Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Zachary Becker
The afternoon sun, already softening towards evening, streams through the dusty windows of my new apartment, illuminating motes dancing in the air.
It’s a small, one-bedroom place, mostly empty save for a few stacks of cardboard boxes and the faint, lingering smell of fresh paint and something vaguely metallic.
The floors are scuffed, the walls a bland off-white, but it’s mine. For now.
Tim Nettleson, my best friend since we met the first day of our freshman year of college, is already tearing into a box labeled “Kitchen Stuff.” He’s a whirlwind of efficiency, his movements honed by years of managing his family’s apple farm and the summer camp next door.
He’s got that easy, confident air about him, the kind that comes from being rooted in one place, one purpose.
My summer, by contrast, has been a beautiful, chaotic blur of nature and responsibility.
I spent it at Tim’s summer camp, nestled right beside his family’s sprawling apple orchards.
I taught canoeing, outdoor safety, climbing–all the things that feel like second nature to me.
The camp, and the farm, are a ten-minute walk from a tiny, sleepy town, but when I’m there, I mostly avoid it.
I prefer the quiet hum of the forest, the rustle of leaves, the distant bleating of sheep.
It’s an escape, a place where cell phones and emails and the relentless stress of my old life just…
fade away. I’ve visited at least a couple dozen times over the years, and it always feels like a reset button.
It was exactly what I needed before diving headfirst into this new job, this new life, here in Pine Island.
But now, the calm of the camp feels a million miles away. School starts soon. The faculty meeting is tonight. And here I am, in a half-unpacked apartment, with Tim humming some off-key tune as he wrestles with a stubborn box flap.
“Alright, Zach, what’s next?” Tim asks, pulling out a handful of mismatched mugs. “Looks like we’re almost through the kitchen. Then it’s just the bedroom and that sad little box of… well, whatever’s left.” He grins, knowing full well the story behind my meager possessions.
I point to a medium-sized box near the wall. “That one’s clothes, I think. Or what’s left of them.”
He crouches down, slices open the tape with a utility knife and begins pulling out folded T-shirts and jeans. “Man, I still can’t believe that barn. What a nightmare.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.
Most of my belongings, accumulated over years, had been carefully packed away in Tim’s family’s old barn, a place I thought was safe.
Then the hurricane hit. The barn, a sturdy structure that had stood for generations, was reduced to splinters.
And with it, a significant chunk of my wardrobe, old journals, photographs–anything that wasn’t in a waterproof container was just…
gone. It’s why this apartment feels so sparse, so temporary. It’s like starting over, but with less.
Tim pulls out a crumpled T-shirt, shakes it open, and then freezes. His eyes widen, and he lets out a low whistle. “Whoa. Hey, Zach. Did you… did you pack this on purpose?”
I look over, curious, and then my stomach lurches.
There, clinging to the inside of the T-shirt, is a truly enormous spider.
Not one of those dainty house spiders, but a thick-bodied, hairy-legged monster that clearly hitched a ride all the way from the camp.
Its legs are splayed, and it looks surprisingly unperturbed by its cross-state journey.
“Oh, God, no,” I say, recoiling instinctively. I take a step back, my skin crawling.
Tim holds the shirt up, the spider swaying gently. He’s got that mischievous glint in his eye. “Remember that ‘woodland insects’ class you tried to teach that one summer? The one that ended with three kids crying, one kid throwing up, and nightmares for a week?”
I shudder. “Don’t remind me. That was a disaster. I was trying to teach them about the beauty of the ecosystem, and all they saw was eight legs of pure terror.” The memory still makes me cringe. “Just… just get it out of here, Tim. Please.”
He chuckles, carefully carrying the shirt over to the open balcony door. With a flick of his wrist, the spider is airborne, disappearing into the foliage outside. “There. Freedom for our little hitchhiker.” He turns back, a smirk on his face. “Hope none of your new lessons turn out like that, huh?”
“You and me both,” I sigh, trying to shake off the lingering creepiness.
The thought of standing in front of a classroom, trying to impart knowledge, and having it go spectacularly wrong, is a constant low-level hum of anxiety.
My old job, in the tech industry, was soul-crushing, with endless hours staring at spreadsheets, but it was easy.
I was good at it. I knew the rules, the patterns, the expected outcomes. Teaching? This is a whole new beast.
We carefully go through the rest of the boxes, which are indeed meager. A few more shirts, some books, my worn hiking boots, a couple of framed photos. It doesn’t take long. In less than an hour, the last box is empty, flattened, and stacked by the door.
“And that, my friend,” Tim declares, wiping his hands on his jeans, “is the grand total of Zachary Becker’s worldly possessions. Impressive in its minimalism, I must say.”
“Minimalism by hurricane, mostly,” I correct, but I can’t help but feel a tiny bit lighter. It’s done. The unpacking, at least.
Tim grins, then reaches into his own duffel bag, pulling out a dark, unlabeled bottle. “To celebrate the new digs, and the new life.” He holds it up, and I recognize the distinctive shape of a cider bottle from his family’s farm. “A little something special. Just for us.”
He twists off the cap with a satisfying pop, and the sweet, crisp scent of fermented apples fills the air. He takes a long swig. “Not bad for a last-minute rental, man. You really lucked out, considering.”
I nod, taking the bottle from him. “Yeah, I guess. After the other place…” I trail off.
The night I met Maya I was actually in town signing a lease for a different apartment, a place I’d meticulously chosen months ago.
Then the hurricane hit, and that building, like so many others, was deemed uninhabitable.
It sent me scrambling, desperate to find anywhere before school started.
This place was the only option. It’s functional, but it lacks the charm of the first one. Still, it’s a roof over my head.
Tim leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “So, the big faculty meeting tonight. How are you feeling about it?”
I take a long swig of the cider. It’s tart, refreshing, and helps to cut through the knot of nerves in my stomach.
“Honestly? Terrified.” The word comes out in a rush, raw and honest. “I mean, I was so good at my old job. It was boring, the hours were insane, but it was easy. I could do it in my sleep. This… this is totally new. What if I’m terrible at it, Tim?
What if changing careers and moving across the country was an awful idea?
What if I hate it even more than working in tech and I screw up the kids? ”
Tim pushes off the counter and claps me on the shoulder.
“Hey. Look at me.” His gaze is steady, reassuring.
“You needed a change, Zach. You were miserable. You were working yourself into the ground for a company that didn’t care about you.
This is different. This is about making a difference, about working with kids, about doing something you’re actually passionate about, even if it scares you. ”
He gestures around the sparsely furnished apartment. “The first few weeks, hell, maybe even the first few months, are going to be hard. You’re learning a whole new rhythm. But once you get the hang of things, once you find your stride, you’re going to start enjoying it. I know you will.”
I hope he’s right. God, I really hope he’s right. The thought of another job I hate, after uprooting my entire life, is a heavy weight.
I glance down at my clothes, crumbled from today’s wear.
“What am I even going to wear to this meeting? It’s almost five p.m., all the shops are closed, and the only clean shirt I have is…
” I gesture to the shirt I’m wearing, the one I’d thrown on this morning in a rush.
The ridiculous T-shirt with the cartoon cell holding up peace fingers, proclaiming “CELLFIE.”
Tim grins. “Wear it with pride, man. Seriously. Isn’t half the fun of being a science teacher the punny shirts you now have a legitimate excuse for buying? Embrace it. It’s a conversation starter. You’ll be the cool new science teacher with the questionable fashion sense.”
I manage a weak smile. He’s trying to lighten the mood, and it helps, a little. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s a statement. A statement that I’m here, I’m new, and I’m… me.
I take another swig of cider, the sweetness a comforting counterpoint to the bitter taste of nerves. I hope Tim’s right. I hope this new chapter, with its pink ferrets and punny shirts and terrifying faculty meetings, is everything I need it to be.