“But he’s hot. He seems like he would do nasty things to me in bed, and I want to hate-fuck him,” I pout.
She thinks. “Well, you can probably do that.”
“Right?!”
“Yeah, just be sneaky about it. Didn’t you tell me both your jobs were on the line for something or other? No drama llamas from Ms. Baker’s classroom or some shit? Hate-fucking him is the opposite of that.”
“I can be sneaky.”
“Actually, you can’t. Remember when you tried toshoplift a Billabong hoodie from PacSun by wearing it out of the store?”
“I thought that was pretty slick, actually?—”
“You were wearing it ontopof all your clothes, Georgia. With the security tag still on.”
“I wasfourteen.” I am outraged. “But anyway, I bet he can be sneaky.”
“Then I guess it depends on how bad he wants it, I guess.”
He doesn’t want it that bad, apparently, as Monday comes and goes without my seeing him at all.
I focus instead on my classroom, with our ongoing study of the Lenape people indigenous to New York City, different cultural traditions, and storytelling for the entire month of November leading up to Thanksgiving. I incorporate all the feedback Oliver has given me regarding planning and prepping and teaching and grading. Because I am a star employee.
I’m counting my permission slips for field trips to notable Lenape areas in Brooklyn, when I realize that the only one I’m missing is from Max.
Max is in school today, looking refreshed. I was wary of what he would be like after this weekend’s incident, but he is looking more like the Max I hate-love. Bouncy, curious, smiling. Clean. Less angry with others. I wonder if Oliver got in touch with Mom. I pull him aside during snack time, after seeing him offer some of his Cheez Doodles to Dorothy.
“How’s it going, sir? You talking to me today?”
“I guess,” he says, hopping on his toes, forever incapable of being still.
“You look better today. I really loved seeing you share your snacks.”
He beams. “I got to hang out with my mom all weekend. We went to Coney Island. We rode the Cyclone.”
I feel extraordinarily relieved. “Are you with her all week?”
He nods his head vigorously.
“Can you get her to sign this permission slip, then? We’re going on a field trip,” I tell him, handing him the paper. “You can even invite her to be a chaperone.”
“What’s a chaperone?” he asks, folding the paper I give him into a tiny square and shoving it into his pants pocket. I make a mental note to email mom a permission slip, knowing we will never see that paper again.
“It means she can come with us on the field trip to help supervise you and some other kids.”
He claps his hands. “I want her to come.”
“Great. Then don’t lose that paper and make sure you give it to her tonight.”
“What paper?”
Tuesday comes and goes, but Oliver is out for his monthly district principal’s conference, so I don’t see him all day. I fall asleep that night with my vibrator still buzzing on the pillow next to my head.
On Wednesday, I’m out of the building all day for a field trip with my class. I meet Max’s mom, who is a lovely woman. She mentions nothing about Max’s dad. I get home by four o’clock and immediately pass out on the couch for the night. Field trips will do that to you. Have you ever tried wrangling thirty feral kittens down a few city blocks, down into a subway station, through the turnstiles, onto the same train, off of the train, making sure you have all thirty—? No?
By Thursday, I am ready to beg for it.
Thursdays are our staff professional developmentdays, after school, when administrators typically lead a session on how to… I don’t know, develop our professional skills, or something. I never really pay attention, never have in all my years of teaching. It’s a contractual obligation for us to be there, but not a contractual obligation for me to participate. Don’t get paid enough for that shit, and all that. Most of the time, my admin hadn’t known what they were talking about, anyway, giving us entirely useless trainings that clearly showed they hadn’t stepped foot in a classroom in several years.
