Chapter Eight
Maya
The little bell above the door of Knit Happens chimes, a cheerful sound that is completely at odds with the thundercloud of rage brewing inside me. I stomp the welcome mat a little harder than necessary, the frustration from my encounter with Zachary still humming under my skin like a trapped hornet. I am here to vent. I am here to complain. I am here to get validation from my friends that my new classroom situation is, in fact, a complete and utter disaster.
I spot them in our usual corner, a cozy nook surrounded by shelves overflowing with skeins of yarn in every conceivable color. Alexis is knitting with a sleeping baby strapped to her chest, Devin is untangling a particularly nasty knot in some lace-weight silk, and Hannah is digging through an oversized bag of knick-knacks and craft supplies. But my righteous tirade dies in my throat before it can even begin. Flick is sitting with her hands resting on her lap, her knuckles swollen and red. The telltale sign of a bad flare-up.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. I slide into the seat beside her, my own problems suddenly feeling pettyand insignificant. I know how much pain she’s in when her rheumatoid arthritis acts up, how it can make even the simplest tasks, like holding knitting needles, an agonizing ordeal.
“It’s the humidity,” she says, anticipating my question. She manages a weak smile. “My joints decided to throw a full-blown protest today. I think they’re demanding better working conditions.”
I try to bury the anger, to push it down and plaster on a supportive, understanding expression. “I’m so sorry, Flick. Is there anything I can get you? Tea? An ice pack?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. Just complaining. Now,” she says, her sharp eyes zeroing in on me, “it’s your turn. You walked in here looking like you were about to breathe fire. Don’t think you can hide it. We’ve been friends for too long. Spill.”
A huge sigh of relief escapes me, a gust of wind that deflates some of my tension. “Oh, it’s just… work,” I begin, and then the floodgates open. The words come tumbling out in a rush, a torrent of frustration and disappointment. “I spent all summer planning my new classroom. I had this whole vision, this amazing, immersive art space for the kids. And now? Now, because the hurricane flooded a whole wing of the school, I’m in a trailer. A trailer that’s half the size of my old room, and I have to share it.”
“Sharing is tough,” Hannah says sympathetically, her needles clicking a steady rhythm.
“It’s not just that I have to share,” I continue, my voice rising. “It’s who I have to share with. I’m not even with another art teacher. I’m with ascienceteacher. Science! Of all the subjects, it had to be science. What am I supposed to do with that? It’s the antithesis of art. It’s all formulas and facts and… and beakers!”
Flick raises a skeptical eyebrow. “The antithesis? Really? Do I need to remind you about the yarn-dyeing class I helped youteach last spring? You gave a whole twenty-minute speech on the chemical importance of pH levels and mordants. Sounded pretty science-y to me.”
I scowl. “Okay, fine. In that one, very specific context, art and science intersected. But that’s a rarity. The vast majority of my lessons don’t involve that kind of crossover. How am I supposed to teach kids about color theory and perspective when there’s a guy on the other side of the room dissecting a frog?”
“He’s not actually going to be dissecting frogs, is he?” Alexis asks, her nose wrinkling. She gently rocks the baby on her chest, a soothing, rhythmic motion. “Maybe you should talk to him. Pick his brain. See if there are any lessons you can combine. It could be a cool opportunity for the kids.”
“I don’t want to pick his brain,” I mutter, stabbing a knitting needle into a ball of chunky wool. “I want to pick a fight. He’s already decided that his science stuff is more important than my art stuff. He basically said my kids work is just ‘decoration.’”
A collective gasp goes around the table. “He did not,” Hannah says, horrified.
“He did,” I confirm, feeling a fresh wave of indignation. “He wants the biggest wall for his whiteboard and some stupid solar system model, and he thinks he deserves more floor space because his lessons are more ‘complicated.’ He literally asked me if all my kids needed were drawing paper and crayons.”
Devin, who finally vanquished the knot, lets out a low whistle. “Wow. This guy sounds like a real piece of work. What’s his name?”
“Zachary Becker.”
“Wait,” Devin says, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “As in, your summer mystery man, make-out-session-on-the-beach Zachary?”
I close my eyes and let my head fall forward into my hands, the pressure of my thumbs a comfort against my throbbingtemples. I forgot I had told my friends about that night with Zachary during one of our Chronic Crafters meetings.
“The one and only,” I mumble.
The circle erupts. It starts as a series of shocked gasps and quickly escalates into horrified, uncontrollable laughter. I lift my head to see tears streaming down Devin’s face. Alexis is trying desperately to stifle her giggles so she doesn’t wake Sterling. Even Flick is shaking with silent, pained laughter.
“You’re kidding,” Flick chokes out. “You are actually kidding me.”
“I wish I were,” I say, my voice flat. “When I walked into the faculty meeting and saw him, I almost passed out because, not only is he the guy from the beach, but I also discovered he’s my neighbor. And to make it even worse, he was wearing this T-shirt. It was an awful faded green color, and it had a diagram of a cell holding up a peace sign that said ‘Cellfie.’”
The laughter gets even louder, a wave of hysteria that I can’t help but get swept up in. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Okay, that’s actually kind of cute,” Devin admits, wiping a tear from her eye.
“I agree,” Alexis chimes in. “It’s endearing. You should see the collection of truly awful bread pun T-shirts Noah has accumulated. Last week he wore one that said ‘Ryes and Shine.’”
“This isn’t cute,” I insist, though the anger is starting to feel less like a raging fire and more like smoldering embers. “This is a nightmare. I have to spend the next ten months in a glorified tin can with a man who thinks art is frivolous and who I may or may not have a very complicated, unresolved history with.”
“You need to get a drink with him,” Hannah says, her tone suddenly serious. “Tonight. Go to a bar, get a little buzzed, and get everything out in the open. The classroom stuff, the beachstuff, the neighbor stuff, all of it. Clear the air before the kids show up.”
