Frida, my ferret, emerges from her sleeping hammock and scampers up my leg, settling onto my shoulder with a soft chitter. She watches, her dark, beady eyes following the movement of my hand across the page. The world outside my small circle of light fades away. There is only the sound of the charcoal, Frida’s soft breathing, and the image of Zachary taking shape under my fingers. I lose all track of time, completely absorbed. It’s only when my phone pings loudly on the counter,a text from Hannah, that I’m pulled from the trance. I glance at the screen and my eyes widen. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. Hours have passed in what felt like minutes. And staring back at me from the page is a portrait of my coworker, so full of life it feels like he could speak.
Chapter Fourteen
Zachary
The key turns in the lock with a familiar, grating sound. I push the trailer door open, letting it swing inward with a groan that seems to protest the interruption of the quiet afternoon. A shaft of dusty sunlight follows me inside, illuminating the narrow space that has served as my classroom, office, and reluctant home-away-from-home for the last three weeks. My plan had been simple, elegant even. Last period was the school-wide assembly on ‘Digital Citizenship’—a godsend that let us out forty-five minutes early. I was going to grab a large coffee, drive down to the pier, and knock out all of the grading I need to do while the gulls cried overhead. It felt like the perfect way to get work done earlier in the week, so I don’t have as much to do over the weekend.
Except, in my haste to escape the cacophony of elementary schoolers being freed from institutional bondage, I left the entire stack of papers sitting in my desk drawer. The pier and the coffee would have to wait.
I drop my messenger bag by the door, the thud echoing in the silence. And it is silent. Eerily so. Usually, Maya is still hereat this time, the trailer filled with the soft scratch of her pen on paper or the low hum of a podcast she’s listening to. But today, there’s nothing. I take a step further inside, my shoes scuffing on the worn linoleum, and then I see her.
She’s slumped over her desk, head pillowed on her crossed arms, completely asleep. Her silky hair spills across a chaotic landscape of construction paper, lesson plans, and what looks like the scattered, glittery remains of an art project gone wrong. The afternoon light catches the fine strands, making them shine like a halo around her. Her breathing is soft and even, a gentle rhythm in the stillness of the room. And just like that, my frustration over the forgotten papers evaporates, replaced by a wave of something else. A quiet, aching concern.
My papers are in the top right drawer of my desk. I could try to ease the drawer open, but it always sticks, and the screech it would make would undoubtedly wake her. I stand there, frozen, caught between my need to be productive and my overwhelming desire to let her rest.
I’ve noticed it for the last two weeks. The dark circles under her eyes, the slight slump in her shoulders that wasn’t there when I met her that night at the bar, or even at the first faculty meeting before the start of the school year. She’s been burning the candle at both ends, and while I’ve wanted to say something, to ask if she’s okay, the right moment has stubbornly refused to present itself. Now I understand the tiredness that comes with being a teacher at the beginning of the school year. The exhaustion is bone-deep, a constant companion that sleep never quite vanquishes. But is there more to her exhaustion than that?
Every time I’ve worked up the nerve to broach the topic, to offer a listening ear or a helping hand, something absurdly mundane has gotten in the way. Last week, I found her in the laundry room of our apartment complex, looking like she was about to cry into a basket of unfolded clothes. She’d looked likea caged animal when she noticed me standing in the doorway. I’d opened my mouth to ask if everything was alright when, in her haste to leave the laundry room, she ran into me, dropping her basket and launching a pair of her lacy blue panties directly into my face. The moment was gone, incinerated by mutual, crimson-faced embarrassment. We’ve unspokenly agreed never to mention it again.
Then, just two days ago, I was about to try again as we were packing up here at the trailer. “Maya,” I’d started, my voice sounding far too serious. Her head had snapped up, her eyes wide and questioning. But before I could continue, the trailer door flew open and Dave barreled in, his voice booming. “Zachary! You still on for ultimate tonight? Got room in the truck if you want a ride.” He’d clapped me on the shoulder, completely oblivious to the delicate moment he’d just shattered. Maya had offered a tight-lipped smile, grabbed her bag, and practically fled.
But now, it’s just the two of us. The air is still and warm, filled with the scent of glue and soil. It’s a comforting scent that is unique to our trailer. She looks so peaceful, so vulnerable. I can’t bring myself to startle her. I decide to wait. Maybe she’ll wake up on her own. I walk over to my side of the trailer, busying myself with quiet tasks like putting away the pencils and scraps of paper that inevitably end up all over the room at the end of each day. As I work, I watch her out of the corner of my eye, feeling like a bit of a creep, but unable to look away completely. I just want her to be okay.
After ten minutes that feel like an hour, I’ve done all I can do without that stack of papers to grade, and she still hasn’t stirred. The sun has shifted, and the light no longer illuminates her hair but falls across the wall behind her. My papers are still in that drawer. I have to wake her.
I walk over to the desk, my steps soft. I could shake her shoulder, but that feels too intimate, too forward. Instead, I reach out and gently knock twice on the wooden surface of the desk, right next to her arm.
The effect is instantaneous and violent. Maya shoots up with a strangled gasp, her chair scraping backward with a screech. She nearly topples over, her hands flying out to steady herself. Her eyes are wide and unfocused for a second, darting around the trailer in a panic before they land on me. Recognition dawns, followed swiftly by a flush of embarrassment that creeps up her neck.
“Zachary! Oh my God,” she sputters, pushing her hair out of her face. “I am so sorry. I didn't… I must have drifted off.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say, holding my hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” She’s already scrambling to gather her things, shoving papers into a tote bag with frantic, clumsy movements. “What time is it? I have a meeting. The knitting club. I’m going to be late.” She avoids my eyes, her focus entirely on her panicked escape.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s barely four. “The knitting club, huh?” I ask, a small smile playing on my lips. It’s the third time this week she’s mentioned it. “You must be knitting a whole new wardrobe with how often you all meet.”
She pauses, her hands full of yarn and a half-finished scarf. She finally looks at me, and a genuine, sheepish laugh escapes her lips. It’s a beautiful sound, and it makes my chest feel a little tight.
“Okay, you caught me,” she says, her shoulders slumping a little. “It’s a real club, I swear. It’s actually a crafters group meet-up with some friends. But it doesn’t start until seven. I just… I thought I could catch a quick nap.”
“I get it,” I say, my voice softer now. “These first few weeks have been brutal. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’re handling it like a total pro.”
Her smile falters, and she sinks back into her chair, the frantic energy draining away, leaving a profound weariness in its place. “That’s not totally true,” she admits, her voice low. She picks at a loose thread on her sweater. “It’s been… a lot.”
I pull my own chair over from my desk and sit down, facing her. “Talk to me,” I say. “What’s going on?”
She huffs a defeated sigh. “On the first day of school, Trevor pulled me into his office saying that he had a parent complain about a project I did last year. Apparently, the drawing a little boy made of a lobster and a thermometer showing the rising temperature of the ocean was,” she throws up air quotes, “spreading the conspiracy of climate change.”
A hot spike of anger shoots through me. I’d noticed she had taken down the booklets I’d helped her hang up before school started but didn’t think much of it. “Are you serious? It’s not a conspiracy, it’s a scientific fact.”
“Tell that to Trevor,” she says, her voice laced with bitterness. “He didn’t even stand up for me. He agreed with the parents because the mother is head of the PTA and the father runs a successful construction company. He told me to take the booklets off the wall and to replace the lesson with somethingmore palatable. His words, not mine. I’ve been going over every single one of my lessons with a fine-tooth comb, staying up late every night to make sure I won’t get any more complaints.”
“Maya, that’s insane,” I say, leaning forward. “You shouldn’t have to do that. We could go to the higher-ups…the school board…someone. We could fight this.”
She shakes her head, a gesture of complete defeat. “And what? Make myself a target at the very beginning of the year? I just want to get through this year and get my contract renewedfor next year. I can’t afford to make waves.” She rubs her temples looking completely exhausted. “And that’s not even all of it.” She pauses, and I wait, giving her the space to continue.
“It’s a stupid thing,” she says, getting up and crossing the room to her supply shelf. “But earlier today… I went to get some glitter glue for an art project. The really good kind, you know? The super sparkly stuff that doesn’t clump. I buy it myself because the school stuff is terrible.”
