He startles awake, sitting bolt upright and blinking blearily up at me. He looks beyond exhausted. Some of my sharp, irritable corners soften.
“Sleep at home,” I tell him. Then I return to teaching, so that I don’t draw any more attention to him or embarrass him in any way. I ignore the snickers from his friends and continue droning on about symbolism that only maybe was intended by the author. I don’t like the way we teachobjectivelythings that are sosubjective.One person might read the same book five times and come away with five different interpretations, based solely on what they were going through each time they read the book.
So I try to teach my students the importance—and the value—of subjectivity. I don’t know if the carpet was blue because the author wanted to portray something sad. But if that’s how it seems to you, what can you take away from that? If you’re finding hints of sadness in everything you read, what can that tell you about yourself at this point in time? Those are the lessons that are going to help you in your day-to-day life anyway. In fifty years you’re not going to need to know about symbolism in classical literature. But you’re definitely going to need lots of tools for figuringyourself out, for deciphering your own emotions and understanding your own mind.
By the time class is over, I don’t know who’s more done: me or my students. I’m kind of dreading my next step, but at the same time, I just want to get moving on it. Get it over with. I book it out of there, bustling past the stragglers and power walking down the hall.
Despite this itch to get things done, though, when I reach the entrance to the teachers’ lounge, I still have to pause with my hand on the doorknob, taking a few steadying breaths to prepare myself.
Although…can you everreallybe ready to enter the jungle?
I squeeze my eyes shut, go to my happy place in my mind—my bed, curled up with a good book—and then turn the handle, swinging the door open and stepping inside.
The level of noise that hits me is comparable to the noise my seniors make before class starts. The only difference is that the people in the teachers’ lounge should know better, since their brains should theoretically be done maturing by now. But that’s never stopped the faculty of Autumn Grove High School before.
And to be fair, Autumn Grove does seem to collect weirdos and outcasts like a magnet. Everyone here has a story. Agatha the receptionist, currently cursing fluently at the coffee machine, is in her seventies and is on husband number three. None of us think he’ll last very long. Agatha moved to Autumn Grove some twenty years ago as a middle-aged woman following her favorite band on their cross-country tour. Her car broke down here, she met her first husband, and then she just never left—even when husband number one turned into husband number two and then husband number three.
Rocco’s seated on the couch by the window, reading a newspaper and eating some sort of wrap or burrito. He’s one ofthe most normal people here, but even he’s the odd one out in his family; he comes from old money, his brother is in politics, and yet Rocco is here, teaching PE and coaching, living a “small life,” as he calls it.
Then there are the Betties—none of whom are actually named Betty, as far as I know. They’re seated at their usual corner table now, lunch boxes open in front of them, holding court with their noses in the air.
And two of them were there the night we found the body, I realize with a start. I freeze in place, a chill running down my spine. Then I rub the back of my neck, trying to dispel the feeling. I didn’t think anything of their presence at the time, when we passed them coming up the stairs as we were going down. Now, though…what were they doing that night when they were supposed to be chaperoning?
I’m going to need to ask about that. And I think I can manage it.
Because what Caroline said about no one wanting to date me is not strictly true. I know for a fact that two out of the three Betties—the two Juniper and I passed on the stairs—have been gunning for me since day one. My chief recommending characteristic seems to be that I’ve never shown any interest; an uninterested man is catnip to the Betties.
Betty Number One, whose real name is Hailey, is their leader and the most unpleasant by far; she’s also my most blatant pursuer. Hailey teaches marketing and advertising classes to the juniors and seniors, and she’s good at it. She looks the part, too; she keeps her blonde hair styled neatly and sleekly at all times, and she’s always dressed in some form of business attire—blazers, button-down shirts, and pencil skirts, mostly.
Betty Number Two, named Bethany, is the follower of all followers; she probably has her ownpersonality and her own sense of style, but I’ve never seen them. They always seem to mirror whoever is around her. Since she primarily trails along after Betty Number One, she also wears blazers and button-down shirts and pencil skirts. Her hair is blonde too, but it’s frizzier than Betty Number One’s, which means that those sleek hairstyles don’t look quite as polished on her. Betty Number Two is my other less-than-secret admirer; I can’t imagine her actively pursuing me, since hierarchy demands that she defer to Betty Number One, but I’ve caught enough sneaky glances and blushing cheeks to be pretty sure about how she feels.
And then there’s Betty Number Three.
Betty Number Three is a bit of a mystery, to be honest. Her name is Nessa, but that’s literally the only thing I know about her, despite having worked in the same department as her for the last year. As far as I can tell, Nessa spends her time outside of class in complete, utter silence. She sits with the Betties, eats with them, maybe even spends time with them on the weekends, but I have never once seen her talk to them—or to anyone but her students, for that matter.?*
The other Betties don’t seem to mind. They talk enough for the rest of the faculty combined.
I slink past them all, trying to avoid detection as I get my lunch from the fridge. I’m going to start asking questions in a moment anyway; I want to savor these last few seconds of quiet. I accidentally hit my hip bone on the counter as I’m squeezing through, but I bite my tongue so that I can fly under the radar for just a second longer.
Once I’ve gotten my lunch from the fridge, though, I shore up my patience and courage andthen get to work. I’ve got questions to ask and things to learn. So I sit down at the Betties’ table, plunk my lunch in front of me, and turn to the three of them.
“Where did the name Betty come from, anyway?” I say. I ignore the stares Hailey and Bethany are giving me, instead busying myself with unloading my lunch bag. Ham sandwich, bag of carrots, cheese stick. Not string cheese, because string cheese is gross—just a stick of cheddar cheese. I lay my food out neatly in front of me, and then I look at the Betties again.
Betties One and Two are still looking at me, thunderstruck. I don’t blame them; I never eat lunch in here, and when I come in for other reasons, I go out of my way to avoid this table. I don’t think I’ve ever initiated conversation with these women in my life.
Betty Number Three, though, isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at my lunch, her face twisted into some approximation of confusion. Then she points at my carrots.
“Are you eating those without ranch dressing?”
I freeze with my hand still outstretched to pick up my sandwich; Betties One and Two turn to look at her instead of me.
This is the first time I’ve ever heard her talk to anyone but her students. Ever.
“Um,” I say, like an idiot. “Yes.”
“Like, just by themselves? No hummus either? No dip?” she says, looking disgusted now. Her mouth is turned down into a frown; her dark eyes are still fixed on my lunch.
“Yes,” I say slowly. What is even happening right now? The first words I’ve ever heard her direct at me, and she’s asking about my carrot sticks?
