23. Quinn
23
quinn
I’m not usually a nervous person. When you have a suit of armor made from one-hundred-percent, fake-it-till-you-make-it, Teflon, it allows you to walk into any situation with false hope and a brush-it-off attitude if things don’t go well.
Yet, I’m oddly nervous about what I’m about to walk into with this Zoom call.
For one, is it really my students? I’m trusting it is based on the knowledge of the Bruh Jar, but maybe one of the parents knows about it and is tricking me? Maybe this is the P.E.N.I.S. Posse setting me up to having communication with the students, which many would deem inappropriate. Then again, I’m not their teacher anymore, so is it? And it’s not like I’m texting them every day or sharing memes.
And really, part of me hopes this really is them. I want to properly say goodbye and tell them what happened. And for all I know, this is them being savvy and demanding the farewell I never gave them. Which, honestly, they deserve that much. And if I piss off a few parents in doing it, well, that’s very on brand for me.
I check the baby monitor to make sure that Grace is still napping, and yup, my girl is out. It was really convenient that the Zoom call that I have no control over happens to coincide with her sleep schedule. And since she was up half the night crying, I knew she’d nap good today.
When she sleeps, baby girl sleeps.
I check the time to see that it’s promptly three o’clock and I click on the link. Again, smart? No. But if I started making smart decisions now, then who would I be as a person?
I expect a blank screen—if I learned anything from pandemic teaching it’s that students conveniently don’t know how to work technology when you need them to. But to my surprise, not only am I the last one to seemingly arrive, but there are rows and rows of my former students.
All with their cameras on.
And every one of them is holding a sign with a heart on it.
“What are y’all doing?”
I don’t even try to fight the battle of keeping my tears back.
“We’re having our first meeting of the Quinn’s Crew Book Club.”
That statement comes from Axel, who I had a feeling was behind this. “What?”
“Hold up.” This comes from Antonio. I laugh through my tears, because of course he’s going to be the one to challenge anything. “We’ve got a few things to discuss, bruh.”
I wipe away my tears. “I’d tell you to put money in the jar, but I can’t anymore.”
“And that’s why we needed to talk with you,” he says. “Is it true? Did you quit?”
I nod, but I know I need to clear up a few things first. “I’ll tell you my side of the story, but first I need to know how many of your parents are okay with y’all being here?”
Everyone but Makayla raises her hand, which tracks since her mom is the reason I’m sitting in Rolling Hills right now. It’s also at that moment that Daniella’s mom pops onto the screen.
“Hi, Miss Banks!” I wave back to her, but I’m too in awe to say anything. I think these kids thought of everything. “Just wanted to let you know that all of their parents gave permission, and I told them I’d be around just in case. And well, Makayla…”
“My mom is at her weekly facial. I’ve got two hours.”
I know I shouldn’t be laughing, but Makayla’s rebellion right now is giving me life. “All right then, here’s the story.”
For the next twenty minutes, I’m brutally honest with my kids. A little too much? Probably. They might be barely teenagers, and they’re still figuring out the world, but that doesn’t mean that I should sugarcoat what happened. They deserve to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Dolly Parton.
“Damn,” Antonio says after I’ve concluded. I probably should reprimand his language, but he’s not wrong.
“And I need to say how sorry I am to each and every one of you.” I take a deep breath, ready to say what I’ve wanted to tell them for weeks now. “I didn’t want to leave like that. I wanted to come tell you all goodbye. I wanted to spend the Bruh Jar money on an epic last day party. I wanted to read The Westing Game with you. But I let my emotions get carried away, and I had to leave. And you didn’t deserve that. It probably felt like I abandoned you, and I did. And I’ll never be able to fully apologize for that. But please know, I’ve been thinking about y’all every day. And I hope that one day you realize that what I did was because I love each and every one of you, and you deserve better, and this was my way of telling people that.”
I was hoping for a chorus of “It’s okay Miss Banks” or maybe even a round of applause.
But what I wasn’t expecting was a bunch of snickers.
“What? I just poured my heart out! Why are y’all laughing?”
Axel raises his hand between his own laughter. “You say y’all a lot now.”
The rest of my former class continues to laugh. And honestly, his joke helps me laugh away the tears. “Well, I’m living back in Tennessee. I guess being back around it has brought out the Southerner in me.”
“You’re back in Tennessee?” Axel asks. “So you’re not coming back, ever?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure yet, kiddo. I’m not sure.”
A somberness hangs over the call, so I do what any good teacher does when she’s losing the class—change topics.
“But enough about me. This is your Zoom. I doubt that you came up with a covert email, got parental permission, and organized this way just to hear my apology.”
I notice everyone’s mic’s go to mute, except for Makayla.
“We never got to read The Westing Game. And we were wondering…”
She trails off, and Axel turns his mic on. “We were wondering if we could start a summer book club and read it together?”
It takes a lot to make my jaw drop. I’m not easily shocked. But it’s safe to say that my jaw is firmly on the floor.
“Are you serious?”
“No cap, Miss Banks. You hyped it up so much and then you bounced,” Antonio says. “Plus, our parents said we needed to find something else to do this summer besides play video games. So let’s read.”
“That was only your mom, Antonio,” Makayla says. “But he’s right, Miss Banks. We were looking forward to it. And…well, I know that you didn’t want to quit. I live with my mom. I get it.”
Oh, this poor girl. But good on her to realize the devil is in the house.
“We could read it on our own, but that wouldn’t be as fun,” Axel says. “So we thought, what if we started a book club? We can meet each week on Zoom. You tell us how many chapters to read, you can talk about everything you were going to teach us, and we can talk about what we liked and didn’t like. Isn’t that what a book club is?”
I nod through my tears. “That’s exactly what it is, Axel. That’s exactly what it is.”
“So you’ll do it?” Makayla asks, a hopeful plea to her voice.
“Just remember, you ditched us, Miss Banks. You owe us this.”
Everyone in the chat starts laughing, Daniella’s mom included.
“I’d love to,” I say. “But wait. Not everyone has books. I think it’s on an eBook, but I’d have to make sure I can get copies for everyone.”
“No worries, Miss Banks. We got it covered.”
I raise an eye to Antonio. “May I ask how, or is that making me an accomplice?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I took the books out of your room. Every copy. So technically, I’m just holding on to your property.”
“Excuse me what!”
Snickers start from my students again. “Well, I saw Hargrove and the mean moms come into the room, and they said they were looking for the books. I couldn’t let them take those. They were your babies! So…”
“I caused a distraction with my mother—told her I ate gluten and didn’t feel good—and Antonio grabbed the books and we all shoved them in our backpacks.”
“Makayla!” I gasp. “I’ve never been more proud.”
She shrugs. “It felt good. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“What am I going to do with you kids?”
“Easy, Miss Banks,” Antonio says, holding up his copy of my favorite book. “You’re going to read with us.”
* * *
If one thing is for certain after today’s Zoom call, I want to teach again.
The question I guess now, is where?
I sat in shock for an hour after I hung up the Zoom call with my kids, and then the second Porter got home, I sprinted out the door, telling him I needed Jenny to cover my shift. I needed to think, I needed to process. Which is how I ended up at the town park.
It’s a beautiful day, so I’m not the only one here. But this is the last place any of my family, or Porter, would expect to look for me, so right now, that’s as good as anything.
Because I need to cry.
And think.
And not puke.
Because the decisions I’ve left for future me are now in the present. And present Quinn doesn’t know what the fuck to do.
Since I ended the Zoom call with the kids, all I can think about is how much I missed them. And how much I know I’ll miss working with students in the future if I don’t get back into a classroom. I might hate the way some things in education are going, and I’ll never understand every decision an administration makes, but I wanted to teach English to make sure every child, especially the ones like me, got a fair shake. And I’m not doing that when I’m not in a classroom.
But where? Where the hell would I go? If I went back to Arizona, I couldn’t go back to my district. That bridge is burned. But there are others within driving distance, so I wouldn’t have to get a new apartment. As long as they’d be okay with how I left my last district.
On that note though, I’d still likely see people around town. I’d probably get glares and whispers, snickers and eye rolls. And if I wanted that, I could just stay here in Rolling Hills. Porter might’ve set Emily straight, but that doesn’t mean her clique isn’t still around. Or a person who remembers the time I organized every driving student in the high school to line up our cars and surround the high school so no teachers could leave during an in-service day.
No, I couldn’t live here. Too much history. Too much baggage. But yet, every time I think about leaving, I feel sick to my stomach. Saying goodbye to my family—and even more so, Porter and Grace—is something I can’t even fathom right now.
“Well, look who we have here.”
I look up and push my tears aside to see Mrs. Metcalf pushing what looks to be a cat stroller. Oh! Maybe I should start walking and going outside more, so I can get one for Turtle.
“Hey, Mrs. Metcalf,” I say, scooting over on the bench. “What brings you here?”
She maneuvers the stroller around so she can sit next to me. “Out for my daily walk. I don’t like going this late, but I had to do some things at school today, so here I am, an early evening walker.”
“Isn’t it summer break? Shouldn’t you be living it up?”
“Oh, Quinn…” she laughs as she pats my leg. “I’ll have plenty of time for that once I get everything in order. In fact, George and I have a nice cross-country trip planned starting in August.”
In order? What is she talking about? “August? Doesn’t school start then? How long are you guys going to be gone?”
She smiles and watches the handful of children running through the park. “I’m retiring, Quinn. It’s time. Paperwork is ready to go, I just have to turn it in. My time in public education has come to a close.”
“What!” I cry out. “No. You can’t retire. Who’s going to run the library? No one knows that place like you. Also, why wasn’t I invited to the party? Is it because of the time I rigged the Battle of the Books because I wanted the pizza party? I apologized for that.”
She laughs and pats me on my knee. “There was no party, if that makes you feel better.”
“Slightly. But why? You’re an institution. You deserve a sendoff.”
“It was just my time.” Her voice is soft, but surefooted. “Forty-two years in that library. I always knew when it would be my time to go. And it is.”
We sit in silence for a second as I process what Mrs. Metcalf is telling me. I know every teacher deserves to go when it’s their time, and I know I don’t live here or have children who go here, but I always thought that she’d be there forever. I hoped every student had the same fond memories of that library that I did. And that won’t happen unless she’s there.
“You know you were my favorite student.”
“Yes!” I say with a fist pump. “Vindication!”
“Oh, you knew it,” she says, taking my hand in hers. “Students like you are the reason I became a librarian.”
“Dammit, Shirley, don’t make me cry,” I say. “I’ve already had a very emotional day today. I don’t know if I can take any more.”
“You’re strong. I think you can take anything,” she says. “Do you remember the first time you came into my library?”
I laugh. “You mean the time I got detention?”
“No, Quinn. The time after. The first time you returned a book.”
I have to think about it for a second, but the memory starts slowly coming back to me.
“I asked if I was allowed to take another one.”
She nods and gives my hand a squeeze. “The hopeful look in your eye was one I’ve never forgotten in all my years. Knowing that I could give you a place to retreat to, a place where maybe for a little bit you weren’t such the prankster?—”
“Well, that didn’t work out too well, did it?” I joke through my tears.
“Perhaps not. But I know what books did for you. I saw the change in you from that moment on. When I was feeling down about things, or kids not wanting to read as much anymore, I’d remember your face that day. And always after I’d remember that moment, when a new student would come up to the counter asking me what kind of books they might like. And that, my darling, is why I kept going for forty-two years.”
Well, shit. I didn’t know I needed a whole ass box of Kleen-ex for this outdoor excursion.
“So why now?” I ask. “Granted, I don’t know if I would’ve had forty-two years of public education in me. I couldn’t even make it to fifteen.”
“Yes…I heard about your fallout in Arizona,” she says.
I can’t help but groan. “I promise you, whatever you saw on Facebook isn’t the truth. Well except a few names I called them. That’s the truth.”
She laughs. “Oh, I stay away from that social media garbage. No, I heard it from your mother. I ran into her at the grocery store.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Good. The last thing this town needs is more ammo on me and how I can’t control myself.”
“You did what you needed to do,” she says. “I know you, Quinn. You wouldn’t have done something like that without strong reasoning.”
I nod, my eyes downcast as I think about the twenty-six faces smiling at me today. “I did it for the kids. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I did.”
“You don’t need to explain it to me,” she says. “You’re the reason I’m retiring.”
I do a double-take. “Did you start a new conversation and forget to tell me?”
“No, my dear.” She takes both of my hands in hers, turning me slightly to face her. “I retired because you’re here now. You’re back. And I want you to take over the library.”
Excuse me what…
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to work at Rolling Hills Middle School?”
“The very one.”
“The school that still has a ‘Most Wanted’ picture of me in the office?”
She waves me off. “They got rid of that a long time ago. Plus, that principal retired. You’d be starting with a fresh slate.”
Now that’s laughable. “You and I both know that when it comes to this town, I’ll never have a clean record. They still call me Hurricane at the bar. Plus, I don’t even know if I’m staying here. So while this is flat?—”
She holds up a finger, which was always her universal signal to kindly shut the hell up. “I didn’t expect an answer today. I just want you to think about it. Because there’s no other person in this world who I’d leave this library too. It’s yours, Quinn. That is, if you want it.”
I throw my arms around her. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just promise me you’ll think about it.” She pats my back, holding me for a few seconds. “I truly believe everything happens for a reason. And you being back here means something.”
“Really? I never took you as an astrology girlie.”
“Oh, I’m not. But I believe in the power of a fairytale. And Quinn, I think you’re starting to live yours right now.”