1
Ivy
“Do I smell like vomit?” I grab the ends of my hair and bring them to my nose trying to decide for myself.
“Ew… I don’t know, come here,” Sophie responds, leaning over to take a reluctant sniff of me. “No, you’re good,” she assures me, then leans down and opens the refrigerator to grab her sandwich she brought for lunch, making her blonde ponytail fall over her shoulder. “God, what the hell happened today?” she asks while I trail behind her as she finds an empty table in the teachers’ lounge.
That is an excellent question.
One I ask myself fairly regularly when I climb into my car after school. What happened during my day isn’t uncommon for a seventh-grade English teacher. From snarky preteens roasting me and interrogating me on my love life to reminding students to follow basic rules, like using complete sentences or writing their names on their assignments.
However, today was especially atrocious. It all started when some shithead in second period chuckedhis guts up all over my classroom just as the bell rang. His only response? “My bad, Ms. B.” Then he continued onto his next class without a care in the fucking world. To further paint the picture of the disaster that was today, the janitor was nowhere to be found—meaning yours truly had the pleasure of scrubbing the stomach acid out of the twenty-year-old, sorry excuse of a carpet.
As much as I love the subject, the reading, the writing—I don’t know how much longer I can put up with teaching it. My parents loved it so much, I just figured I would too, but I guess it didn’t work out that way. Maybe one day I’ll stop being a chickenshit and actually do what I want with my life, but that won’t exactly bring home the bacon. Not that being an educator does that either.
Cue my very intense scream into the ether.
“A student in second period exorcism-style projectile vomited next to my desk. I swear I can still smell it. Like it's ingrained in my nostrils,” I tell her as we set our food down and take the seats across from each other.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry. That’s awful,” Sophie mutters. “Did Henry come clean it for you?” she asks, opening her bag of chips.
“Nope, after four attempts to radio him, I accepted defeat and took care of it myself. I had to get to it before it really seeped in, you know?” I frown, making a mental note to find Henry and confirm what channel his walkie-talkie is on. I had to rummage through the maintenance closet for all the cleaning supplies, and honestly, I have no idea if I used the right stuff.
“I mean, I guess.” She cringes.
I second her sentiments wholeheartedly.
Sophie and I met when I started working at Canyon Creek Middle School around two years ago. I had just moved to town, and didn’t know a single person outside of my landlord. I had been hired to cover for a teacher on maternity leave and was walking toward my new classroom with my hands full of supplies and a heart full of hope, when I collided with a student sprinting around the corner.
Papers and binders went flying.
The student kept running, completely unbothered. Sophie witnessed the whole thing and rushed over to help me gather my things, murmuring a quiet, “What a turd.” under her breath. I threw my head back and cackled, responding with a genuine, “Totally.” Since then, she’s been the best friend I have in town—well, her and Rose, my landlord slash pseudo-grandmother. I haven’t had much of a chance to make other friends, seeing as most of the teachers are much older than Sophie and I, and teaching over a hundred students eats up all of my free time.
“Good afternoon ladies,” a sharp but familiar voice clips from behind, startling both of us.
I set my sandwich down, and turn in my seat to face Mrs. Abbott. The petite older woman has always made me nervous. We stand around the same height when she’s in her stilettos—with me at five foot five, she can’t be more than five feet tall. Her salt-and-pepper bun is as high and tight as always, and she looks severe, those high, angled cheekbones only adding to her movie villain look.
I wipe the crumbs from the side of my mouth and force out a garbled, “Hello Janet.” through the thick peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Hello, Ms. Bennett. I was hoping I’d catch you here. I need to see you in my office after school, if you have a few minutes to spare,” she says with a judgmental scowl, clearly disapproving of my attempt to talk with my mouth full.
Well you're interrupting my lunch, what did you expect?
My eyes move side to side, slowly scan the teachers’ lounge, noticing the other staff—and Sophie—watching this uncomfortable interaction unashamedly.
“Sure. Yeah, of course,” I reply hesitantly. I have no idea what this could possibly be about, but I want this conversation to be over as soon as possible.
“Great.” She nods once, turning on her heel and hurrying out of the room, her sky-high heels clicking with every step.
I turn back to Sophie, and her wide blue-green eyes are already zeroing in on me.
“Do you think it's a requirement, as principal, to be an uptight twat?” I ask quietly, rolling my eyes.
Every encounter I’ve ever had with Mrs. Abbott has been gruff and severely lacking any niceties. Even during my interview, she was robotic, cold and detached. Luckily, I don’t have to socialize with her much.
“Probably. But what do you think that was about?” Sophie whispers back, clearly more invested in the after-school meeting I just agreed to than in our usual shit talking of our boss, or more accurately,myshit talking of our boss. Sophie usually just laughs at my antics and nods along to my rants about the woman. She never has a bad thing to say about anyone. She’s just inherently good like that, and I love her for it.
“I don't know,” I answer her, worrying my lower lip. “She’s never asked to speak to me privately, and it's not time for reviews… Maybe it’s about the science fair. I know they’re needing help with that,” I wonder aloud, hoping Sophie's forever optimistic attitude will agree with me and put my sudden discomfort to rest.
