Chapter 12
Claire
Iwake up emotionally hungover from dinner with my parents.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s the same story every time work comes up.
Mom acts as if I am God’s gift to the world of education and Dad — well, his daughter went to a real school and got a real degree. She’s a teacher, didn’t you hear?
It’s exhausting.
I said one time in eighth grade that I might want to go into education and my fate was sealed.
Mom signed me up to volunteer in the church nursery and to be a junior counselor at Vacation Bible School.
Dad took me to every college fair, grabbing brochures and course catalogs from all of the schools known for their education program.
Then, every May when it came time to choose classes for the next year, they’d both sit over my shoulder and prompt me to remember the path to teaching!
Ninth grade - Child Development I
Tenth grade - Child Development II
Eleventh grade - Public Speaking
Twelfth grade, forget about it. I was in every advanced placement class they offered so that I could test out of my general education classes and focus on teaching courses.
It was completely draining.
Sometimes I wonder if their excitement was why, after a while, it all started to feel more like a chore than a passion.
Like maybe they breathed so much life into my career that they started sucking all of the oxygen from me.
They were supportive but suffocating, encouraging but unreasonable.
Whatever the case, somewhere around year three at Jefferson, no matter how much I loved helping students, the thrill of it all started to fade.
This is why, when Principal Andrews told me at my yearly review that she was doing away with my classes next fall, instead of being upset, I somehow felt…relieved. I remember my shoulders physically relaxing after she said, “I’m really sorry, Claire. There’s just no need for your position."
Now, the problem lies in what happens next and how do I break my parents’ hearts?
“I can’t believe you’re spending yet another Friday night in the dusty library.” Chloe scrunches up her face midchew like she smells rotten trash rather than the fresh meatball sub she’s scarfing down at my desk.
“Says the girl who is spending her Friday afternoon wiping sauce from her face with the back of her hand…unsuccessfully I might add.” I shove my laptop in my bag along with my planner, workbook, and notecards.
“It’s from Enzo’s! And it’s so good.” She closes her eyes savoring her latest bite.
I pause where I’m at. "What else is on your to-do list, Claire?"
“Enzo’s.” I say it aloud unintentionally.
“Yep! Great food. And the short king behind the counter looked equally delicious if I do say so myself.” She winks at me, wrapping up her now empty sub paper.
“You’d think a mannequin looked delicious if it had a penis and handed you a sandwich.”
Shrugging, she agrees. “You’re probably right.” We both laugh. Chloe seems to be on a mission lately to find a boyfriend. "Not a husband, but a boyfriend." Her words, not mine. That recently has meant flooding her phone with these new dating apps and enjoying free meals with whoever she matches.
I check the clock – 7:05 pm.
“I’m just saying,” she turns to me, this time more seriously. “It’s okay for you to go out every once in a while. I mean, when was the last time you spent a Friday night doing something fun.”
“Tutoring Zach isn’t not fun,” I say.
“Claire. Zach is a snotty eleven-year-old who probably spends more time staring at your boobs than your workbooks. I think you’d both survive a Friday night without him snickering every time you tell him you’re going to dick-tate his spelling words.”
“Okay, first, ew.” I shiver for effect. “Two, I need the money now more than ever. I have no idea what I am doing once summer ends, and I can’t afford to cancel these sessions. Zach’s parents pay me a fortune.”
“That’s because their kid is FOUL,” Chloe emphasizes.
“And THREE,” I say, mimicking her volume. “I always stay after and get some writing done. It’s nice to change up the scenery.”
“Listen, Claire, I get it. But can you promise me you’ll at least think about leaving the house one of these weekends?" She looks my outfit up and down. "In something you can’t also wear to mow the lawn?”
I follow her trail, looking down at my ripped, loose-fitting jeans, and faded Jefferson tank top I ordered from the Spirit Wear sale my first year.
Okay, she has a point there. But I like my Friday nights.
I like that after suffering through thirty minutes with Zach, who really is pretty foul, I get an envelope of cash and the rest of the night with just me, my thoughts, and a vending machine full of snacks.
I look at the clock again - 7:11 pm.
“Okay, I have to go. My session starts at seven-thirty.”
“Fine. I’ll get out of here. But think about what I said. And maybe grab a sweatshirt. That tank top is doing nothing to ward off preteen eyes.” She wiggles her eyebrows as she throws her balled-up trash toward the garbage can. She misses of course and saunters out the door.
I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I add my laptop charger to it, and because now Chloe has me feeling self-conscious, I throw a hoodie in too. Just in case.