Chapter 7
Seven
Ky
“And the last item that we need to address is the topic of Adrian.”
I frown, set my notebook down on the edge of Holly desk and brace.
I don’t like the principal’s tone.
And Adrian is sick—has been sick his whole life but is really struggling this year. He’s only been in my class a handful of times in the couple of months school has been in session. The rest of the time he’s been at home.
Or in the hospital.
“What’s happened?” I ask, tightening my stomach muscles against what impact might be coming my way.
I know that bad things happen to good people—God, how I know that.
But not one of my kids.
He may not have spent a lot of time in my classroom in person, but he’s active in the digital one, a bright ball of joy on our Zoom calls, and truly a pleasure in his emails.
He’s just…good.
And I hope to God that Holly isn’t about to tell me that his special brand of good is leaving this world—
“He’s coming back to school.”
I straighten, relief shooting through me so rapidly that my eyes start burning.
Blinking to prevent any pesky tears from escaping, I clear my throat and pick up my notebook, start writing as I say, “Okay, so what do we need to facilitate that? Our students are familiar with handwashing and masks, especially post-COVID, but is there anything else that he’ll need to be successful? ”
The beat of quiet is long enough that my list of things I need to make my classroom safe—and how to get the students on board with supporting them—is finished, the scratching of my pen on the paper subsiding.
Then I’m back to bracing.
“What?” I ask quietly.
“I think we need to continue pushing virtual school as the best option.”
I pause, breathe.
But before I can come up with something I want to say (something that won’t get me reprimanded…or fired), she continues, “So there’s no need to bend over backwards to make a ton of in-person accommodations, especially with the school year well underway.”
I pause again.
Breathe. Again.
Then say, each word tight and clipped. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
I do.
But I also don’t fucking want to believe it.
Because this is not what I thought this school was, not who I thought Holly was.
She sighs and leans back in her chair, the leather creaking in protest, and I’d like to think it’s protesting in solidarity with me.
And the bullshit that is swirling in this room.
“You know that funding is down,” Holly says, and that’s true.
“But it’s not a funding issue,” I remind her. “It’s a legal issue. He has a right to be in the classroom—”
“But he will be in the classroom. The virtual classroom, so legally we’re covered.”
My temper, quiet and not often prone to eruption—mostly because it’s regularly tested by twelve- and thirteen-year-olds—begins to boil up.
In a minute, it’s going to be boiling over.
“Let’s face it,” she says. “Yeah, he might be back in the classroom for a couple of weeks, but he’s going to get sick again.
That’s just the fact of life,” she adds, volume rising to speak over me when I start to reply.
“If we put in all this time and effort and money to accommodate him, what are we taking away from the other students?”
My temple starts to throb.
My temper is contained by the most slender thread of my control.
I grind my teeth together and stand. “I’ll coordinate with Adrian’s parents about what we need to get him back in the classroom.”
Holly opens her mouth.
“Once that’s done, I’ll let the others”—Adrian’s vice principal, the counseling office, the nurse—“know what’s needed so we can coordinate.”
Holly’s lips press flat.
“For now”—I deliberately glance at my phone—“it’s getting late and I have to head out.”
I gather my stuff, start shoving them into my bag, rage such a tightly coiled ball inside me that it’s taking everything to keep it contained.
Breathe.
Calm.
Persist.
But I want to persist by smacking her upside the head to knock some sense into her.
Or maybe by going all Jason Bourne and using my pen for some stabby stab.
Since neither are reasonable options, I just throw my purse over my shoulder and stand.
“Kylie,” Holly says as I reach the door. “I’m not trying to…”
I wait for her to finish that.
But she can’t.
Because she’s trying to do exactly what she’s pretending not to.
“Bye, Holly,” I say and head out of the office, forcing a smile at Tonya, the receptionist, but doing my best to avoid eye contact with anyone else, lest I explode.
It’s not until I’m in my car, seatbelt buckled, hands clenched on the steering wheel that I allow myself to release the shriek of frustration.
Then I realize I’m screaming in my car. At my place of work. Where kids—and maybe their parents—are still around, attending club meetings or going to sports practices.
So, I get it together.
I’m good at that—shoving down the feelings, the rage, the hurt, the frustration and angst and sadness.
Once I’m calm, I turn on the ignition, back out of the spot and carefully navigate my way to the road that leads to my apartment.
I don’t bother with music.
I don’t want to be soothed.
I want to be angry, to rage, to sit in this injustice.
Tomorrow, I’ll come back with a clear head, will problem-solve and be all the things I should be.
But right now, I’m going to brood.
Okay? Okay.
That’s my right and no one is going to—
Pop!
I scream as my car lurches sharply to the side, then react on instinct and wrench at the wheel. It takes every bit of strength I have to not slide off the road, to avoid the boulders and trees as I slam on the brakes and muscle my car—
To the turnout…
To our turnout.
But then I’ve come to a stop.
I sit frozen for a long moment, just breathing, just existing.
Then I realize I’m stuck on the freaking turnout with another freaking flat tire.
And…fuck it.
That second shriek I’d bitten off back in the parking lot at school?
I let that fucker fly.
Then I drop my forehead to the steering wheel…
And I let the tears come too.