Chapter 12 #2
Without responding, he puts the screwdriver down, stretching out his legs and tucking his socked feet underneath my calves.
Little Florida oranges embroidered onto navy blue fabric.
There’s a gentle swoop in my stomach as I realize this is the first real touch we’ve shared in five years.
The first touch without a pretense. Just a comforting I’m here touch, and it’s all mine.
“Why’d you quit teaching?” he asks. I don’t respond. “I respect if you don’t want to talk about it, but I’ve been worried about you. You were so committed to teaching when we were in college. And you loved the time you spent student teaching. Did something happen?”
What I’d really like to do is tell him I just needed a change, that I was looking for a new challenge, but there’s a softness in his gooey chocolate eyes that I know better than to take for granted.
When someone looks at you like their entire world hinges on your answer, it’s impossible to look away.
“It wasn’t what I thought it would be. It’s difficult to explain.”
“Try me.” He nudges his foot against my leg.
Inhale. Exhale. “It started well. My first year, I had incredible students. Eighth grade.” Harrison gives me a soft smile. “I was good at it, I think.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind you were.”
“Thanks. But it just…wasn’t a good fit. I know that sounds silly.
” He shakes his head as I eye him warily.
“It was exhausting and challenging and painful at times, but I expected all that. That part wasn’t a surprise.
But I’d spent years listening to my parents talk about how all the early mornings and late nights were worth it because it was so rewarding.
Because it brought them so much joy. And I just… didn’t feel any of that.”
Harrison nods his head solemnly. “It doesn’t have to be a good fit for everyone. That doesn’t mean you failed.”
“I know that, intellectually. But that’s not how it felt. I’d wake up, go to school, pretend to be cheerful all day, then go home and crash. I was so tired after having to be on all day. I didn’t have a social life. I certainly wasn’t going on dates. I just didn’t feel…fulfilled.”
Harrison looks at me—eyes sunken, jaw tense, hands clenched.[*2]
“It felt like that for five years. I was miserable, but too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t like the job I’d spent years preparing for and generations of my family had done and loved. Then, a bunch of shitty things happened at once, and I just…”
Harrison nods his head encouragingly, and I continue.
“I’d always assigned Romeo and Juliet to my eighth-grade students.
Then, this past January, a couple of weeks after I’d assigned it and my students started reading it, an email came in from a parent.
It was addressed to both me and the principal, and it accused me of forcing my students to read and discuss sexual content. ”
Harrison narrows his eyes. “What?”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “What?”
I snort. “Yeah, that was my reaction. But they were dead serious. You know how Romeo and Juliet get secretly married?” Harrison nods. “Well, it’s implied they spend the night together. They wake up in bed together the next morning.”
“Are you joking?” Harrison asks. “That’s what they were concerned about?”
“Act three, scene five.”
Harrison’s mouth is open, but no sound escapes.
“Anyway, I told the parent that I was not discussing sex in the classroom and that I trusted my students to be mature about the content, and she didn’t like that, so she took it up the ladder, and now…well, now the book is banned in the entire school district.”
“You’re kidding.”
I snort again. “Nope. They say it’s not banned because it’s still in school libraries, but we’re no longer allowed to teach it in full. Only excerpts.”
“That would make me insane.”
“It did make me insane,” I say. “It was horrible. And right around the same time all of this was going down, my mom was picked as Teacher of the Year at her school, and she got to give this speech at a banquet. I went with her and my dad, and I sat there listening to her talk about how much she loved her job, and how much purpose it gave her, and how every day felt like a blessing. She was literally tearing up onstage talking about this, and I was sitting there at the table crying, and everyone assumed it was because I was so proud of her. A week later, I turned in a letter of resignation. I told my principal I wouldn’t be returning next year. ”
“And then you moved to Boston.”
“Sort of. That wasn’t my original plan. But I’d been living in this house with four roommates for a while, until they moved out, one by one.
Marriage. Kids. Two days after I quit my job, the final remaining roommate told me she was moving in with her boyfriend.
I’m happy for her, but it was also a slap in the face.
Why does everyone else have it figured out?
When did everyone learn to be a real adult? Like, what is wrong with me?”
Harrison immediately interrupts. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
I snort. “Easy for you to say. You’re a perfect saint, going to work every day to take care of sick kids.
You’re good at your job, you love it, and you’re making a difference in the world.
You’re going out of your way to support your mom while she’s struggling.
You have it all figured out. I can’t even build a bed frame. ”
“Just because we’re in different places career-wise doesn’t mean I have things figured out more than you do. Really, Em. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Maybe. But either way, it got to a point where I just needed a clean slate. I missed Jo and I missed…Boston, and I could tell Jo needed support, and I did, too, to be honest. So, I took the opportunity and ran with it.”
Without saying anything, Harrison scoots over. Our legs aligned, he reaches over and takes my hand from where it’s curled into a fist at my side. Slowly unfurling my clenched fingers, he slips his hand into mine.
Where does holding hands fall in the Friends with Limitations rulebook?
“I really admire the way you deal with all your problems head-on,” he says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
I gape at him. “What?”
“Like, you didn’t like your job, so you quit.
You didn’t like where you were living, so you moved.
Back in college, you were the same way. You didn’t want to quit your work-study job in order to do student teaching, so you petitioned the school to pay you to teach.
You couldn’t find a decent storage unit to store your dorm stuff that first summer, so you asked every Florida resident on the entire campus if they were planning to drive home until you found someone, and then you went on a road trip with a stranger. ”
That screams immature rather than adult to me, but I exhale a laugh anyway. “Tiana and I never spoke again, but we had a goddamn blast on that drive. The trunk was so packed, we couldn’t see out the rear window. That was probably illegal.”