My lips part in surprise. Anne doesn’t bad-mouth people lightly.
“He’s very numbers-focused,” she continues. “Test scores, parental satisfaction surveys, performance metrics. Creativity and flexibility aren’t high on his list.”
I try to laugh it off. “So my collaborative mural is doomed.”
She doesn’t laugh.
I lean forward, more serious now. “What does this mean for me?”
“It means you might get pushback. Especially on your more outside-the-box ideas.”
I wave a hand. “I can handle a little pushback.”
But she doesn’t let it go. “There’s something else.”
The way she says it, my whole body goes still. I lift my eyebrows, encouraging her to continue.
“I don’t think you should tell him about your lupus. Not right away.”
The words hit like a slap, and I rear my head back in surprise. “Why?”
“Because Trevor isn’t known for being… supportive. Or discreet. If he thinks your health affects your performance, even a little, he might start looking for ‘alternatives.’ He’s that kind of leader.”
I stare at her, cold prickling under my skin. “No one else at school knows about it. Just you.”
She smiles sympathetically. “I know.”
“And I told you because you needed to know. You made space for me without making it a thing. You let me rest when I had to. You didn’t make me feel like a burden.”
“I tried.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears.
“Yousucceeded,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “But now you won’t be there.”
Anne reaches for my hand, squeezes gently. “I’m always a phone call away. Text, call, show up on my doorstep—I mean it.”
I nod, but it’s distant. Her support was built into my day. Her being in the building, in my meetings, in my corner—thatmattered. It was why I could show up on days when I didn’t feel human. When my joints flared and my head buzzed and I still smiled through teaching pottery to exuberant elementary schoolers.
Now I picture Trevor, a man I’ve never met. I picture a stiff tie and clipped words and polite, empty nods. I picture flare-ups being met with skepticism instead of support.
I look down at my drink and realize I haven’t taken a sip. My fingers are curled tight around the glass, but I don’t lift it.
“I was so excited about next year,” I whisper. “Now it feels like something I have to survive.”
Anne doesn’t speak. There’s nothing to say.
I offer her a small, tight smile. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Thanks for listening,” she says. “And Maya… don’t give up your spark. That’s what makes you such a damn good teacher.”
I nod, but the spark feels dim. I sip the gin, bitter and cold, and let it burn its way down.
Anne is gone, but I don’t leave. The air still smells like sea salt and citrus, and there’s just enough breeze to keep the sun from making my shoulders too hot. I move to a table near the railing, where I can see the harbor more clearly. Fishing boats and small sailboats rock gently in the early evening tide, their reflections stretching across the water like watercolor smudges.
I order a glass of white wine, deciding more gin isn’t a good choice, and unwrap my new watercolor pencils—the ones I promised myself I wouldn’t buy unless I committed to actuallyusingthem. I had this romantic idea that they’d unlock something in me. That if I had the “right tools,” I’d want to create again. Turns out, all I needed was a little emotional upheaval.
Thanks, Anne.
I open my sketchbook to a blank page and let my hand wander, drawing first the boats—rough shapes, lines too hard, perspective a little off—but then letting them drift into something else. The docks become tall stone bridges. The sailsstretch into the wings of creatures I don’t have names for yet. A harbor becomes a distant kingdom.
