Fine, I guess. I’ve gotten a couple interviews, I’m actually starting a temp thing next month. At least it’s something.
I think a lot of places hire temps to go full-time
I’m not completely sure that’s true. I don’t even know what she does. We’ve never shared that level of detail about our lives.
But we share this level of detail, hanging out naked and talking about nothing for another half hour, like we're a couple instead of… whatever it is we are. Friends who fuck silently via video chat and text?
Except I don’t really feelfriendlyabout Lola. I haven’t been on a date with anyone else since the first time she texted me a half-naked photo, and I’ve never even seen her face. I want to ask her for more—her face, her voice; I want to find out where she lives and buy a plane ticket there—but this still feels so tenuous and uncertain. It would be the easiest thing in the world for her to get spooked, block my number, and then it would be over.
So sexting and friendship it is.
CHAPTERTWO
SADIE
Edna Clothier has,shall we say, a commanding presence.
Just kidding. I’m half terrified and half in awe of the eighth grade social studies teacher at Sprucevale Middle School as she whisks me from classroom to classroom, introducing me to all the other teachers. She has gray hair in a bun, extremely sensible slacks, and a button-down denim shirt with, I swear to God, shoulder pads.
And she ispulling it off. The things make me look like Voltron, but here she is, sweeping down the hallway between rows of beige lockers, queen of all she surveys.
“Mr. Conrad started last year,” she says, still filling me in on the other eighth grade math teacher. “He also coaches the girl’s soccer team, and I believe he’s planning on proposing to his girlfriend in the near future. They were high school sweethearts. Precious love story.”
“Wow, cute,” I agree. I’ve already forgotten Mr. Conrad’s first name, and Edna seems to be the kind of teacher who doesn’t really believe in first names.
“I’m so glad they found another woman to substitute,” she says, still power-walking down this hallway. “It’s good for the girls’ morale. Somehow, by age thirteen, half of them have already had it drilled into their heads that they’re pretty little idiots who should leave the thinking to the boys.”
“Eeeaugh.”
I sort of meant to say something instead of just makingthatnoise, but Edna—Mrs. Clothier, I guess—gives me an approving nod.
“They’re not, of course,” she says. “They’re every bit as bright as the boys and often brighter, but it can be depressing to watch them descend into a haze of makeup tutorials and shopping discussions instead of pondering the quadratic formula.”
That’s not what you do with the quadratic formula, but I don’t say that aloud.
“It’s really important to make sure they feel valued for their minds as well as their… physical selves,” I say, because suddenlybodiesfeels like a weird thing to say about thirteen-year-old girls. It’s probably not. Edna just makes me nervous.
“Ah, you’re still in,” she says, imperiously rounding a corner and giving a perfunctory knock on another classroom door. “This is Miss Bell, the long-term sub for Mrs. Gooding while she’s on maternity leave.”
I round the corner, and an absolute smoke show rises from a chair behind his desk.
“Hi,” I say, and what I mean is:oh my God why are you teaching English in rural Virginia?
“Miss Bell, this is Mr. Farrow,” Edna goes on, oblivious to the fact that I’m kind of having a crisis. “He teaches both sections of Advanced English as well as regular English, and also coaches the Quiz Bowl team.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he says, and we shake hands. “James.”
I’m professional as hell and don’t even giggle, even though he has a really nice, smooth voice with just a hint of an accent.
“Sadie,” I say, and that gets a big smile, and ohnothere are dimples.
Look, I have a type. James isn’t a male model or anything, but he’s got slightly rumpled light brown hair and pretty hazel eyes and black-framed glasses that screamI subscribe to the New York Times,not to mention nice lips and a really lovely, friendly smile, and dimples. In short, his whole thing does it for me.
Also, the sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up and his forearms are, frankly, pornographic. He’s not particularly tall—average, probably?—but his shirt is tight through the shoulders in a way that is… good. It’s a good way. Yep.
“You’ll be here for a while?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips like he’s a soccer coach about to get all authoritative and tell me to run drills, and I do not mind it.
“Three months,” Edna says. Edna’s like that.
