“Of course, thehealingart,” I joke.
We both laugh as Steven leaves to check on his spawn—children.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Breaking your phone seems a bit . . .” Emma trails off as she pushes a hair out of my face.
“Psychotic . . .” I whisper, confirming what she's thinking. “I know. I’m working on it.”
“I know you are. How can I help?”
“Hide all your glassware?” Wincing at my painful attempt at a joke.
“Not a chance, it's a focal point in here.” She waves at her kitchen. The space was so bright, with monochromatic tones of white and gray—a very minimalistic look. But the glassware that sits in the open view cabinets is a vintage china set with purple flowers and gold trim. In any other home, it might seem like it clashes with the space, but Emma is an artistic mastermind. She combines things you wouldn’t consider working well together and turns them into something beautiful and authentic. It’s why she’s such a good art teacher, she encourages her students to go against the grain and push limits with what is expected in art—bringing their own originality to it.
“Of course,” I say waving towards the kitchen the same way.
“Do you want to run to the store with me? I have to get stuff for dinner tonight,” she says, standing to her feet.
“Ah, dinner with the stranger, huh?”
“Not really a stranger,” she says, smiling. “You can come with me to get stuff.”
“Do Ihaveto?” Not that I don’t want to help Emma prepare dinner for this mystery person, I have a long list of things to do—getting a new phone now at the top of the list.
“No, you do not.” She chuckles.
“Great, then no. But I would love to help tonight!”
“You better, or you get scraps.” She pats my hand and turns to clean up the phone pieces. “Do yourself a favor and get a sturdy case for next time.”
“Sure hope there won’t be a next time.” I laugh.
Scouring the internet for jobs isn’t all it's cracked up to be. I spend a few hours going through the repetitive motions of filling out the application, attaching a resume, and questioning if the job is even worth the hassle, then deleting the thing all together. After the revolving door of tasks, I end up applying to only one prospective job.
I’m so productive.
Closing my laptop, I take that single application as a win that I actually applied to something. For some reason, I have kept putting the job search off. A few months ago I was itching to get back to New York, but the more time I spend here, at Glendale specifically, the more hesitancy I have to go back.
Did I intend on the time and money I spent on my education to be used for a guidance counselor position? No.
But am I starting to enjoy the job, and the people it has put in my life? A little.
At that, I pull up my email, and completely disregard the email [email protected].
I’ll tackle that when I feel more stable.
I see an email informing me that I have missed notifications from the faculty group messenger. Opening it, I see the topic of discussion:
End of Term Block Party
Another party? How many does this school need? It’s not a fraternity.
Let it be said, Glendale has a faculty of over forty teachers and this thread has every single one of them attached, with only these four knuckle heads responding. With an occasional smiley face from Bill, the Janitor.
The affection I have for the kooky people of Glendale High fills me with some comfort. It’s been a long time since I felt this way about friends. Not that my New York friends aren’t great, because they are . . . in their own way. There is just a vast difference between the people I willingly left in New York, and the people here that have seemed to wedge themselves into my life. Something in my stomach churns when the thought of leaving them crosses my mind.
Leaving New York was one of the easiest things I had done in a while, and not speaking to those old friends hasn’t even phased me. I can’t even remember the last time I had a full conversation with one of them, and their attempts at maintaining a friendship with me fizzled quickly after the move. That’s probably my own fault, but a part of me isn’t even sad about it. But the sadness I feel over leaving Glendale . . . Kate, her constant meme sharing in three different conversations, Malcolm and his courtesy vegetables, and not being this physically close to Emma anymore.
Benny . . .My breath catches at the thought of not seeing him every day.
