2. Claire
two
“You can do this,”I say to myself for the hundredth time.
Hundredth time since twenty minutes ago.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. They’re seventh graders. Zoey is a seventh grader, and I eat her sassiness for breakfast—after I’ve actually fed her—most mornings. It might be a pain in the ass to have to care for all five of my younger siblings day in and day out, but seeing one of their faces might’ve taken the jump scare of working in my old middle school away.
I sigh, picturing the brightest of my younger siblings already two weeks in at her STEM academy. They didn’t have those when I was in school, and I can’t say I’m not a little jealous. Zoey is actually a year ahead—another program they didn’t have for me—so she’s on track to graduate at least two years early with the enrichment from STEM. Michael is up at the high school, and won’t step foot on the middle school side of River Valley even if it’s on fire since I’m here; Ryan and Harper are at the elementary school; and my sweet baby Oliver is still one year shy of preschool.
Here at River Valley Middle School, I am all alone.
It’s no different than when I’m at home—surrounded by a sea of people, drowning in the middle. At home, I’m a pseudo-parent. Here, I’ll be their pseudo-English-teacher until Juliet Ford returns from maternity leave. She and her husband adopted a baby this summer, and she’s taking all the time she can.
I get it. Childcare is expensive. Which is exactly why my parents employed me as their live-in babysitter when they ultimately decided to leave the number of Benson kids in the hands of God. Sometimes, instead of praying, I simply stare up at the sky with a raised eyebrow.
Thankfully, I haven’t seen a positive pregnancy test in my mom’s hand since I was in college. While I hope that Ollie is the last, another kid honestly wouldn’t come as a surprise—Mom hasn’t had baby content for her Facebook or Instagram pages for a few years, and I’m sure she’s missing the likes.
But as the clock ticks closer to the first bell of the day, I push my siblings to the back-burner and go over my checklist for at least the hundredth time.
I have the syllabus copied in a different color for each class, a “Get to Know Your Classmates” game, and their first “homework assignment” of the year—a pile of damaged books that we’re going to use for blackout poetry.
My name is written on the board in neat, cursive font, black Expo marker highlighted in just the right spots with pops of color.
Ms. Benson, it says.
Not Sissy or Sis or Dork or Hey, Claire-Bear, can you?—
Just like the literature these seventh graders are about to deep-dive into, there are two juxtaposed sides—the professional of Ms. Benson that is about to take control of this class, and the reverse Cinderella effect waiting to head back into her tower.
With five minutes left until the bell rings, I fidget with my fresh manicure—River Valley blue, but with green polish and a silver accent charm on each ring finger. My apprehension is interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by three sets of footsteps that don’t wait for a welcome.
Penelope Barker leads the charge, followed by our hand-in-hand gym teacher and counselor, Aaron Russo and Lucy Greene. I went to school and was in the same social circles as Penelope’s younger brother Connor. She’s the reason I have this job in the first place, and has essentially adopted me into the fold, for which I am forever grateful.
“Hey, kiddo! You ready to go?” Penelope asks, her red hair a sleek and shiny wave that moves across her back as she plops into one of my neatly lined student desks like she’s been doing this for years.
Because she has.
“Don’t call her kiddo,” Aaron scoffs, nudging her in the neck with his knuckle. “She’s one of us.”
“Claire used to hang out in my basement. But maybe you’re right. I should be calling you the immature one.”
The two of them start bickering like Michael and Zoey constantly do, and Lucy and I roll our eyes and laugh.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, the counselor in her already prepared for the upcoming emotions of this new school year.
“Nervous,” I say on a shaky laugh. “But excited. I just need to get past the initial newness, and I’ll be fine.”
“Do you have any of your siblings’ friends in class?”
I shrug. “Zo moved into STEM when she was in fifth grade, so I might recognize a few faces. She didn’t bring a lot of friends home back then, though.”
“Oh, really?”
I nod. “She was…” I hesitate to say it, but tell her the truth. “Zoey’s always been a little awkward. She’s found her place in STEM though. I think she just needed an environment more conducive to making friends that had similar interests.”
I think back to my sister’s time in public school, when her candor about her intelligence was construed more as bragging. When she would come home in tears, and have nothing more to say than, Well, I was right, wasn’t I?
The warning bell rings, catching us all completely off guard, which is maybe for the better. My new friends took away all of the time I would have otherwise used to panic.
“Alright TEAM!” Penelope shouts, putting her hand between us like we’re in a sports huddle.
“Penny, we aren’t even on the same team,” Aaron says, rolling his eyes, but putting his hand on top of hers anyway.
“Technically, we’re all on ‘Team Survive the Tweenagers,’” Lucy supplies with a shrug. She puts her hand on top of her boyfriend’s, and with their eyes on me, I lay mine on top.
“No-bull-shit on three. One, two, three!”
We all laugh and echo Penelope’s cheer, pop our hands in the air, and meet the flood of students in the hallway.
As I step into the sea, watching as these veteran teachers and counselor greet students they’re familiar with, I smile, knowing that I at least have a support system this year.
It’s a lot less scary to be thrown into the deep end when you have people to pull you up. Then again, it’s not the students I’m afraid of.
It’s the thought of taking on the challenge and simply not being good enough.
That thought prickles at the base of my neck, a constant, tingling reminder of what I’ve always been missing. Independence of my own. This job as a long-term substitute teacher is going to be my first taste of it, and the fact that I could fail has been nagging me since I signed on the dotted line. I reach back to itch the discomfort, but I don’t have the time to focus on what I don’t have. Because right on cue, two seventh-grade boys start up a game of catch in the middle of the hallway. I intercept the faded blue and red Patriots football with two hands, and pop it on my hip.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I ask, tilting my head as the two stunned boys approach me. “Brady and Gronk would be disappointed.”
With wide eyes, they look to one another, then back to me. I cradle the ball’s point in my hand, then spin toss it basket-style to the boy who threw it.
“Keep it in your locker, please.”
They both nod rapidly, and turn to finish unpacking. I’m satisfied. Homeroom hasn’t even begun, and I’ve already deescalated my first situation—which wasn’t difficult at all. Zoey and Ryan have nearly killed each other more times than I can count, and who stopped numerous squabbles from turning into ER trips? Yours truly, of course.
I don’t get to linger on my pride for too long, though, because standing at the end of the hall, his narrowed gaze clearly still taking in the aftermath of what just went down, is Nathan Harding.
The man to whom I served as a wake up call this morning.
Embarrassment fills me as I remember the way he’d looked so annoyed with me earlier. Hoping I can turn his day around, I curl my lips into a shy grin, lift my hand, and wave. The divot between his brows, settled atop the bridge to his horn-rimmed glasses, deepens, and he leaves me with a scowl before he turns on his toe and walks the other direction.
This is entirely my fault. A rookie mistake. I should have known better.
I could have just taken attendance from my computer. Used the seating chart. Instead, I passed around a roll sheet, and told each student to list their name and an adjective to describe themselves. I thought I was being hip and cool and creative. But I gave that direction right after I introduced myself as their substitute teacher.
And I gave that direction to a bunch of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.
Oh well. At least I learned my mistake with my homeroom and got it out of the way.
I certainly can’t mark Hugh Jass and Ben Dover as “present.”
“Wooooow,” I say, holding the clipboard. The two boys near the front of the room, with heads bowed sharing snickers into closed fists, do not help their cause at all. “I guess I have two absences on the first day of school.” I make a tsk sound, and make a big show of clicking them as absent on my roster.
“Are you sure?” Hugh chuckles, his face red.
“I am,” I say wide-eyed, totally committing to the bit. “I mean, I only asked you to use an adjective to describe yourself on the attendance sheet. If you wanted to tell the class what a Hugh Jass you have, I certainly can’t stop you from using that to describe yourself.”
I say it as I walk slowly to the front of the room, cross my arms, and smile at him slyly. Some students gasp at my language, others giggle nervously, and Hugh himself turns beet red.
“I wonder what Rocco Thatcher’s parents are going to say when I call to tell them their son didn’t show up to his first day of seventh grade.” I shrug. “They’ll probably be worried since they spent so much time getting his Hugh Jass out of bed. Wasted gas on driving his Hugh Jass to school. I’ll even bet that his momma did him the honor of making his Hugh Jass a real nice PBJ for lunch.”
I sigh dramatically, basking in the fact that I have every single one of these kids simply captivated.
“I wonder if his Hugh Jass is going to be in big trouble when the office calls to tell them he never showed up. What a shame.”
Hugh—Rocco—is the color of the Patriots football I tossed to him ten minutes ago back in the hallway. I can barely see the Rudolph tip of his nose past the desk, since he has slunk nearly to the floor.
“And don’t even get me started on Ben?—”
“I’m here! And I’m Liam.”
His partner in crime is as white as a sheet. I stand, attendance clipboard in hand, and with a narrowed yet powerful gaze, I turn the clipboard to him. Liam takes it, furiously erases his joke, and corrects it.
“Name: Liam. Adjective: Sorry. I’ll accept it. And, Hugh?”
Rocco swallows, shimmies up in his seat, and takes the clipboard. I make a show of reading his answer, the entire homeroom waiting on baited breath.
“Rocco. Terrified.”
I smirk, and gaze out over the sea of glittering faces. The warning bell rings, notifying students and teachers to get ready to switch for first period.
“My name is Ms. Benson. Welcome to seventh grade.”