She shatters, her carefully constructed walls crumbling.
It’s an instinctual feeling to comfort her. I walk towards the door instead, needing to put physical space between us. “Believe me, Lina—this isn’t easy for me, either,” I say to the floor, the only thing I can give her. But I open the front door.
Her feet enter my line of vision. “I wish you would take for yourself, Dom. I wish you could trust me,” her voice cracks. “The risk is worth it. We may be new, and we may be small, but we’re big love,” she tells me anyway, because she is brilliant and brave and probably right, and then she leaves.
I close the door behind her again, but far less confidently this time.
TWENTY-THREE
Lina
One would thinkthat having to see my ex-boyfriend almost every single day for the next few weeks would be absolute torture, akin to being drawn and quartered, but there are some pros. I think it speeds up the cell regeneration of the gaping wound in my chest. It scabs over fairly quickly. It’s not quite ready to be picked off yet, though.
And that’s because of Frankie, who is still in my office almost every single day, still asking for advice and help on how to navigate the situation with the girls in her class. Who have been bullying her, as much as five-year-olds can, at least, for the things that I think are actually strengths of hers.
Her curiosity and intelligence, for starters.Who cares, they tell her.No one cares about the Titanic.
Because they are five-year-olds, however, bullying looks a little different. It means excluding her activities, from group work, from playing at recess. All because she’s a little different. Not quite being able to communicate some of the complex new feelings and emotions that come along with being a girl in school. So we’re working on finding new friends, friends who will actually appreciate her for who she is. Being kind to yourself. Being brave. This means needing to fade after-school office time and reintroducing her to her after-school program, slowly but surely, but she isn’t quite ready yet.
Which is fine for me, because it means I still get to see her father for a bit.
“She’s into pirates again,” I tell Dom one day. But the new scab I’ve developed helps me to say this. “She wants to know all the tricks pirates had to scare people. Like Blackbeard with his matches. I got her a bunch of books from the library,” I tell him, pointing to the new books on her shelf, in her book nook. “Did you know pirate ships were fairly democratic? Captains were elected by the crew and could be removed at any time.”
He smiles, and it’s a tiny one, but it feels like there’s an explosion of confetti and glitter right there in my office.
“I miss that,” I tell him, because the scab is of an appropriate thickness.
“Miss what?” he says, still smiling, in that gentle voice, strong and tranquil.
“You smiling at me. Your warmth. I want to roll in it. I want to rub it all over myself.”
He gives me a look of surprise.
“It makes me feel better,” I ramble on, unable to help myself, “and not like I’m a sad, sorry sack of shit over here still pining over you.”
Dom’s face softens. For a moment, it looks like he wants to wrap me in his arms. I burn that look into my retinas, so that I can daydream about it later, like the sad, sorry sack of shit I am.
“I think if anyone here is a sad, sorry sack of shit, it’s me,” he tells me. “I miss you, too,” he says finally. “I…” he trails off, but it’s too late, because I gobble this up and swallow it down before he can take it back.
“Well,” I tell him gently. “That sounds like a you problem. But I’ll be here and ready to bend over whenever you say the word,” I say, repeating my words from the beach, from a few months ago, verbatim.
His smile grows a fraction wider, remembering.
“Still waiting for my Ex-Box shipment,” I continue. “Strings attached,” I remind him some more, because I can’t help it. “Big love.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and walks out of my office.
* * *
I give Frankie the same advice so many times that I start to follow it, too.
I work at being kind to myself. I work at being brave.
I hire assistant principals. Plural. Two.
One is a career assistant principal, like I thought I wanted to be. She’s been an assistant principal for over fifteen years, and has absolutely no interest in becoming a principal. She’s fucking incredible at her job. Better, dare I say, than I was.
The other one I hired internally. A teacher here, one who’s taught here for almost thirteen years and just got his admin license. One of the hardest workers and best teachers we have.
