opponent. Shaking her is the gauntlet I have to run daily: instinctual nerdisms I don’t say and the second-by-second reminder to myself to “act cool.”
I run the dust cloth over the empty place where a framed photo of Ryan and me in happier times used to be. It was the one of us with my mom and dad that time we all hiked into Muir Woods in Marin County, which was right by my parents’ house. He was laughing with my Dad, shoulder to shoulder. I was telling him to look at the camera while Mom motioned for the stranger taking the picture to wait. We needed to collect ourselves. It was my favorite picture ever . . . and the last one to be taken down after Ryan left. As I wipe down the rest of the kitchen counter, I hear the ting-ting of my iPhone in the other room. A text. I run down the hall. It’s from Jeremy.
Hey, who is this?
I calmly close out of the texting screen—the adorable green and white text bubbles making a mockery of me—and then violently hurl the phone across the room. It careens against the red wingback chair in the corner and bounces off onto the hardwood floor. I take a long deep breath and walk into the bathroom in search of the bottle of Excedrin P.M. I dump two little blue pills into my hand. My mind is on hold. Are we going to spiral into depression or anger? There’s a tiny possibility that I could just laugh it off and look forward to telling Jill that I was right. I walk to where I threw the iPhone and am relieved to find that it still works. It lives to send embarrassing texts another day. Huzzah. I plug it back into its charger, climb into bed and tuck in tight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
DESPITE AN EXCEDRIN PM hangover, I arrive at the first day of school wide eyed and excited. Just like every other first day of school since I can remember. Kids getting dropped off, buses taking up way too much space in tiny parking lots, and teachers barking orders as they hold on to clipboards filled with lists and classroom numbers. I pick my way through the crush, coffee in hand, and make my way to our little mental health stalag. I’ve got a solid hour before I pull Harry Sprague out of his second-period English class for his first speech therapy session. I plan on filling up this coffee mug as many times as I can between then and now.
No Jill in sight as I set my canvas bag down in our office. She’s probably foraging in the teachers’ lounge. It is the first day of school. The amount of delicious goodness that is teeming in that lounge right now is mind-boggling. Bagels? Danish? Bins filled with Red Vines? I could go on and on. My mouth waters as I walk down the hallway, out the double doors and toward the teachers’ lounge. It’s far enough away that teachers can let their hair down but close enough that a cup of coffee (or a handful of Red Vines) is mere steps away at any given time.
I excitedly push open the door, already tasting that cream cheese, bagel and fresh cup of coffee.
“Hey, Frannie.” Ryan. Ugh . Ryan. It’s as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water on my face and I’m frozen in the doorway, mascara trailing down my cheeks. It takes milliseconds to gather myself, an undertaking that’s barely visible to the naked eye: masks are pulled, shoulders are cocked back, chins lifted.
“Hey,” I say, my eyes scanning the room. Jill. On the balcony.
“Hey . . . I wanted to—”
I cut in. “Ah, there’s Jill! Have a great first day!” I escape from Ryan’s shrugging apologies and bob and weave past several sad looks, pitying smiles, and “you go, girl” raised eyebrows. I march past the obstacle course of feigned sympathy and walk out onto the balcony.
“What the hell? You leave me in there with Ryan and the Coven of Front-Office Hags?” I say, trying to look as happy as possible.
“Leave you? What are you talking about?” Jill asks, talking to another woman. Who I don’t know. Great . I extend my hand in greeting. She quickly takes it with a firm
I run the dust cloth over the empty place where a framed photo of Ryan and me in happier times used to be. It was the one of us with my mom and dad that time we all hiked into Muir Woods in Marin County, which was right by my parents’ house. He was laughing with my Dad, shoulder to shoulder. I was telling him to look at the camera while Mom motioned for the stranger taking the picture to wait. We needed to collect ourselves. It was my favorite picture ever . . . and the last one to be taken down after Ryan left. As I wipe down the rest of the kitchen counter, I hear the ting-ting of my iPhone in the other room. A text. I run down the hall. It’s from Jeremy.
Hey, who is this?
I calmly close out of the texting screen—the adorable green and white text bubbles making a mockery of me—and then violently hurl the phone across the room. It careens against the red wingback chair in the corner and bounces off onto the hardwood floor. I take a long deep breath and walk into the bathroom in search of the bottle of Excedrin P.M. I dump two little blue pills into my hand. My mind is on hold. Are we going to spiral into depression or anger? There’s a tiny possibility that I could just laugh it off and look forward to telling Jill that I was right. I walk to where I threw the iPhone and am relieved to find that it still works. It lives to send embarrassing texts another day. Huzzah. I plug it back into its charger, climb into bed and tuck in tight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
DESPITE AN EXCEDRIN PM hangover, I arrive at the first day of school wide eyed and excited. Just like every other first day of school since I can remember. Kids getting dropped off, buses taking up way too much space in tiny parking lots, and teachers barking orders as they hold on to clipboards filled with lists and classroom numbers. I pick my way through the crush, coffee in hand, and make my way to our little mental health stalag. I’ve got a solid hour before I pull Harry Sprague out of his second-period English class for his first speech therapy session. I plan on filling up this coffee mug as many times as I can between then and now.
No Jill in sight as I set my canvas bag down in our office. She’s probably foraging in the teachers’ lounge. It is the first day of school. The amount of delicious goodness that is teeming in that lounge right now is mind-boggling. Bagels? Danish? Bins filled with Red Vines? I could go on and on. My mouth waters as I walk down the hallway, out the double doors and toward the teachers’ lounge. It’s far enough away that teachers can let their hair down but close enough that a cup of coffee (or a handful of Red Vines) is mere steps away at any given time.
I excitedly push open the door, already tasting that cream cheese, bagel and fresh cup of coffee.
“Hey, Frannie.” Ryan. Ugh . Ryan. It’s as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water on my face and I’m frozen in the doorway, mascara trailing down my cheeks. It takes milliseconds to gather myself, an undertaking that’s barely visible to the naked eye: masks are pulled, shoulders are cocked back, chins lifted.
“Hey,” I say, my eyes scanning the room. Jill. On the balcony.
“Hey . . . I wanted to—”
I cut in. “Ah, there’s Jill! Have a great first day!” I escape from Ryan’s shrugging apologies and bob and weave past several sad looks, pitying smiles, and “you go, girl” raised eyebrows. I march past the obstacle course of feigned sympathy and walk out onto the balcony.
“What the hell? You leave me in there with Ryan and the Coven of Front-Office Hags?” I say, trying to look as happy as possible.
“Leave you? What are you talking about?” Jill asks, talking to another woman. Who I don’t know. Great . I extend my hand in greeting. She quickly takes it with a firm
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