7. Theo
Theo
My favorite time on campus is at dawn. The grounds are quiet and still as they slowly wake, a direct contrast to the chaos and stress that come when the students flood in.
I amble out the door in my running gear, noting the drop in temperature.
Fall is here for sure, but I don’t mind.
I like the cooler weather. Mist clings to the lawn, the air crisp and briny so close to the ocean.
I would run on the beach, but I injured my knee a few years ago, and the uneven ground still sends sharp reminders through my leg.
So, the paved path it is, steady and predictable, much like the life I try to lead here.
Wetherly Prep has felt like home since I attended it myself as a boy, when my father was headmaster.
I know every path, every jungle gym, every hidden nook.
I know where the seniors go to smoke when they think no one’s watching, the best make-out spot—I had a brief stint there myself back in the day—and the shortcut beside the old greenhouse in dire need of repair.
I know exactly how many steps there are in the bell tower, which floorboards creek in the library, which windows always leak in a storm. I know where I kissed my first girlfriend. Where I got my first detention. Where I watched my father deliver his retirement speech in the auditorium.
This place has changed faces over the years, but its bones are the same. And I’m not sure who I am without it.
I run for thirty minutes, looping across the lawn, past the maintenance shed, which looks worse for wear, past the old librarian’s cottage, where my daughter is no doubt still fast asleep, with that damn porch light still out.
By the time I return to my place, I’m ready for a shower.
I strip off my shirt as I close the front door, and cross the worn wooden floor.
I moved into the old headmaster’s cottage seven years ago, when Juliana left for college.
Our house on the bay had felt less like home and more like somewhere I stayed out of habit, but I did it for Jules, to keep life stable after her mom died.
I became laser-focused on what mattered: raising a daughter on my own, showing up for work.
It was a good distraction, a good reason to keep going.
The real grief hit when Jules moved away, when the loneliness I’d felt even before Viv died could no longer be ignored, and I was forced to confront not what I’d lost, but what I’d never really had.
A marriage that had looked right from the outside, that we’d both stepped into because it made sense at the time, because neither of us knew how to want anything different.
When Jules left for college, I took the chance to start over, moving into the cottage and throwing myself into even longer hours at work.
It became the one place I knew how to get it right.
Until last year.
Now Juliana’s back where she belongs, but I’m relieved she wasn’t here to witness the fallout from the previous fundraiser.
Just as she’s relieved we don’t talk about the time she spent in the city after finishing college.
She needed time to live on her own terms. I get that, but I can’t help worrying what it cost her.
She could be head of the English Department by now if she hadn’t squandered that time.
At least she agreed to move back onto campus.
It means I can keep an eye on her. We’re both tucked away at the edge of the school grounds, where the old faculty housing stands.
Originally, there were five cottages built for senior staff, set off the main campus road, behind a row of tall cypress trees, a short walk from the school’s central buildings.
They’re modest, shingle-style cottages on stone foundations, with bay windows and wide porches complete with decorative balustrades.
Only the headmaster’s, librarian’s, and groundskeeper’s cottages remain in use for their original purpose.
The other two have been re-purposed as the dean’s office, and a storage space.
I shower, letting the warm water wash away the morning chill and the knot of worry about the fundraiser that’s sat in my gut all week.
Moving through my routine, I try to shake off the unease, reminding myself there’s still time to get everything figured out, but the fundraiser is still in the back of my mind as Danny wraps up the morning faculty meeting.
“Let’s get out there and have a fantastic Friday!” he says with a grin.
Staff file out into the hall, clutching coffee cups and murmuring among themselves, but Eleanor remains across the room speaking to the new guidance counselor, and I linger a moment.
“She’s great, isn’t she?” says Marlene Smith, the head of the lower school, beside me. I don’t realize I’ve been staring until she speaks.
God.
“Who?” I ask nonchalantly, turning to the coffee machine and shoving a pod into the slot.
“Nora. She’s an absolute ray of sunshine.”
“Hmm.” Marlene’s been with the school almost as long as I have, and she’s been the head of the lower school for half that time.
I trust her judgment. Eleanor and I have another meeting scheduled for this afternoon, and I was considering canceling, but curiosity nudges me to ask, “What makes you say that?”
Marlene chuckles. “Just look at her! Everything about her screams fun. The kids love her.”
I open my mouth to protest, because this is Wetherly Prep. Fun is all fine and good, but what matters is academic achievement. Rankings. Numbers I can present to the board.
But Marlene continues before I can get a word out. “They’re off to a strong start. I’ve seen their workbooks, and they’re already writing full paragraphs.”
I take my coffee from the machine, glancing again across the conference room at Eleanor.
She’s in another colorful number today, a pink dress with a forest green cardigan.
Yesterday, when I passed her in the hall, she wore what looked like a collage of children’s storybook characters on her lower half.
“Why is she speaking to Miss Mercer?” I ask. “Should I be concerned?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Marlene assures me. “Andy O’Reilly wrote a journal entry about missing his dad, and she’s following up.”
I frown. Journals. Right, because that’s what’s going to improve SAT scores.
“Are you sure these journals are a good idea?”
Marlene laughs. “Come on, Theo, they’re harmless. And they encourage the kids to write.”
“Harmless? Then why are they sending students to the guidance counselor?”
“Would you prefer Andy suffer in silence and not get support?”
I scratch my chin. I’d prefer Andy check his personal problems at the door, but that might be a lot to ask of a third-grader.
“Give her a chance,” Marlene says. “She might surprise you.”
Then she toddles off to class with another chuckle. Juliana steps up to use the coffee machine beside me, and I smile at my daughter.
“Hey, Bug. How are classes? Anyone I need to send to detention?”
She cringes, looking past me. “Dad. Please.”
“Sorry.” I smother my smile. It’s easy to forget I need to treat her with distance and professionalism now, when it feels like only a few years ago she’d come into my office in tears over a bad grade.
“Seriously, Jules. You’re settling in okay?” It’s Juliana’s first year teaching here, even if the school is as familiar to her as home.
“I’m settling in fine.”
“I need to send Mason to fix your porch light. I’ll speak to him today.”
She turns to me with a huff, placing one hand on her hip. “I can change a light bulb by myself.”
“But I’d rather he—”
“I’d rather you stopped assuming I need help.”
My smile falters. “Right,” I mumble. “Got it.” I’m about to turn away, when she sighs.
“I hear you’re making Nora’s life hell.”
“Who?”
“Nora.” Juliana lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “Eleanor. Eleanor Hart.”
My ears perk up at Eleanor’s name from my daughter’s lips. “What do you mean?”
“She said she had a bunch of ideas for the fundraiser, and you shot down every one.”
As usual, my mind goes to the worst place. “She’s been gossiping about me?”
My daughter heaves an exasperated breath. “No. We’ve become friends. She’s really nice, actually. Anyway, she didn’t realize we’re related, and when I asked her how the meeting went, she was honest. Very honest,” Juliana adds with a snicker.
For some reason, Eleanor becoming close with my daughter makes me uncomfortable, but I quickly dismiss the irrational notion.
“Why won’t you give her a chance?” Juliana presses.
I exhale heavily. “You know how difficult things are after last year.”
“I do,” she admits. “But she’s smart. She showed me her binder. I find it hard to believe you couldn’t find a single good idea in there.”
My gaze strays across the room again, colliding with Eleanor’s. She’s finished with Paige, gathering her notebook and phone from the table, but glances away when our eyes meet. I look away too.
“Her ideas weren’t bad, they just weren’t—”
“Perfect?” Juliana finishes dryly. She glances around to make sure we’re out of earshot of anyone, then leans closer.
“Dad, what happened last year was terrible, but you can’t change it now.
You need to lighten up, for everyone’s sake.
And who knows, Nora might make the fundraiser so amazing people forget what happened before. ”
I give her a grim smile. That doesn’t seem likely, but I know her heart is in the right place, and squeeze her arm.
“Thanks, Bug. Have a good day.”
The bell rings, and she disappears out the door for class.
I take my coffee and exit the conference room, drifting toward the stairs without really thinking.
Her words echo in my head. Why won’t you give her a chance?
It’s not lost on me that she and Marlene are saying the same thing, and even though it goes against my better judgment, I decide I won’t cancel this afternoon.