11. Theo
Theo
Campus is dark when I step out for a late-evening run. Something I’d never normally do, but tonight… I had to get out. Had to escape the silence of my house.
It’s been a week since my last meeting with Eleanor. A meeting I haven’t been able to get out of my head, for reasons I can’t even begin to unravel. Things shifted between us that night, in a way that felt good. Promising. Like we might actually make something of this fundraiser after all.
But there was also… something else. Something I still can’t quite name.
Maybe it was the way her face lit up when I told her we were going ahead with Safe Harbor.
Or the way she spoke about it, so quietly, so vulnerably.
Or maybe it was sitting beside her on those leather chairs in my office, how the space between us seemed to shrink. It felt… intimate.
Too intimate.
We should have gone to the conference room. There’s nothing intimate about the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the wide expanse of that wooden table separating us.
I turn onto the path past the gym, making a mental note to meet in the conference room next time. Whatever this feeling stirring inside me is, it’s not helpful. It’s not good. I need to stay focused on the fundraiser, on keeping the school out of trouble.
Not… whatever this is.
Still, as I plod along the dim path toward the arts building, chilled by the crisp autumn air and regretting my lack of a sweatshirt, my mind drifts to her.
I know what it feels like when people look right through you because they’ve already decided you’re not worth taking seriously.
Guilt tugs at me as I replay her words, because that’s what I did, isn’t it?
I took one look at her colorful skirts and her flower barrettes, one look at her youth and inexperience, and decided she wasn’t serious.
I did what everyone else has clearly done to her.
Exactly what she’s spent years fighting against.
And yet, when I reviewed her proposal again today, prepping to present it to the board tomorrow, it impressed me. Not only the writing, but the intent. She impressed me. Part of me even considered asking her to come with me to the board to present it. It’s her idea, after all.
But then I pictured her in that conference room facing Helen, Patsy, and Charles, thinking of how skeptical and dismissive they can be, and something protective surged through me.
Not because she couldn’t handle it, but because she shouldn’t have to.
She’s already had enough people underestimate her, and I won’t make her face more of that.
Not when I can do this for her. Not when I can make them listen.
I turn to head home, already dreading the quiet emptiness of my house.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I stop to lean against the stone wall of the main school building, catching my breath.
The scent of the ocean feels cooler and sharper than usual, and I write a quick email to Margaret, scheduling another meeting with Eleanor for tomorrow evening.
I’m hoping I’ll have the board’s approval by then, but if not, there’s still work to do.
Before I press send, it occurs to me how inefficient it is to have Margaret schedule all our meetings. She’ll be asleep now, which means Eleanor won’t get the email until tomorrow morning. She may have made plans by then.
The cool stone presses into my back as I log into the staff portal, bringing up Eleanor’s contact information, before typing out a quick text.
Headmaster Wright: Hi Eleanor, this is Headmaster Wright. I thought it might be easier to coordinate directly via text to set up our meetings. I’d like to meet again tomorrow. Let me know what times work for you.
I almost press send, then hesitate. Something about texting Eleanor at night feels strangely… intimate.
There’s that word again.
My finger hovers above the button as I reread my message, ensuring the tone is professional. Of course it is. And that makes it perfectly appropriate to send. Besides, we’ll be meeting regularly for the foreseeable future, so it makes more sense to schedule meetings with her directly.
Hitting send, I slide my phone away and continue on home. There’s no sound to signal an incoming text as I run, and nervousness flickers in my chest. What if she’s uncomfortable with me texting her? It’s so much less formal to communicate this way. Have I crossed a line I shouldn’t have?
But as I reach my doorstep and tug my phone out again, a text sits on the screen.
Eleanor: Hi! Yes, this is much easier, good idea. I’m free anytime after school tomorrow, just let me know when to be there.
I read her words three times. I mustn’t have heard the text over the crunch of gravel and leaves as I ran. Smiling, I quickly type out a reply.
Headmaster Wright: Great. Let’s meet at 4 p.m.
Then I force myself to pause, remembering the importance of keeping the tone strictly professional, and amend the text before hitting send.
Headmaster Wright: Meet in the conference room at 4 p.m.
Eleanor: See you then.
I stare at her words for a beat longer than necessary, my pulse tripping.
I tell myself it’s from the run.
I meet with the board the next morning and pitch Safe Harbor to them.
They’re hesitant at first, for the same reasons I was, but I manage to talk them around.
To explain why this is the right move for the school.
The kids. The community. And by the time the meeting wraps, they’re on board.
There are conditions, of course, but they’ve signed off on it.
Because it’s good.
After the meeting, I’m tempted to go to Eleanor’s classroom and tell her the good news, but I hold off. I’m meeting her in a few hours anyway. It can wait.
But as I sit at my desk, it’s hard to focus. I spend more time pacing in front of the window, gazing out to sea, arguing with myself about why I should wait, that in the end it makes more sense to simply go and tell her. Then I’ll be able to get on with my day.
I head to the first floor, telling myself I’m doing the right thing.
That she’d want to know. When I get to her door, she’s got the class gathered on the carpet at her feet as she holds up a picture book.
She instantly glances up, as if sensing my presence, and sends me a confused smile.
I motion for her to step into the hall, but she nods toward the class.
Fair enough.
I glance over my shoulder, second-guessing myself. I should tell her this afternoon.
And yet, I can’t get my feet to move. She’s in an emerald-green dress with red flowers along the hem, her light brown hair loosely pinned back with a barrette in the shape of a watermelon.
Things no headmaster should notice.
I need to leave.
But when I turn to go, she wanders across to open the door.
“Headmaster Wright, what a treat.” A playful smile hints at her lips as she speaks loud enough for the class to hear. “I’m about to read a book to the class. Would you like to join us?”
I open my mouth to decline. Honestly, what am I doing here? How did I convince myself this was a good idea?
But a tiny voice from behind her says, “Please, Headmaster Wright?” and I know there’s no way I can refuse.
“Yes,” I say at last, following Eleanor inside.
The sweet scent of apples and cinnamon wafts through the room, almost as if she’s about to pull a pie from the oven.
The smell is so cozy, so homey, and it tugs at something buried deep inside me.
I shake the feeling off, looking for a seat near the back, hoping to blend into the furniture.
But another student—Andy O’Reilly, I believe—asks, “Are you going to read us a story, Headmaster Wright?”
Oh, crap. No.
“Uh—” I glance at Eleanor, sending her a pleading look, but she smiles sweetly.
“That’s a great idea, Andy.” She holds out the book, motioning to the stool at the front of the room. “I’m sure Headmaster Wright would love to.”
I glare at her. She knows very well this is not why I came here, though I’m not entirely sure I want to admit why I did come, so I take the book from her hand.
“I’m very out of practice,” I say, but she pretends not to hear, finding a seat at the back of the room.
“Alright.” I laugh awkwardly as I undo the button of my suit jacket and perch on the stool in front of the class.
I hesitate, then pull my glasses from my pocket, sliding them on.
“Let’s see if I remember how to do this. ”
There’s a titter among the kids. I give them a stern look, which instantly quiets them, but when I glance up to find Eleanor frowning, I soften.
“The Invisible Boy,” I read aloud. The cover shows a boy, alone, drawing with chalk, and I know that Eleanor has chosen this story with intent. I straighten, wanting to do it justice.
Wanting, I realize with alarm, to impress her.
“Can you see Brian, the invisible boy?” I begin, and the kids lean in closer.
I read with care, telling the story about a boy who’s ignored by all his classmates, until a new kid arrives and befriends him.
Over the course of the story, the illustrator draws the boy in faint pencil, until he’s finally in bold color at the end.
All because someone saw him for who he was and appreciated him.
I can’t imagine a book that’s more Eleanor.
The class is silent when I close the book and look up. I remove my glasses and tuck them away, making the mistake of meeting Eleanor’s gaze across the room. She holds a hand to her heart, eyes shining, a small, meaningful smile on her lips.
And it burrows right under my ribs.
I swallow hard, looking back at the students. Thinking of something to ask them. Anything to distract from that feeling.
“What does everyone think of the story?” I ask, clearing the sudden thickness from my throat.
“It was sad,” one girl says. Amy, I think her name is. Yes, Amy Jones.
“Why do you say that, Amy?”
“No one wanted to be friends with him.”
I nod, scratching my jaw. “At the start, yes. What about at the end?”
Amy considers this. I glance at Eleanor again, waiting for her to step in, but she watches curiously, not moving.
“I liked that he was good at drawing,” Jessica Chu says.
“So did I, Jessica.”
“Are you good at drawing, Headmaster Wright?” Jessica asks, and I grimace.
“No. I’m afraid I’m not.”
“Could you draw us something?” Kelly Patel asks eagerly, and I glance again at Eleanor in panic.
Mercifully, Eleanor stands, chuckling. “I think we’ve taken enough of Headmaster Wright’s time.” She smiles as she walks to the front of the class, taking the book from my hands. “Let’s get our notebooks out, and we can think about some answers to the questions on the board.”
I watch, fascinated, as the students diligently head to their desks and get to work without a single complaint. It’s odd seeing Eleanor like this, commanding and respected by the room. She’s clearly in her element.
“Thanks for that,” she says quietly to me. “It means a lot to have the headmaster read them a story.”
“No problem.” I stand from the stool, buttoning my jacket. “I didn’t know I still had it in me.”
Her brows rise. “You taught third grade?”
“English Lit. To seniors. So… not quite the same thing.”
She lets out a small laugh. “No,” she murmurs to herself.
A noise from the back of the room catches her attention, and she excuses herself, going to see what the commotion is. Richie Matthews is restless in his seat, throwing balls of paper at another student across the room. I turn to leave, but when Eleanor kneels beside him, I linger, listening.
“Hey, buddy,” she says softly. “Everything okay over here?”
He shrugs, face sullen and closed off. Eleanor tilts her head in thought, assessing him.
“Richie, I could really use your help with something,” she murmurs, smiling kindly.
I watch closely, curious about what she’s planning. Richie looks up, and Eleanor’s smile softens.
“I need someone to help me tidy the reading nook,” she says. “And you’re good at organizing things.” Richie perks up a little at this. “Do you think you could help me with that?”
He nods, saying nothing. Another student looks over, interested, but Eleanor motions for him to return to his work, and he does.
Richie follows her to the reading nook at the back of the room, where beanbags are piled with pillows beside a shelf stuffed with books.
She stands nearby, giving him space to work for a few moments before trying again.
“Is everything okay, Richie? You don’t seem as happy as you were this morning.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Andy told me I couldn’t play with him at recess.”
“Oh.” Eleanor looks surprised, then frowns. “That’s not very nice, is it?”
Richie shakes his head, sliding a copy of Charlotte’s Web onto a shelf.
“I bet that made you feel really sad and left out,” she adds.
Richie nods, shuffling a few books around.
I watch as Eleanor picks up some books too, helping him, being there without pushing him.
A compassionate presence, so Richie can feel what he’s feeling, without being alone.
This started because Richie was throwing paper, and it only took two minutes for Eleanor to get under the surface and find the deeper issue.
Anyone else would have snapped at Richie to quit it, but not Eleanor.
Because that’s not who she is. She’s someone who cares, really cares, about these kids. Not only as students, as people. She’s warm, and caring, and kind. So goddamn radiant my chest aches.
And that makes me feel something I’ve never felt before.
Something I’m not allowed to feel.
I slip quietly from the room, heart pounding.
It’s not until I’m back in my office that I realize I didn’t even mention Safe Harbor.