I catch sight of Mr. Donato’s mustache as he ushers a group of seventh grade boys onto bus 29. Seeing him still makes the anger course through my veins and pour into a fireball in the center of my chest. I take the mature route and flip him off,keeping my finger beneath the steering wheel just in case I accidentally photobomb one of the 8,000 selfies being shot at the moment. Obviously, that would be my luck.
Headline: Young Teacher/Karaoke Failure Caught Flipping-off Students in Instagram Photo.
I’ve given a decade to this school—ten years of putting my students at the forefront of my mind and actions—and here I am holed up in a 2012 Corolla wearing my “oh the places you’ll go” shirt like I’m a crazy Stan. I reach for someone to blame—but my scapegoat sister stopped bleating when she swore she hadn’t broken the social media rule.
What about Donato? Surely I can dole out some blame in his general direction. Never once has the man had my back. It’s not like I released the video—or ran an illegal karaoke ring in the school auditorium. But still here I am with my tail between my sweaty legs.
And it’s not the first time he’s made me—or other educators—feel this way. Countless times I’ve asked for help or support and he’s told me to stay in my lane—that I’m stepping out of line. That the mental health of my students is not my concern. And countless times I’ve limboed beneath his red tape to figure out a way to help. How low can you go? Really, effin’ low if a kid is in crisis. Subterranean even.
My focus is recaptured when my students start filing out of the building. No skipping or running for these goons. No way. They are far too mature for such shenanigans. They saunter. I find myself smiling, my eyes tearing up like they do whenever I hear the graduation song or see a student in their cap and gown. Many of them are hugging the teachers—I can almost hear their heartfelt thanks and feel the discomfort of the approach to embrace. Hands and arms down around hips? The diagonal tilt? The one arm side hug? It’s all part of the awkward adolescentpackage. The package that I signed up for. Those are my goddamned hugs. And I need them right now.
I try to remind myself that I’ll see them around town. At Target, where they all line up for pink drinks and look at me like I’m well outside my rights to be spotted on their turf, then reconsider and want to take photos like I’m some rare spotted tiger. And some of them I’ll see often, the few who have shared lunch with me each day and opened up about their pain and their issues. Those few always stay in touch. Like Syd has and always will.
I wait until the very last student disappears onto their big yellow bus and I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. The farewell beeping starts as one bus after the next files out of the parking lot like that arcade game, Centipede, the drivers’ honking drowning out the opening of “We Don’t Need No Education.” The students are nearly hanging out of the windows, some waving, some videotaping the teachers who are all sending them off with their hands in the air, yelling a chorus of wishes of good luck and see you next year.
And then it’s quiet.
The teachers turn and head back inside and I turn the key in the ignition, adjust my boot so it’s away from the pedals, and drive home to my mom with the less than comforting thought that there is always next year.
Chapter Four
Jeff
Lesson 5: It’s a small world–and it is rapidly getting smaller.
It’s not even mid-August and Philadelphia is already a sweltering mix of body heat and food truck odors. In the two-block walk from the orthopedic building toward my new (new to me but very, very old) Washington Square apartment, my back has produced enough sweat to soak through my scrubs and make me want to dive into any of the fifteen hipster bars I’ve passed for the sweet relief of a cold beer and some air conditioning. Chicago isn’t much better, but at least you can find some relief when a breeze rolls off of Lake Michigan.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I lift it out expecting to see a call from Kevin, the trauma surgeon that I’m meeting for drinks. I tried to get my own co-fellow in the spinal cord injury program, Dustin, to tag along, but he did not seem interested in anything other than consulting on the bone resection he wasperforming later. It would be a long twelve months of fellowship if I didn’t “branch out,” to quote my mother. It seems silly to make friends when my expiration date here is closer than a bag of frozen peas. But I don’t want to wallow in my homesickness, either. I slow my stride and check the screen. Speak of the devil.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Honey! I was worried. The nurses told me you were in surgery, but I wasn’t sure they knew who you were,” she explains. Somehow, she makes the dumbest shit seem perfectly reasonable.
“Right. Well, I was in surgery. Everything good at home?” I ask. I can hear Sam in the background, her little voice singing something about stinky feet and Uncle Jeff. No matter how many times I explain what an orthopedic surgeon is, Sammy’s convinced I touch feet for a living.
My mom puts her hand over the mouthpiece and tells my 8-year-old niece she should drink some water to dilute her high. Before I have a chance to ask what the hell is going on, she comes back to me.
“Sorry, hun. I caught Sam gnawing on the sugar cubes we give the horses and she’s out of her mind—bouncing off the walls. Everyone is good.”
My mom tells Sammy not to tie the dogs together and I wait until she can refocus. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all settled in. There’s a care package on its way!”
Jesus. “Ma, you really didn’t need to?—”
“Oh shush. Everyone needs a little t.l.c.,” she tells me.
This may be true, but a Donna Harrison care package has little to do with what most people would consider t.l.c.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” I remind her. And if she keeps up at this rate, I’ll have at least 40 strange packages to deal with by the end of this fellowship.
“And I miss you already, J.J.”
I can hear the tears in her eyes. The familiar pang of homesickness rips at my obliques. Eleven more months. That’s it. Then I can start my career close to home. Help my sister with my niece. Make sure the therapeutic riding center my mother runs has everything it needs.
“I miss you too, Ma. But I gotta go. I’m meeting some people from work?—”
She’s clapping, possibly jumping up and down.
“You made friends!” she chirps.
