Chapter Twenty-Two
Zachary
The first few days of this week were strangely off kilter, like my own personal gravity was off by a few degrees, a subtle but constant tilt that made every movement feel uncertain. The school hallways felt wider, the classroom felt emptier. I felt like I was missing a limb, and that limb was Maya. She had to take time off to recover from her biopsy, and her absence was a physical presence, a void I couldn’t stop noticing.
My eyes would still flick to her side of our shared classroom during lessons, expecting to see her guiding a student’s hand while painting or laughing at some ridiculous thing a fourth grader had said. I still turned to make a comment on my way into the teacher’s lounge, only to find empty air where she should be. The urge to text her was a constant, nagging itch.How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay? Is Frida behaving? Do you need me to bring you anything?
I managed to restrain myself, to keep the flood of my concern dammed up behind a wall of what I hope was respectable self-control. Two texts a day. That’s the rule I set. The first one I sent in the morning, a picture of the succulent collection on mywindowsill, a little burst of green to start her day.They miss you,I captioned the photo. Which was code forImiss you.
The second text was in the evening, a report from the front lines. Her substitute, a gangly man named Mr. Abernathy who looked perpetually annoyed to be surrounded by children, became my arch-nemesis. I started eating my lunch in the trailer instead of the teacher’s lounge every day just so I could keep an eye on him. He’d been following her lesson plans, but with the enthusiasm of a man being forced to watch paint dry. I didn’t care one bit about the withering, evil eye he shot me every time he caught me watching. Maya’s students deserved better than his half-hearted efforts.
But now, thankfully, she’s back. She returned yesterday, thrown immediately into the maelstrom of parent-teacher conference week. We’re all running on fumes today, a faculty of zombies propped up by stale coffee and the promise of the weekend. And, of course, just to make a truly exhausting week even better, Trevor called a surprise, last-minute faculty meeting for right after the final bell. Just what everyone wants to do at the end of a long week of teaching.
I’m sure it’s not a good sign. Last-minute meetings with Trevor are never about handing out bonuses. My suspicion is confirmed as I survey the faces when I walk into library where the meeting will be held. Everyone looks somewhere between dismayed and mutinous. We’re all slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the air thick with collective fatigue.
Next to me, Maya looks even worse than the rest of us. She’s pale, the vibrant energy that usually animates her features turned down to a low flicker. There are faint, lavender smudges under her eyes, and she’s hugging her cardigan around herself as if fending off a chill, even though the library is stuffy.
The results of her biopsy aren’t due until next week. The word ‘biopsy’ has been playing on a loop in my head for days,a heavy, ominous drumbeat. I’ve spent the last few nights spiraling down internet research rabbit holes, clicking through medical journals and forums about lupus nephritis, vasculitis, and a dozen other terrifying terms. So much of what I’ve read has scared the hell out of me. The sheer unpredictability of it, the way it can smolder for months and then erupt into a life-altering flare.
But I know, with absolute certainty, that Maya doesn’t need my fear. She has enough of her own. She doesn’t need another person to look at her with pity or worry. She needs someone to make her feel normal. To talk about lesson plans and complaining substitutes and what we’re going to watch on TV this weekend. So that’s what I’ve been doing, pushing my own anxiety down deep and focusing on being the steady, uncomplicated friend she needs.
And it feels good. We’ve finally gotten over that weird, awkward blip from a few weeks ago, that strange dance of almost-something that ended before it began. Being her friend is a thousand times better than being whatever we were then, caught in that uncertain, tense space. It’s nearly as good—though not quite, if I’m being honest with myself—as being what I really want. Her boyfriend. But I’ll take this. This friendship is precious, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it.
The library doors swing open and Trevor strides in, radiating an aggressive brand of corporate cheerfulness that is wildly out of place on a Friday afternoon. He’s clutching a tablet and wearing a tie with little rocket ships on it.
“Good afternoon, team!” he chirps. A few teachers offer weak, vaguely hostile murmurs in response. “I know we’re all tired after a very successful parent-teacher conference week, so I’ll keep this brief.”
He launches into a speech about resilience and community, about how well the school is recovering despite the setbacksfrom the recent hurricane. “Teachers have been banding together, supporting one another, and we’re seeing fantastic results from the students. Innovation is born from necessity, people!”
My hand instinctively finds the pen in my pocket, and I start clicking it. It’s a nervous habit. I can feel Maya shift beside me, a small, weary movement.
“And I want to highlight a particularly stellar example of this innovative spirit,” Trevor continues, his gaze sweeping the room before landing directly on us. “Zachary and Maya. Your combined art and science lesson on sound waves was, and I quote one parent, ‘a masterclass in interdisciplinary education.’ We received more positive feedback about that single project than almost any other curriculum point. The students loved it and the parents loved it. You two knocked it out of the park.”
A ripple of murmurs goes through the room. I feel a flush of pride, but it’s immediately swamped by a sense of foreboding. Trevor doesn’t give out praise without an agenda. Beside me, Maya manages a small, tired smile.
“So,” Trevor says, puffing out his chest. “I want to replicate that success. Across the entire school. I want the Pine Island Elementary experience to be defined by this kind of collaboration.” He clicks a button on his tablet, and the projector screen behind him flickers to life with a slide that reads: ‘Project: Synergy.’ I suppress a groan. “Therefore, I am mandating a new faculty-wide initiative. For the spring quarter, every teacher will pair up with a teacher from a different discipline to plan and execute at least three combined lessons.”
The collective groan I suppressed is now vocalized by the rest of the room. Dave raises a hand. “Trevor, that’s a great idea in theory,” he says, his voice dripping with skepticism. “But how are you going to pair us off? And where, exactly, are we supposedto find the time to plan all this? We’ve got field trips coming up and then we’re right into mandatory state testing.”
Trevor beams, as if Dave just asked the question he was dying to answer. He waves a hand dramatically in our direction. “An excellent and pragmatic question, Dave! Which is why I’m tasking our trailblazers, Zachary and Maya with heading this up.”
My blood runs cold. I look at Maya. All the color has drained from her face, leaving her looking fragile and utterly exhausted.
“Zachary and Maya have graciously agreed,”—we have absolutely not—“to create a comprehensive how-to guide for all of you. A roadmap to collaboration! They’ll outline methods for finding common ground between disparate subjects, offer templates for lesson planning, and provide a list of best practices. They will present this guide at our professional development day in mid-November, right before the testing window.”
My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache. I can feel a hot surge of anger rising up my neck. He can’t be serious. He’s piling a massive, time-consuming project onto our plates with no warning, no discussion. And for Maya, right now, the last thing she needs is more stress. I know what stress does. My late-night research sessions taught me that much. Stress is a trigger. Stress causes flares. Her health is hanging by a thread, waiting for a verdict from a lab, and Trevor is blithely adding a cinder block to her load.
“As for the planning time,” Trevor continues, breezing past the stunned silence in the room, “you’ll have it during the state testing period. When you are not actively monitoring students, you can use that time to meet with your partner and begin working on your combined lessons. The first of these lessons will be staggered over the first few weeks of the spring quarter. It’s going to be fantastic!”
He says it with such finality, such unshakeable confidence, that it’s clear this isn’t a proposal. It’s a decree. We can’t refuse. I watch Maya paste on a smile, a brittle, unconvincing thing. I do the same, my facial muscles protesting.
“We’d be happy to, Trevor,” I hear myself say, the words sounding like they’re coming from someone else. “We’ll get right on that guide.”
The meeting dissolves a few minutes later into a cloud of grumbling. As we all shuffle out of the library, I put a hand on the small of Maya’s back. She feels unnervingly frail.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice low.
She just nods, not meeting my eyes.
