“Jen.”
“Ok. Just don’t get all crazy. The riding center needs equipment so Mom had a choice to make,” she explains. “Invest in the business or pay the mortgage.”
“How much does she owe?” I pull in a deep breath to prepare for the blow.
“Twenty thousand.” My sister pulls her nose up and flinches as I curse.
“Shit, Jen. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Just calm down. I’ve got this under control. I called the mortgage company and they’ve got us on a payment plan and foreclosure?—”
“Foreclosure! Can you make the payments?”
She looks over her shoulder. But I can still see the tears.
“I gotta go, J.J. I’ll call you later.”
The screen goes black.
What the hell is going on over there? I know my mom’s therapeutic riding center has never done much more than break even, but that was never a problem before. Twenty thousand dollars? A year from now, I’d be able to cover that in a few months with my salary. But right now, with the rent to this apartment and the paltry fellowship stipend and the student loans finally calling in the enormous pile of debt I accumulated from eight years of education, there’s no way in hell I can cover that.
I stare at the dark screen of my phone hoping that Jen’s picture pops up and she tells me that this is some sort of joke. How is she managing this? The stress must be eating her alive. God, I hopeshe’seating. I can’t think like that—can’t let my mind spiral back into the past to the time before Sammy. It was a miracle her body could even conceive after what it went through.
I sink back into the couch, grab a pillow and squeeze it to my chest. If I sleep, just for a little, maybe this will go away. Maybe it’ll seem more manageable on the far side of a nap. I lay myself down and catch my reflection on the unlit iPhone screen. I look like I’ve been dragged through the deepest circle of hell. I shut my eyes, but I know damn well that sleep won’t come.
Chapter Twenty-One
Devon
Lesson 22: “No” is a complete sentence.
Most teachers get really worked up about Back to School Night. But there is something so powerful about the partnering of parents and educators. And though adults are certainly not within the same sphere of comfort as their offspring, I do love the moment that the parents walk in and look around the room with that awkward sense of déjà vu, and I get to guess what child they belong to. It’s a game I’ve played every year for ten years. A game that has sadly diminished in challenge as the denominator of my score has lessened over time and post-pandemic attendance has dwindled to hover around thirty percent. So far tonight, I’ve gotten thirty-two out of forty correct matches, and I narrow my eyes and focus on the line of the man’s jaw in the back of the room as he wanders around the last row looking like a lost dog.
“Davie?” I say to him over the heads of the other seated parents who I’ve filled in about my game.
A woman who must know Davie’s dad hollers, “Yes!” and I put my hand out to introduce myself.
“I’m Devon Gallagher,” I tell him.
“Grant Dean,” he replies with a smile, making his way over to the desk beside the woman who confirmed his identity. Davie Dean is a great kid. Polite. Kind. She has her father’s smile.
“Alright, so now you get to feel why we all need to go to chiropractors by the time we hit thirty,” I say as I make my way back up to the front of the class and survey the way the parents fidget in the uncomfortable desks.
“Obviously, I have a spiel. And since this is the last period of the day, in this case night, if at any time during my spiel you want to go off script just let me know,” I tell them.
A hand flies up in the back.
“Yes? Johnny’s mom?”
“My son has a crush on you,” she says with a huge grin.
Ugh. Poor Johnny. No wonder he’s so quiet. Obviously, humiliation is a household item.
“Ok. Maybe notthatoff script,” I tell them and there are a few laughs around the room.
I start my speech, using my slides on the Smartboard to talk through the challenges of the eighth-grade curriculum. It’s eight fifteen at night and the last thing these people want to hear about is the Pythagorean Theorem (though it’s literally the coolest lesson in 8thgrade), so I move it along fast then focus it back on the kids and how they can get help. A few of the parents jot this information down, and I assure them that it’s all posted on Google Classroom. They just keep jotting, maybe so they don’t need to look around the room at their peers or make eye contact with me. Sometimes I do wonder if certain peopleever escape the adolescent stage of development and its chronic inflated awareness of others’ judgy thoughts.
“Do you guys have any questions?” I ask, mildly distracted by my phone buzzing on my desk chair. I wonder if it’s Jeff. We’ve been texting and I’ve decided he’s textworthy. Lucky him.
