surprise. When I knocked on the door, no one answered. I checked my phone on the off chance Noah had canceled. No messages.
I trundled down the front steps, my book tote biting into my shoulder and my phone clutched in my hand.
For several minutes I paced the gravel drive, glancing down the worn paths cutting between the rows of apple trees and back at the house.
The late August heat was oppressive, even in a breezy dress, and it wasn’t long before I felt frizz forming along my hairline and sweat behind my knees.
I ran the back of my hand over my forehead as I debated how long it made sense to wait here. I could go up to Little Star’s central operations at the old Barden house or I could swing by the Castro ranch or—
I turned as Noah’s truck thundered down the lane. Though the windows were rolled up, I caught the muffled sounds of Gennie’s voice and saw Noah motioning for her to settle down.
As soon as they came to a stop, Gennie’s door swung open. “—and we’re late! See? She’s already here and it’s no fair because—”
“You will have your playdate,” Noah said as he stepped out. “If you ask Shay, I’m sure she’ll hang around a bit longer tonight.”
“Because you made us late!” Gennie cried.
“For a good reason,” he replied. He came around the front of the truck, shaking his head. “Why don’t you tell Shay the news? She can decide if the delay was worth it.”
He caught my eye, giving me a quick nod that said please back me up on this .
“What’s your news?” I asked her, closing the distance between us.
Instead of putting one foot in front of the other, my shoe sank into a depression in the gravel and I teetered hard to the side.
This sent my other foot kicking out which led to my shoe flying off.
My bag fell from my shoulder to the crook in my elbow, which messed with my balance and sent me teetering in the opposite direction, all while I repeatedly yelped “Whoops!” and “Whoa!”
Gennie and Noah rushed toward me though I waved them off as well as I could when hopping on one foot and weighted down at the elbow. “Did anyone see where my shoe went?”
Noah took hold of my upper arm while motioning to Gennie. “Look around, okay?” He reached for my bag, saying, “Would you give me that before you face-plant in my driveway? For fuck’s sake, Shay.”
“I lost my footing,” I argued, pointing at the gravel. Of course it looked perfectly unremarkable. “It was the ground. And the shoes. They’re all wrong for this kind of surface.”
Also true but not something I was prepared to announce: sweating profusely in sandals rendered them wrong for most surfaces.
He stared at me, his eyes concealed behind sunglasses. His jaw was rigid, the little muscle up near his earlobe twitching as I studied his face.
“Found it,” Gennie called from the other side of the lane.
“Why are you shaking?” he asked, his fingers sliding up my arm.
“I’m not. I’m just a little jittery. I’ve only had coffee today.” I tipped my head to the side. “And a pudding cup.”
“Coffee,” he repeated. “And a pudding cup .”
“Yeah. I got a call from the school and—”
“One shoe, coming right up,” Gennie sang as she jogged over. She dropped it in front of me.
“Thanks,” I said to her. I slipped it on and stepped back. Noah didn’t release me. “You’re such a big helper.”
“You kicked it really far.” She sounded impressed.
“I don’t even know how,” I replied.
“Coffee. And a pudding cup,” Noah murmured.
“Shay! Guess what?” Gennie asked.
Noah’s fingers loosened on my bicep, one after the other, and then immediately tightened again. “Gen, we’ll tell Shay all about it inside. We need to get her some water before she expires.”
“What is expire?” she asked.
“My shoe slipped,” I told him. “That’s all. Nothing to get excited about.”
“It means Shay forgot to fill up that big water bottle of hers today and it’s very hot, so we need to get her a drink,” he said. “Probably some solid food too.”
“Really, you don’t have to—”
“Come with me,” Gennie said, taking my free hand. “I’ll make some pirate juice.”
“What’s pirate juice?” I glanced between Gennie and Noah as they led me into the house.
He chuckled. “You’ll see.”
“Noah cooked some new jam last night. You can have a jam snack. Sometimes I dip my pretzels into jam.”
“And that’s why you have your own jar,” Noah said.
“What kind of new jam?” I asked. Noah pushed open the door and a wall of cool air greeted me. It was a gorgeous relief. So much that I groaned out loud. “Oh, that’s nice.”
He pulled a chair from the kitchen table, deposited me in it. He shook his head like I was more problem than he’d bargained for. “Tomato.”
“Tomato?” I echoed.
He dropped both hands to my shoulders and gave me a firm squeeze. “The new jam.”
“That’s…a jam?”
He set my bag on the counter and leaned back against the island, crossed his arms over his chest. Gennie disappeared into the pantry, soon emerging with a step stool.
“Savory jams are niche but increasingly popular. We can charge twice as much as what we would for strawberry jam and move them at greater volume, especially in restaurant and other wholesale settings,” he said. “Where did you go today?”
“The elementary school. A parental leave sub position came up.”
Gennie opened the freezer and started scooping ice into a cup. Noah watched her. “Shake a leg on that juice, Gen.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” she said, selecting ice by the individual cube.
Soon, she hustled to the table carrying a green soda bottle, a mason jar packed with something purpley-red, and the mug filled with hand-selected ice.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
She tapped a finger to each item. “Cherries, rocks, rum.”
“Rum?”
“Pirates love rum,” Noah said with a nod to the green bottle. The label had been ripped off, and in its place, RUM was printed in thick black marker. “Uncles don’t like rum nearly as much as they enjoy keeping their sanity.”
Gennie glanced at him over her shoulder. “How many cherries?”
“Three should do it.”
Gennie spooned each cherry into the mug with a chemist’s precision. If only she brought that kind of focus to writing complete sentences.
After she’d finished with the fruit, I studied the jar. It didn’t have any labels. Didn’t look store-bought. “Do you preserve your own cherries too?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I don’t care for the processing maraschinos go through. There’s no real cherry flavor left over and it’s mostly corn syrup and food coloring. Why bother if you’re basically eating a gummy bear packed in juice?”
I nodded. “Why indeed.”
Gennie presented the pirate juice, complete with reusable straw, saying, “This will give you big energy.”
I took a sip. Ginger ale and home-preserved cherries. And we called it pirate juice. “It’s wonderful. An authentic elixir of the high seas. Thank you.”
She beamed. “What do you want for a snack?”
“I’m not sure,” I said between sips. It was a major throwback but it was beautifully cold and the cherries offered just enough sweetness to perk me up. Perfect. “Do you have any Cheez-Its?”
“What? My god, no,” he replied, slashing a hand as if I’d offended him. “Gen, get the cheddar Wheatie brought over last night. And the sourdough. It’s in the pantry.”
“Aye aye.”
“The elementary school, then,” he said to me.