Chapter 1
Drew
I
wake up to my alarm playing the sound that haunts my nightmares. The sound that meant it was time to put my needs and well-being aside for the next eight hours and instead focus on the needs and well-being of 24 eleven and twelve-year olds.
With my eyes barely open, I reach over to where my phone is sitting on my bedside table and hit stop–6 AM.
One hour to get ready and be out the door, and the sun isn’t even up yet.
The December darkness is taking over southeastern Wisconsin and making it hard to want to go anywhere besides my bed. I wake up to the darkness, drive home from work in the darkness, and it feels like the only sunshine I’ve been getting is through the windows of my classroom.
One of the perks of being a teacher is having a Winter Break over the holidays, and it is so close. It is always much-needed as we get to the point of the year where my students and I are no longer finding our footing or distracted by the excitement of a new school year. We are now at the point where a break is exactly what we all need.
I just have to get through today.
It is important, as a teacher, to find the perks amidst the many downfalls of the profession. I’m only in my second year, yet the drive I had when I first started my full-time position is slowly fading. The students are wonderful but exhausting while the job itself is way more than actually teaching.
I’m learning more and more that the fun parts of the job are the parts that paint the picture for those on the outside, and they are few and far between.
I roll over to face my bedside table, my bed feeling more comfortable now than it did when I had seven hours of sleep ahead of me.
My eyelids feel heavy as I take my phone off the charger. Maybe some mindless scrolling on social media will trick my eyes into thinking they actually want to be open.
I unlock my phone, and tap to open up Instagram. I am greeted by the familiar highlight reel of people I haven’t talked to since high school or college. People I used to consider classmates and friends are now all living lives worthy of posting.
As I scroll, I see the influx of new engagements, marriages, anniversaries, and babies, along with people carrying out a social life especially during the winter and holiday season.
Can’t relate.
My last Instagram post was from my college graduation a year and a half ago, and I haven’t added anything to my story since the end of that summer. It was a picture of my finished classroom after a summer of getting it ready for kids.
Clicking on my profile, I look at that most recent photo, and I can still remember the cool wind taking turns with the warmth of the sun that just couldn’t decide if it wanted to be out or not on graduation day. May in Milwaukee makes for a lot of overcast, but overcast makes for good pictures. I was lucky to get a few snapped of me, thanks to someone else’s parent.
The picture I decided to post to announce my graduation shows a bright-eyed, newly-graduated teacher with the names of her students from her student teaching on the decorated cap. My robe was black, contrasting against my olive skin that was still pale from the winter months and too much time inside a school building. I have a light, sky blue cord around my neck to represent my graduation from the School of Education, and my smile takes up most of my face.
The day I graduated college was the same day I got offered a sixth grade teaching position for the following fall. It’s safe to say that the day was a highlight, but there has not been too many more to follow.
I’m not even really sure why I keep the app; it’s just a reminder of where you are compared to others, and it’s hard to remember that I’m where I want to be, even if I’m years away from an engagement ring or gender reveal post to prove it.
I somehow manage to find the motivation to pull myself out of bed, missing the warmth the second I’m out of my sheets. My bare foot steps make my floor creak as I walk out of my bedroom and across my living room.
My one-bedroom apartment reflects me perfectly: book shelves filled with both books I’ve read and books I plan to read, the plan-to-read section being far larger than the books-read section. My counter space is clear and uncluttered because I have enough clutter constantly spiraling in my mind, and I definitely don’t need the space surrounding me to reflect the same. My thermostat is set to 65 degrees at all times, even when I may slightly regret it on mornings like these, and I’ve acquired enough furniture and décor over the past six years of living alone to fill the space nicely.
It is the size for me and me only being about 750-square feet with one bathroom, a cute little kitchen, a cozy living space, and a perfect spot by the window for my desk and bookshelves. My apartment complex is right off the highway, a few towns over from where I teach, so the place is also great for my commute.
When I’m not at work, I spend a lot of time here, almost always alone, which I enjoy. Aside from when the loneliness decides to creep in which inevitably leads to a nightly visit from a familiar face.
When I get to my bathroom, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste as I mindlessly click through Instagram stories of beaches, bars, and fancy cocktails with equally fancy dinners.
Once again, can’t relate.
The stories come to an end, abruptly taking me back to my news feed—the brightness of my phone being the only light in the whole apartment.
I go to set my phone down next to the sink but completely miss, causing my phone to drop on the floor instead. The series of loud smacks and thumps echoing to an almost deafening volume crashing into the silence. I flinch at each thump, not at the noise but more at how each thud is a reminder that not everyone in this complex gets up at 6 AM.
I spit my toothpaste out into the sink before letting out a sigh.
So this is how the day is going to go.
I’m absolutely sure I’ll be hearing about this from my downstairs neighbor.
I pick up my phone and try to not wake the whole apartment complex this time as I set it down and then turn to the opposite wall to warm up the shower.
While I wait for the water to reach a temperature fit for my liking, I slide out of my oversized Fall Out Boy t-shirt and underwear and look into the mirror. Still surrounded by darkness and the gentle splashing of the water behind me, I look at my reflection before me.
How did I get here?
Ask me six years ago where you’d think I’d be at 24, and here was definitely not it. I would never have guessed that I’d be teaching at a school in a small suburb of Milwaukee, a mile from Lake Michigan, close to my university but not too close to my hometown. Different beliefs, people, ways of life, and new ways of thinking just 20 minutes from what I used to consider home.
Being in my second year of teaching sixth grade, I finally feel like I not only have a sense of control, but I’m in a place I want to stay and continue to grow. I’m not fumbling over my lessons; I learned from my mistakes my first year; I’m making good enough money for my solo lifestyle, and I’ve let go of everything that was holding me back to get to where I wanted to be.
Everything besides the high school boyfriend.
I slip my hand underneath the water to check the temperature. Still lukewarm, so I close the glass shower door, continuing to wait for it to warm up.
I’ve lived in apartment complexes for my whole adult life, this one being the one I plan on staying at for the foreseeable future. I moved into my first apartment at 18 and lived there until I moved here about six months ago.
I’m used to the water taking a while to warm up, the subtle sound of footsteps around and above me, the daily decisions of the stairs or elevator, even the idea that there’s almost always someone who can hear what you’re doing in your own home.
I don’t mind any of it.
I actually like the feeling of living alone yet not alone because you can feel the life existing around you yet completely separate for you.
It makes living alone not feel so lonely.
It makes my empty apartment not feel so empty.
I’ve never had pets or roommates, but I’ve never loved the silence. That makes apartment living perfect for me. It’s the same way teaching is the profession for me because there are very few moments where the classroom is quiet, let alone silent.
I reach back into the shower to feel the water, and it’s finally at an enjoyable temperature.
I get into the shower, feeling the hot water trickle over my cold body, my skin pebbling at the conflicting sensations. I turn to have my back face the source and close my eyes as I lean back to get my hair wet.
The warm water washes over me, warming my skin just enough. The droplets trickling down my neck, my chest, down my stomach, and then down my legs, pooling at my feet just slightly.
Then, before I can realize it’s happening, the loneliness I know all too well begins to trickle in too.
Being the only one in this shower, knowing I’ll be by myself over the next ten days of Winter Break with no work or hormonal sixth graders to distract me, should make me feel excited. Excited for the endless books I can read, movies I can watch, bathroom breaks I can take. But instead, it reopens a hole in my stomach that I’ve tried to patch over so many times. A hole that makes me feel lonely… Empty.
Empty enough to text him.
I met Reed Michaels my junior year of high school, so we know each other inside and out. When he comes over, the small talk is comfortable. Familiar. Just like the sex.
Sometimes, when I invite him over, I ask him about work. Sometimes I’ll tell him about my day, but the conversations never go far.
Not like they did when we were 17 and in love.
I feel my skin acclimate to the warm water, reaching for my shampoo, as my mind revisits the latest memory I have of Reed and I.
We were lying in my bed, wrapped in the covers, my head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat align with mine. The air was starting to cool as if warning us that winter was on its way. The moonlight was shining on that November night through my opened window, and the TV was playing in the background, just loud enough to fill the silence. I felt the cool air slip in, making my bare body melt into Reed’s even more.
“Do you like being a teacher?” He asked, seemingly out of nowhere. Our pillow talk was close to nonexistent these days, so this question must have been weighing heavily on his mind.
I was taken aback but answered, “Yeah, I really do.”
The first few months of my second year teaching sixth grade came to my mind, along with so many memories playing over in my brain, all leaving me with feelings of love and admiration for my students and our short time so far together. “I love the time I spend with the kids. The job can get hard at times, but I really do love it.”
As my words lingered in the air around us, I felt his body tighten in the slightest measure—I thought maybe it was a reaction to the cool air at first.
I paused, wanting to explain how excited I was to be in my second year of teaching and how much I was looking forward to the year ahead, but I stopped myself as an awkward tension began to invade the atmosphere.
The realization that I walked away from him, from us—from what we used to be—to get to where I am today covered my mouth and wouldn’t let me speak another word.
I wasn’t sure if he was going to say something or if he had the same realization I just had. I thought maybe I should reroute the conversation, but my mind went blank.
A few moments passed with neither one of us saying a word. The hold he had around my waist loosened, and I thought maybe he fell asleep.
I was about to close my eyes, thinking he didn’t want the conversation to continue. It was then he responded to my sentiment, and it wasn’t what I wanted to hear from someone I’ve known for so many years. Someone who grew up with me and stuck with me even after all I put him through.
It was the answer of a stranger.
An answer that reminded me that our relationship was for one purpose and one purpose only.
“Why would you spend all that money to be an overpaid babysitter? And don’t call them ‘your kids’. That’s weird.”
The words struck me deep in the stomach where butterflies used to flutter. Any teacher will tell you that teaching is so much more than that.
On the surface, I brushed off the comment but still tried to stand my ground. I couldn’t hide the betrayal I felt taking form as shakiness in my voice. “My job is a little more than babysitting, Reed.” He scoffed at my attempt to push back at him.
Was that truly all he thought of me and my career?
I didn’t even try to explain how I call them my kids because they are. I know all teachers can understand. We call them our kids because they become more than a class list. I spend more time with my students than anyone else, and they do truly become part of my heart.
“I hope it was worth it,” he responds before letting go of me, in more ways than one, to roll over and go to sleep. I rolled over the other way creating more space between us.
My mind squeezed out all the energy it had trying to forget about the tone of his voice when he said those words. Thinking about the doubts about myself I buried so deep. Feeling the loneliness I know all too well, even in Reed’s presence.
Did I make a mistake becoming a teacher and letting go of what we planned so many years ago?
Reed didn’t say anything more that night, and I couldn’t find any more words to say to him.
The next morning, he was gone before I woke up. This was a usual occurrence, but it stung more this time.
It hurt more than any other time before.
I decided that I should end this mess we were in before it got any more complicated than it already way. I should’ve ended it a long time ago, knowing that all we do is hurt each other in the end.
All I did was hurt him in high school, but he’s the one hurting me now.
I reached over the spot where he lay just a few hours ago and grabbed my phone, the lingering scent of rain and burning wood, smoky yet calming, staining my sheets.
I deleted his number
I told myself I wouldn’t reach out again.
A clean break.
Again.
I haven’t seen him since that night because I’m holding my ground.
Also, because he hasn’t reached out either.
And that stings, a little more than I thought it would.